Page 45 of Lyon of Least Resistance

Then she glanced at her hand and her stomach fluttered at the sight of the gold band on her finger.

The man she had serviced as a whore—the man with whom she had been in danger of falling in love, thus necessitating her retirement from her profession lest she suffer heartbreak…

That man was now her husband.

And he’d looked upon her in disgust last night before claiming her body—not out of love, or desire, but pure, base lust.

She slipped out of bed and padded across the floor, the thick carpet soft under her feet, and approached the trunk that Isidore had packed for her. Opening it, she spied on the top a pale-blue traveling gown and redingote fashioned from dark-blue velvet. Lower down she found what she was looking for—a blue silk dressing gown that she had purchased with her first month’s wages. She slipped it on, and as she was tying the sash at the waist, a soft knock came on the door. It opened to reveal Puck holding a tray laden with breakfast things, and Cordelia’s stomach rumbled at the scent of fresh coffee and warm toast.

“Your breakfast awaits,” he said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s finest raspberry preserve. She thought you might need the sugar to keep your strength up. Only the finest for Lady Bedford.”

“Don’t call me that, Puck,” Cordelia said, tempering the ache in her heart. Then the sleeping form in the bed stirred and she caught her breath as he whispered a name.

“Dahlia…”

“Saint’s furry breeches!” Puck said. “I take it he knows who you are.”

“He noticed it when…”

“He parted your thighs.” Puck wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, don’t tell me—it’s too early in the morning for that sort of talk.”

He set the tray on the table then approached Cordelia and took her shoulders.

“You’re a viscountess now, darling,” he said. “Wear that title with pride, for you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Have I not?”

He cocked his head to one side and grinned. “Not if I heard right last night. He was screaming your name—and we all knew he’d fallen for you from the first time he visited you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said, suppressing the nugget of hope at her friend’s words. “Every man who pays a whore for her company falls in love with her at some point.”

“In lust, sweetie. But it’s a rare man who falls in love. Take it from one who knows.” He gestured toward the bed. “I saw the way he looked after each visit—like a man well satisfied.”

“You can say that of most men who’ve enjoyed physical gratification.”

“I don’t mean physical gratification,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Girl, you didn’t bed him for months. Coriolanus and I were taking wagers on when he’d summon the courage to ask you to shag him. Made me ten guineas, he did. Coriolanus was sure he was too much of a milksop to ever make the request, but I could see that he was fit to burst. Tell me—is he as well endowed as his breeches suggest?”

Her cheeks flaming, Cordelia approached the tray and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her hand shook and brown liquid splashed onto the tablecloth.

“Tut-tut—that’ll have to be cleaned,” Puck said.

Cordelia bit her lip and dropped two spoonsful of sugar into the cup, spilling some. Then a warm hand took hers.

“Darling, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She turned to see her friend regarding her, the mischief gone from his eyes.

“Did he not please you last night? I’ll stick his member into a bucket of ice.”

“No, he pleased me very well, Puck. But…”

“Then there’s nothing more to say, dearest. A man who looks as if his soul has been fed the most delectable manna from heaven is a man in love.”

“Is that how you believe Lord Bedford looks?”

“Darling, he looks as he’s always looked…as if he’s gorged on it so much he’ll starve without you, for nothing else will satisfy him. Is it no wonder that you chose his gift? For he made it with you in mind. And, for your part, nothing—and nobody—else will satisfy you, either.”

“But I’m a…”