Page 64 of Lyon of Least Resistance

But he could spend the rest of his life trying.

Someone knocked on the door and she stiffened. James pulled her close and called out, “Who is it?”

No response came, apart from receding footsteps. He darted to the door and opened it to see his sister nearing the end of the hallway.

“Stop!” he cried. “What are you doing, Georgiana?”

She turned. “I-I thought I heard a noise.”

“So you came to see my wife?”

“I…” She paused, as if in thought, then sighed. “I didn’t want her disturbing the whole house.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“She woke me.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive. Get back to your bedchamber. I’ll see you at breakfast. Or, if you find you’re overly tired from the disturbance, you can take breakfast in your chamber. I care not.”

She scowled, then retreated along the hallway and disappeared.

“You were too hard on her, James.”

He turned to see his wife settling onto a sofa beside the window, tucking her legs beneath her body. “She needs to give you the respect you are due.”

“As a viscountess?” Cordelia said, her gaze focused on the view outside. “I’d rather she liked me for myself than merely respected the title.”

He held out his hand, and she took it.

“Do you need me to stay?” he said.

To his shame, a yawn overcame him and he covered his mouth.

She smiled. “I’ll be all right. I want to watch the sunrise and you need your sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He glanced at her bed. Would it be an imposition to ask if he could sleep there, to be at hand if she needed him, while she watched the dawn?

Yes, perhaps it was. Her choice was to remain alone, accompanied only by the dawn. And the one thing he would never deprive her of again was the power of choice, when so many had taken it from her.

He lifted her hand to his lips. “Then, my love, I shall leave you in peace.”

She squeezed his fingers then shifted her gaze to him, her dilated pupils rendering her eyes the color of charcoal.

“Thank you.”

He bowed, then moved to the door.

It was a damned shame that men and women of his rank took their own bedchambers—that he was obliged to visit her to perform his marital duty, then return to his bedroom as if he were a stallion servicing a mare. Unlike men of lower rank who—lucky bastards—were scandalous in their habit of remaining in their wives’ beds for the duration of the night.

But perhaps there was some merit in behaving a little scandalously. What could be more fulfilling than being there to soothe his wife at night before her nightmares took hold…

…and what could be more glorious than lying in bed with his wife in his arms while they watched the sun rise together?

But would she ever trust him enough to let him inside her soul?

He watched her for a moment, then glanced about the chamber that had once been his mother’s. His gaze fell on a painting on the far wall. It was not the landscape his mother had purchased, but another painting.

It was the painting he’d made for her—so poorly executed that he caught his breath in shame each time he recalled presenting it at the Lyon’s Den to the laughter of his rivals.