Page 66 of Lyon of Least Resistance

James’s chest tightened at the shame in her eyes.

But there was nothing he could do to ease it. The world would always vilify her for the life she had led, and judge him for choosing to unite himself with her. Heslop’s reaction was perhaps the most courteous he should expect—a slight show of discomfort rather than outright hostility.

Then Cordelia inhaled and gave an overly bright smile.

“The garden is beautiful, Mr. Heslop,” she said. “I daresay it takes a lot of work to tend to all the different roses with such care.”

“Aye, it does, ma’am. But it’s good work. I like to feel the sun on my back and I take pride in a job well done.”

“You must work very hard.”

“I do my best, ma’am,” the gardener replied. “I can cut some blooms for you, if you’d like.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble?”

“No, ma’am. Are there any in particular that you fancy?”

“Perhaps you might you choose for me, Mr. Heslop,” she said. “I’m afraid I know little about tending to roses, though I promise to admire them.”

“Heslop, why don’t you pick the same roses that are in James’s painting?” Margaret said.

The gardener eyed Cordelia with interest. “Are you the young lady that the master gave the painting to?”

“Yes,” Margaret said, before Cordelia could reply. “She chose it over all the other gifts, didn’t she, brother? And the other gifts included a diamond necklace and a townhouse.”

“From whom did you hear that?” James said.

“Miss Flint told me that Georgiana said—”

“A young lady oughtn’t gossip, Miss Margaret,” the gardener said, casting a glance at Cordelia. “Did ye like the painting, ma’am?”

Cordelia nodded. “Very much. Did you see it?”

“I did, ma’am.” Heslop glanced at James, his expression conveying his opinion of James’s skill with a paintbrush. “Why did ye choose it, if ye don’t mind my askin’?”

Cordelia blushed. She glanced at James, then sighed.

“It was the only true gift,” she said.

The gardener’s expression softened.

“What do you mean, a true gift?” Margaret said. “James, do you know what she means?”

“I do, Miss Margaret,” the gardener said, his face cracking into a smile. “Only a very particular sort of lady would reject a necklace in favor of the master’s painting.”

“It’s in Cordelia’s bedchamber,” Margaret said. “Tilly told me it has a whole wall to itself, so Cordelia can look at it when in bed.”

“Margaret, I don’t think what my wife does in bed is a suitable topic for discussion in front of Mr. Heslop.”

Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, and James cursed himself. Why could he not say anything that didn’t refer to her previous life—and in front of the bloody gardener?

“It’s replaced Mama’s painting,” Margaret continued.

Cordelia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Oh no!” Margaret said, smiling. “It’s not Mama’s chamber anymore. It’s yours. You can put what you want in it. Mr. Heslop, will you cut some roses for Cordelia? They’d look very pretty with the painting.”

The gardener smiled. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Margret.” He nodded to Cordelia. “And I’m sure my Molly would appreciate a visit, ma’am. We’d be honored—that is, if it’s no trouble.”