Page 67 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Heslop,” Cordelia said.

James could swear he saw a slight coloring of the gardener’s cheeks, and a flicker of admiration, perhaps even devotion, in the man’s eyes. Had he fallen for a doxy’s spell?

No. Cordelia was no doxy. She might have played the part in the Lyon’s Den, but here, in the country, she was just a woman, trying to make a home for herself in an unfamiliar environment. A kind, generous woman whose eyes had clouded with compassion and concern upon her hearing about Mrs. Heslop’s illness. Ladies of the manor were expected, out of duty, to provide alms for the poor and comfort for the sick. But in Cordelia, who had not been schooled in the manner of a viscountess, such kindness came naturally.

Perhaps that was why he’d fallen in love with her in the Lyon’s Den, during those long nights by the fireplace in her boudoir when he’d spoken of his home and his sisters. Not for her body or the pleasures she could give him—but for her soul.

Margaret began to fidget, as all children did when they’d spent too long in one place.

“Do you want to see my favorite tree now, Cordelia?” she said. “I want you to see me climb it. You can climb it also, if you like.”

“Very well.” Cordelia took the girl’s hand. “Do excuse us, Mr. Heslop.”

The gardener touched his forelock and watched the two of them cross the garden, Margaret tugging at Cordelia’s hand.

“You chose well there, Master James, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

“What—in painting the picture as the gift?”

“In your choice of bride.”

“I didn’t make the choice,” James said. “I was merely honor bound to abide by it.”

“But if you’d not wanted her, surely you wouldn’t have married her?”

James sighed. “No, I would have still married her, but I might have regretted it.”

The gardener smiled. “You’ll not regret marrying that young woman, Master James.”

“But you must have heard who she was before.”

“I never listen to gossip, Master James, and neither should you,” the gardener said, his voice hardening. “She’s a rare woman, that she is. My Molly’s the best woman in the world, and I’ve only ever wanted as good a wife for you. And you’d never have been happy with one of them fine London ladies. What does it matter what others say? It’s what you feel that matters. And a man is a damned fool if he chooses a lady over a woman who loves him.”

Bloody hell, from where had that speech come? Heslop hardly ever spoke out of turn. By rights James should admonish him for his forwardness…if the man hadn’t spoken the truth.

“What makes you think…?” James hesitated, unwilling to voice the question that would expose his weakness.

The gardener rolled his eyes. “Be off with you,” he said. “I’ve got them weeds to tend to, and you…”

“I have a wife to tend to?”

Heslop grinned. “You’ll do all right, Master James, in the end.” He placed his hat on his head and resumed weeding as James set off in his wife’s wake.

By the time he had caught up with his wife and sister, they had reached the oak tree beside the lake, and Margaret had already climbed onto the lower branches.

“Come on, Cordelia!” she cried. “Or are you as stuffy as Georgiana?”

Cordelia approached the tree, then lifted a foot onto the fissure in the bark. She slipped, and James broke into a sprint.

“Cordelia!”

She froze and stepped back. “F-forgive me. I didn’t think.”

“No, I was only concerned you might hurt yourself,” James said. “If you’re eager to climb the tree, don’t stop on my account.”

“But a viscountess…”

“Can do what she pleases in the privacy of her own home,” he said.