Lyon of Least Resistance (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter One

Tonight is the night he’ll become a man in my arms.

Cordelia surveyed her boudoir, the four-poster bed carved from dark wood, the rich-red furnishings that reeked of decadence, the thick velvet curtains edged with gold embroidery, and the gilt figurines and sconces that reflected the candlelight.

Her gaze fell on the decanter filled with a deep-amber liquid, ready and waiting to celebrate the night of his triumph.

He had paid extra for tonight—to lose his virginity.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon had assured him that the fair Dahlia was the most appropriate of her employees to render such a delicate and exquisite service.

Not that she needed to make such a claim on Cordelia’s behalf.

He always asked for her when he visited, refusing to consider any other of the Lyon’s Den’s doxies.

Though he had never uttered the words, his expression, as open as a ripe flower, conveyed his adoration each time he looked upon Cordelia.

What a sweet young man he was!

Then she checked herself and smiled.

Young man, indeed! He might be the youngest of her patrons, but he was older than her, if only by a few years. Perhaps, if her life had turned out differently, she might have even met him in a ballroom, or on a promenade in the park…

Don’t be foolish!

Just because he looked upon her like a lovesick puppy, that meant nothing to a woman in her profession.

Most of the men Cordelia serviced had declared their love for her at some point—disaffected husbands and lonely widowers with sufficient credit at the Lyon’s Den to add the cost of an hour or two with the exquisite Dahlia to their ledger.

Some of them roared their declaration as they came to pleasure.

Others cried the names of their loved ones—long-dead wives and sweethearts, or unattainable debutantes.

And by donning her mask, Cordelia enabled her visitors to imprint the image of the real objects of their desire as they took her, while she, in turn, closed her eyes and thought of the prize.

And that prize was her freedom—retirement in the country, courtesy of the spoils of whoring.

She was a businesswoman, much like her employer and the women who patronized the Lyon’s Den in their quest to find a respectable husband. And, to succeed in business, a woman must listen to her head, not her heart.

No matter how her soul might be stirred by another.

Every living person had a soulmate. Even a doxy. That was the truth according to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Somewhere in the world there existed a twin soul, someone to make Cordelia complete.

But now was not the time to think of soulmates. Hopes and desires were a distraction from the end objective.

Eyes on the prize.

Another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s adages.

Cordelia recited it to herself many times: each morning when she rose, tempering her reluctance to embark on another day’s toil; at night when she needed respite from a client with overly vigorous tastes leaving her bruised and battered…

…and, most particularly, after she had serviced the client to whom she was in danger of giving a little of her heart rather than merely her body.

The very worst danger of all.

And tonight, she awaited that very client.

Lord James Bedford.

Unlike her other visitors, James had come to her for companionship, for love, rather than physical release. Almost as if he wished to court her.

But tonight…

Someone knocked on the door and Cordelia jumped.

Her heart hammered against her chest, as if she were a lovesick girl awaiting her suitor.

Chiding her foolishness, she adjusted the blonde wig, tucking in stray tendrils of her own hair, and secured her red silk mask to cover the upper half of her face.

“Enter!” she cried, changing her accent to that of the London doxy.

The door opened and she rose, catching her breath to temper the rush of desire—or, as Isidore called it, the Doxy’s Downfall.

Then…he appeared in the doorframe.

The light from the passageway formed a halo around the mane of thick golden hair framing his face. Soft blue eyes regarded her with joy and a hint of apprehension and he shuffled from one foot to the other.

He’s nervous.

She approached him, hand outstretched.

“James, how kind of you to come. I trust you’re well. Would you like some tea?”

He shook his head, then took her hand, and Cordelia suppressed the rush of yearning at the feel of his warm fingers curling around hers, the skin soft and smooth, so unlike her own calloused hand.

“I-I’m a little…” He broke off, glancing toward the bed. “I mean, I…”

“Perhaps we might talk first,” she said, “like we always do?”

“Don’t you have other…guests?”

“No, James,” she replied. “Tonight is all yours.”

“Bought and paid for,” he said, a hard edge to his voice, and Cordelia tempered the spark of shame.

Then he shook his head.

“Forgive me, I meant no insult. You’ve been a good friend.”

“It matters not, James,” Cordelia said. “You know you can say what you like to me. In this room you can be wholly honest. Be yourself, for you shan’t be judged.”

She steered him to the pair of armchairs beside the fireplace and they sat.

He squeezed her hand. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re my only friend.”

“You have your sisters,” Cordelia said. “You always tell me how fond you are of them, and they of you. Tell me, how is Margaret? Last time you said she’d scraped her knee falling out of a tree.”

He smiled, his eyes illuminating with a love that made Cordelia’s heart hurt.

“She’s incorrigible,” he said, “but I indulge her. Georgiana is always telling me I should be firmer with her, but I haven’t the heart to restrain her. Am I right, I wonder?”

“Margaret’s young,” Cordelia replied. “You’re wise to let her enjoy her freedom while she can.

Childhood feels like an eon when we’re children ourselves, but as we grow into adulthood, we look back with regret as we acknowledge that childhood is a fleeting moment.

It should not be curtailed, for once gone, it’s gone forever. ”

He leaned forward, frowning. “Was your childhood curtailed, my Dahlia?”

Damn.

How many times had she resolved never to reveal anything of herself?

She forced a smile. “No more than any woman of my station, James, darling.”

Before she could stop him, he lifted her hand to his lips, and she suppressed a gasp at the feel of his mouth against her skin. Then the door was knocked upon again, and she leaped to her feet.

“Who is it?” she cried, then turned to him. “Forgive me, James. They should know better than to disturb us. I’ll tell them to—”

The door opened to reveal a tall woman with close-cropped hair, dressed in smart livery. In her arms she held a vase of flowers.

“What’s this, Hermia?”

“From your gentleman, Madame Dahlia.”

Cordelia turned to her visitor, who colored.

“Surely you didn’t think I’d visit you empty-handed?” he said.

“But such a large bouquet,” Cordelia said. “It’s too much.”

“Too much!” he chided her. “Do you think a single bloom sufficient for tonight, when, at last, you are to…”

His color deepened and he glanced at the woman in the doorway.

“Place them on the table, Hermia,” Cordelia said. “I can admire them best from there.”

“Very good, ma’am,” Hermia said. Then she bowed to James. “I did as you bade, sir…gave them a rinse and trimmed the stems at the base.”

“Thank you.”

Hermia bowed once more, then exited the room.

Cordelia approached the vase and ran her fingertips over the blooms. Then she startled as a pair of hands circled her waist and a warm body molded against her from behind.

She closed her eyes, willing the rush of familiarity in her heart to subside.

Then he kissed her neck and a shiver rippled through her as his soft breath warmed her skin.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

“Dahlias for my own Dahlia,” he breathed. “They can never surpass your beauty, and I’m ashamed that they withered on the journey here. I only wish you could see them in all their glory at Bedford Hall, my country estate.”

So do I, darling James.

Ignoring the voice of her soul, she turned and gave him a bright smile.

“They look as fresh as if they were plucked not five minutes ago,” she said. “I shall treasure them. But I must insist that you leave some blooms at home, or your poor sisters will be deprived of their beauty. I’m sure Georgiana would like them.”

“Georgiana only cares for jewels and trinkets,” he said with a sigh.

“And well she might. She’s a lady.”

“Is that why you’ve always refused such gifts from me? Because you’re not a lady?”

“And I never will be,” she said, ignoring the flutter of hurt at his words, spoken in such a matter-of-fact manner. “Now, I think perhaps we should begin the true business of the evening.”

She took his hand and led him toward the bed. He lowered his gaze in the manner of a shy child, and she placed her fingers beneath his chin.

“Look at the bed, my James,” she said. “This is where you’ll become a man, where you will learn how to be an accomplished husband.”

He flinched, though whether it was the prospect of losing his virginity, or the prospect of taking a wife, she knew not.

“W-will it hurt?” he whispered.

Sweet heaven! He really was an innocent.

“James, you must know that, for a man…”

“No, will it hurt you? I cannot bear the thought of hurting you.”

“No, my sweet man,” she said. “You cannot hurt me. Only a woman’s first time hurts. So, when you marry, your wife will feel a little pain on your wedding night.”

His expression darkened. “You speak of my marriage so easily?”

“I’m acquainted with the world,” she said. “I know you must marry, to give your title an heir.”

“But you will not—”

“Hush, my sweet,” she said, placing a finger on his lips, suppressing the small fizz of need as he kissed her fingertip. “I can teach you how to lessen your wife’s pain, to be gentle and give her pleasure. A good wife will thank you for it and give you pleasure in return.”

He sighed again.

“Don’t be sad, my James,” Cordelia said. “I wish to make you happy tonight.”

“Only because I pay you.”