Page 46 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“You’re a what?” Puck said. “A viscountess? A former doxy? The girl who survived horrors and emerged stronger than any of us? Or are you simply a woman in love with her husband?”

“I-I don’t know which.”

He let out a snort. “You’re all of those things, darling. And that man in your bed is a fool if he doesn’t love each and every part of you. Is that not why you chose his gift, because it spoke to your heart? Personally, I’d have taken the necklace. And you know why?”

“Because you like pretty necklaces,” she said. “Or because you’d sell it on Drury Lane for a few hundred guineas.”

“No, darling, it’s because I’ve already found the one I love—the man who keeps me whole.” He glanced toward the sleeping man in the bed. “And now you have found yours.”

She sipped her coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned her lips. “He was so…so…”

“Big?” Puck suggested, wickedness gleaming in his eyes.

Cordelia swallowed another mouthful of coffee to hide her shame at the memory of James inside her, filling her completely, as if he were made for her.

“Angry?” Puck said, folding his arms. “Or perhaps petulant? He’s barely out of the nursery.”

“He’s almost thirty, Puck. At least five years older than me.”

“Ah, but any fool can see that he’s not lived. Age isn’t just determined by how many years have passed after we come into the world. Age comes through experience of life. And you, darling Cordelia, have experienced more in life than that pampered young man can ever imagine.”

“And the less he knows about that the better, Puck,” Cordelia said. “He already regrets our union.”

“Then he shouldn’t have consummated it, moaning with pleasure for everyone to hear. He has prepared his bed and now he must be content to lie in it. And look at him.” He gestured across the chamber. “He hardly looks like a man under sufferance. Instead, he wears the look of a man well pleasured. And he’s the most fortunate of men. He’ll realize that soon enough.”

“Fortunate because he has a wife with a dowry of eighteen thousand?” Cordelia said, unable to disguise the bitterness in her tone.

“No, darling. He’s fortunate because he won’t have to wait years, or in vain, for his wife to fall in love with him, because she already has. Am I right?”

Puck pulled her into his arms and her resolve crumbled. She clung to him, letting her tears soak into his shirt.

“I’ll miss everyone here,” she said, her voice catching. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon took me in when I was nothing, and Isidore is like a mother to me. But I believe, Puck, I shall miss you most of all.”

“Sentimental tart,” he said. “And you’re staining my best shirt. Now, chin up, Viscountess Bedford, and tell me whether you love your husband.”

She let out a sigh.

“Yes,” she said. “I love him.”

She remained in his embrace for several heartbeats, letting the silence fill the room—a silence that true friends had no need to fill with fatuous words or statements. Then he freed her and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

“Be happy, darling,” he said. “And eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Your carriage is due at ten to take you to the country. Mrs. Dove-Lyon has procured the most beautiful blue gown for you to leave in. It’s in your trunk. I helped her choose it. Blue’s your color.”

“I saw it, thank you.”

He blew her a kiss, then bowed and exited the chamber. After the door closed behind him, Cordelia smoothed down the front of her chemise, then turned and froze.

The man on the bed, who’d been asleep, was now propped up on his elbows and looking directly at her.

She approached the table and gestured to the pot.

“Would you like some coffee?”

He shook his head and rose from the bed.

“Tea, perhaps? I could ring for some.”

Ignoring her, he reached for his breeches and pulled them on. Then he began to dress, his muscles rippling with each movement. As he fumbled with his cravat, she reached for him.