Page 74 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“James said I wasn’t to ask about when you lived in London. He said you weren’t always happy and that I mustn’t do anything to make you unhappy. But weren’t you happy when you saw him?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I was very happy, each time I saw him.”

“Were you sweethearts? I’d like a sweetheart one day. At least, I think I would.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to deny it, but the memory was too strong: the gentle, sweet man who had opened his heart to her at the Lyon’s Den—the only man who’d had the power to destroy her livelihood as a doxy by claiming her heart.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We were sweethearts.”

“And now you’re married, so you can see him all the time. Though he’s often with Mr. Wood, seeing to the estate. At least, that’s what he tells me he’s doing when I ask. What does it mean—‘seeing to the estate’?”

“It takes a lot of work to keep the estate running,” Cordelia said. “There are tenants to visit, buildings to repair, farms to run.”

“I don’t think I’d like to have to do all that.”

“You won’t have to. A lady’s responsibility is to oversee the household.”

“Is that a lot of work?”

“Mrs. Case is a great help,” Cordelia said, “but I’m a poor learner. I’m not used to running a home. But it’ll be much easier for you, because you’ll know what to do by the time you’re old enough to marry.”

“Perhaps,” Margaret said, “but I don’t want to spend all my time running a house. I’d want my husband to spend more time with me, otherwise why would I marry him?”

Cordelia sighed.

Margaret was right. Why, rather than retire with her fortune to a cottage in the country, had she ever agreed to marry a man who preferred to spend as little time with her as possible?

Chapter Eighteen

“Here are the papers I need you to sign, sir. Once the funds are released, we’ll proceed with the repairs to the Upton Farm buildings. As requested, I sought cost estimates from three slate suppliers, and though Mr. Fulford’s estimate is the lowest, I’m not convinced that he’ll have sufficient resources to finish the repairs before the winter sets in, and…”

The agent’s voice faded into the background, merging with the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner.

James glanced toward the window. His heart lifted as he caught sight of his wife and he paused, straining to hear the familiar sound of the main doors opening and closing. Then he heard voices—his wife’s clear tones together with a deeper, rougher voice.

Bloody Heslop again. The man was smitten. Ever since she’d befriended Mrs. Heslop, visiting her daily until she’d recovered from her cough, Heslop had done nothing but follow Cordelia about like a devotee worshipping a goddess. And she relished the gardener’s company, always gifting him with her unfettered laugh.

Whereas with me she restricts herself, as if she fears disapproval.

Excepting the occasion when she’d tried to climb Margaret’s tree, Cordelia always behaved in a manner befitting a viscountess. Elegant, refined…

…and miserable.

“Sir?”

Doubtless Heslop had brought her another bouquet of roses. Last week James had overheard her expressing a likeness for the climbing rose that adorned Heslop’s cottage, and he’d arrived the following day with an armful of blooms.

“Lord Bedford!”

James glanced back to see his agent staring at him. “What is it, Mr. Wood?”

“The slates, sir.” The agent pushed the papers forward.

“I’m sure you’ll make the right choice, Mr. Wood,” James said.

The agent nodded toward the window. “As you have, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. Well, if there’s nothing else, sir, I’d best get going. I promised Mrs. Wood I’d take luncheon with her today.”

“Are you subject to the whims of your wife, Mr. Wood?” James said.