Page 96 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“I beg pardon, Lord Bedford?”

He glanced up to see Lady Marlow staring at him.

Shit.

She arched an eyebrow. Ye gods, could she read minds? Many women had the unsettling ability to discern what a man was thinking, especially if it risked giving offense.

Though, in the case of his wife, James had given offense.

“I-I was remarking on”—he hesitated—“the utter…”

Arse.

“…utter…farce that was Lady Tissingham’s ball. The…the musicians were out of tune.”

“I didn’t see you there,” Lady Marlow said. “I recall Miss Peabody’s remarking on how ungallant it was of you not to attend, given that her dance card had your name on it for the first two dances.”

Bugger. Caught in the act.

“Though,” she continued, with a wink, “perhaps you were hiding on the terrace to avoid getting trampled. Lord Darlington partnered her, and I saw him limping shortly after. Mind you, I’m in agreement about the ball. The cold collation was woefully inadequate: the ham ran out before half the guests could have their share. Though perhaps that was due to the voracity of the appetite of certain guests.”

“Guilty as charged,” a voice said.

James glanced to his side to see Sir Iain staring at him, his pale eyes almost colorless in the candlelight.

“I beg pardon?” James said.

“Lady Tissingham is most obliging when seeing to her guests’ appetites,” Sir Iain replied. Then he leaned forward, his eyes glittering as he licked his lips. “Though not as obliging as our hostess. Your wife’s charming, Bedford.”

At the opposite end of the table, Cordelia paused, her fork in midair.

“Most accommodating,” Sir Iain said. “But she’s always had a talent for making visitors feel welcome.”

“You’re acquainted with the viscountess, Sir Iain?” Lady Marlow said. “I never met her before today, and my acquaintance is extensive.”

“I’ll wager Lady Bedford’s acquaintance is wider,” Sir Iain said. “What say you, Bedford?”

James’s stomach curdled as Sir Iain raised his glass and winked.

“Sir Iain!”

Earl Stiles spoke in a booming voice, and the murmur of chatter ceased. Sir Iain glanced toward him, eyebrows raised. Beyond, James could see Cordelia’s ashen, wide-eyed expression.

“I say, Stiles, old chap,” Sir Iain said, “what the devil’s the matter?”

Stiles glanced at Cordelia. “Lady Bedford and I were discussing horses,” he said. “She doesn’t have a mount of her own, and I recall that you’re looking to sell that brown mare of yours. A private sale is always to be preferred than one via Tattersall’s.”

“I have no horse to sell, Stiles,” Sir Iain said. “Besides, isn’t Lady Bedford more likely to be a vendor than a purchaser of horseflesh?”

Cordelia’s fork landed on her plate with a clatter. She glanced about the company, a hunted expression in her eyes.

Then Countess Stiles leaned forward and her wineglass tipped over.

“Oh!” she cried. “Look at the mess I’ve made. I’m so sorry.” She gestured to a footman, who scurried over. “Young man, might you bring me a cloth? And please apologize to the housekeeper on my behalf. My gown has escaped unscathed, but not so this tablecloth.”

A ripple of mirth threaded through the company. James saw the countess place her hand over Cordelia’s, and the two women exchanged a smile.

“Now,” Sir Iain said, “what were we discussing?”