Page 32 of Lyon of Least Resistance

And that’s all she was—a woman he’d paid to fuck.

He winced at the crudeness and guilt needling at his soul.

“Is something the matter, Lord Bedford?” their escort said. “Surely you’re not tempted?” He grinned, showing white, even teeth and tilted his head toward the door—Dahlia’s door.

“Sweet heaven no,” James said, gritting his teeth. “I’m a respectable man.”

If anything, his betrothed’s distress seemed to heighten.

James tightened his grip on her hand and they followed the youth into a parlor on the upper floor.

It was not what he’d expected a woman’s parlor to look like. The furnishings were in deep imperial colors, and the room carried an aura of distressed elegance, as if its owner recognized quality but that quality had weathered and eroded over time. In the center of the room was a threadbare rug woven in what must have once been bright colors. The curtains were faded along one edge through years of exposure to the sunlight; the fabric on the sofa had thinned at the front. The gilding adorning the frame was peeling in places, and even the clock on the mantelshelf seemed to tick with a note of forlornness.

He glanced about the parlor, expecting to see a thick layer of dust on the surfaces of the tables, and the wooden floorboards, but they shone, and an aroma of lavender and furniture polish filled the air.

The veiled proprietress occupied a wingback chair beside the fireplace, and she rose as they entered.

“The happy couple.”

She gestured to a two-seater sofa across from her chair, separated by a low table bearing a decanter and three glasses.

James led Miss Flowers toward it and they sat.

“Excellent,” their hostess said. “Puck, may I see the chosen offering?”

The youth handed the painting to her and she sat, holding it in her hands. Her veil rippled almost imperceptibly in a regular motion, as if in time to her breathing, but he saw no reaction to his offering.

Did she think it an unworthy gift? With her renowned perception, and collection of exquisite artwork adorning the corridors of her establishment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon must be sophisticated enough to appreciate and understand a fine work of art, and…

James swallowed his shame as he glanced at the painting over the mantelshelf. Ye gods—was that a Stubbs? Or perhaps a Turner. Yes, that was it—a Turner. Stubbs depicted horses, not landscapes.

Devil’s toes, I’m an ignorant fool.

And an unaccomplished one. His childish daubs in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand would, in her eyes, have no value at all, save perhaps as kindling for the fire.

As if she read his mind, Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced toward the painting on the wall, then the fire, then she met James’s gaze.

“You painted this yourself, Lord Bedford?”

James glanced at Miss Flowers, who had clasped her hands together, her body ramrod straight and vibrating with discomfort. Was she already regretting her choice?

“Y-yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he said. “But I didn’t think—”

“And it took you how long?”

Though her face was concealed, he could imagine the curl of her lip, the sneer on her mouth, and the contempt in his eyes.

“I may not have the prowess of Mr. Turner,” James said, gesturing to the painting over the fireplace, “who doubtless could have produced my work in less than a minute, and then discarded it in disgust, but I spent five days working on it, and my efforts, if not my skill, do not deserve your derision.”

The veiled figure tilted her head to one side, and James thought he caught the gleam of a pair of eyes. Then she leaned forward.

“You’re wrong, Lord Bedford.”

Could she insult him any more?

He shifted forward to rise from the sofa, but the woman beside him caught his hand, and he drew in a sharp breath as her eyes focused on him.

“How am I wrong, madam?”