Page 35 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Chapter Ten

The chapel, if it could be called a chapel, was barely large enough to house the bride and groom, let alone the guests. Though it lacked the air of debauchery that clung to the rest of the Lyon’s Den, nevertheless the furnishings still carried the aura of decadence.

Yet the vicar seemed perfectly at ease as he held aloft the order of service and uttered a prayer for the salvation of the human race and its furtherment brought about by the union of two pure, God-fearing members of his congregation.

God-fearing, perhaps, given how I might fare at the day of judgment. But pure?

Had she not been gripped by apprehension, Cordelia might have laughed.

Did the vicar know that the bride who stood before him in a simple gown of white muslin, trimmed with lace, was a whore who’d spread her legs for half the men drinking in the gaming room two stories below?

As for the groom…

Though Cordelia kept her gaze focused on the wall behind the vicar, on which hung a painting depicting a scene of angels watching over a child, her senses quivered with anticipation at the presence of the bridegroom standing beside her.

James…

The man who had declared with such conviction that his prior liaison meant nothing. That he saw her as nothing more than a whore whom he’d rather forget, someone he’d refuse to acknowledge if he saw her again.

How could she swear an oath of loyalty, obedience, and honesty if honoring that oath would make him hate her forever?

Had she any sense, she’d turn and flee—return to the only life she knew, where she could hide behind her mask forever, earn a living as Dahlia and live as Cordelia.

She closed her eyes, and her breath caught as the man next to her shifted so she could almost feel his body heat against her skin. The familiar scent of him—earthy, woody spices with delicate top notes of rose… She’d have known him anywhere. Yet he did not know her.

Which proved one thing…

James had never thought of her as anything more than a body to give him pleasure. He had never loved her, whereas she—

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

She snapped her eyes open to see the vicar looking directly at her.

A light hand touched her elbow.

“Are you ready, sweet girl?” a voice whispered.

Cordelia turned to see Isidore’s kind eyes focused on her. A warm brown, the color of rich chocolate, they spoke of a deep understanding of the world of men—the kind of understanding that only a whore could possess. With no family save the long-dead man who’d sold her to a brothel for enough coins to keep him in liquor, Cordelia had found a mother in Isidore.

How she would miss her!

Cordelia blinked, and her vision blurred as salty tears stung her eyes. Isidore lifted her hand and brushed Cordelia’s cheek.

“Hush, sweet one,” she whispered. “He’s a good man…as well you know.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know who—”

The vicar cleared his throat. Cordelia nodded to Isidore, who stepped forward.

“I giveth this woman, reverend.”

She took Cordelia’s hand and placed it in the groom’s.

As soon as his fingers curled around hers, a shiver rippled along Cordelia’s spine at the jolt of need that had almost undone her when she’d taken his virginity. The familiar heat licked through her blood and she caught the shameful scent of her own desire.

Sweet heaven! Her body was betraying her as surely as if she’d declared before the witnesses that she was the whore who had taught him how to bed his future wife.

Heat radiated through her skin, and she resisted the urge to look at him lest she meet his gaze and reveal her true identity. But he squeezed her hand gently, as if coaxing a nervous filly into leaving the sanctuary of her stable to greet her master.