Page 97 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“Horses,” Earl Stiles said. “I recall, now, it’s not Sir Iain who has the mare, but the Duke of Westbury.” He turned to Cordelia. “The mare belongs to the duchess, but she now rides a hunter and is concerned that the mare is being neglected.”

“A…duchess?” Cordelia said, her eyes flaring. “Oh, I-I don’t know…”

“It would be my pleasure to introduce you,” Countess Stiles said. “Jeanette—that is, the duchess—is a particular friend of mine, and she’d be delighted to make your acquaintance and sell the mare to you. That is, if Lord Bedford has no objection.”

“None at all,” James said.

Sir Iain opened his mouth, but James rose.

“Care to join me for a brandy, gentlemen?” he said. “I fear this talk of commerce is overly tedious for the ladies.” He met his wife’s gaze and smiled. “My love, perhaps you’d be so kind as to lead the ladies into the drawing room—with Georgiana’s assistance, of course.”

She merely stared back, and his conscience pricked at him.

Forgive me, my darling.

As if she read his mind, she nodded and, to his relief, returned the smile.

“Ladies, would you follow me?” she said. “I believe Mrs. Ffortescue will sing for us, accompanied by Lady Marlow.”

“The music must wait until the gentlemen join us, Cordelia,” Georgiana said, a hard edge to her voice.

“I’m sure Mrs. Ffortescue can play for us now, Miss Bedford?” Countess Stiles said. “Contrary to the male sex, we ladies don’t wait in silence, unable to contain our desperation for the gentlemen to join us.”

“You sound as if you’d rather we didn’t join the ladies at all, Countess,” Sir Iain said. “Propriety dictates that we rejoin you before the end of the evening.”

“Do not hurry on our account, Sir Iain,” Cordelia said, ice in her voice.

Earl Stiles gave a pointed glance in her direction, then he smiled. “I doubt your husband would approve of a long separation, Lady Bedford,” he says. “He wouldn’t want the gentlemen drinking all his liquor were we to tarry too long.” He turned to James. “Bedford, you shouldn’t keep such a good brandy. But you have a talent for excellent taste, given your choice of wife.” He gestured to the doors. “Shall we?”

The gentlemen filed out, and James led them to the library and poured several glasses of brandy. The air soon filled with the blue haze of cigar smoke. As he handed a glass to Sir Iain, the other man spoke.

“I would beg an audience with you, Bedford.”

“About what?”

“Your sister. It cannot have escaped your notice that I adore her, and I believe that now’s an appropriate time to broach the subject.”

“Subject?”

“Georgiana’s dowry, of course.”

“Is this really an appropriate time to—”

“Of course it is,” Sir Iain said. “You know as well as I that marriage is a contract and must be negotiated as such. We gentlemen must leave the sentimental elements to the ladies while we discuss the more…practical aspects of a union.”

Practical.

As in cash.

But, unpalatable as the subject was, Sir Iain was right. And had James himself not entered into a union to secure a fortune?

“You may be assured of the violence of my affections.”

Sir Iain smiled, though his eyes showed little emotion. But most men—and women—of James’s rank exhibited little feeling. Stoicism was schooled into them from birth.

“Very well,” he said. “Georgiana’s fortune is eight thousand.”

“And Margaret’s?”