Still, when she laid her head on the pillow at night and closed her eyes, she could not stop her imagination from tracing the pearl-seeded trim of her gown, the Belgian lace flounce that would lap at her silk slippers, the posy of hot house blooms she would carry … Fourteen orange blossoms!
No, she couldn’t sleep at all.
Reluctant to rouse the maid at this late hour, Bel rose from her bed and crept to Sophia’s bedchamber. She knew her sister-in-law had been having similar problems finding sleep, in these early months of her pregnancy, and Miss Osborne had given her some sort of sleeping draught. Although Sophia’s insomnia was due to the aftereffects of marriage, not the anticipation thereof, Bel reasoned the draught might be of aid to her as well. By the light of a single taper, she cautiously searched the drawers of Sophia’s vanity. Finding nothing but earbobs and hairbrushes, she moved to the small bedside table. The drawer slid open noiselessly, revealing the corked blue bottle of sleeping draught and—
And a book.
The Book.
This must be The Book, the subject of Lucy’s insistent hinting and Sophia’s equally insistent denial.
Tilting the leather binding until the embossed letters caught the candlelight, she read the title in a whisper. “The Memoirs of a Wanton Dairymaid.”
Oh my.
Bel recognized that this moment was one of those little tests life presented, from time to time. She held The Book in her hand, and now she must decide what to do with it. The right thing to do with it, she suspected, would be to put it back in the drawer, take the sleeping draught, and return to her bedchamber immediately.
But then, here was one of those little ironies life presented, from time to time. Knowing the right thing to do was far simpler in daylight, with people looking on and all potential regrets fully illuminated. When one was alone at midnight in a candlelit bedchamber, and any future beyond the present moment was as vague as the shadows … discerning the right course—or, more to the point, following it—was considerably more difficult.
A very large, very curious part of her wanted to open the book. And that was what she did. It began innocently enough. There was a printed text, and then there were pen-and-ink illustrations, which looked to have been inserted after the printing. In parallel, both words and images told the story of a courtship between a dairymaid and her gentleman employer. The dairymaid possessed a buxom, rounded figure, which immediately endeared her to Bel. And perhaps she imagined it, but the gentleman suitor bore a passing resemblance to Toby—lean, dashing, classically handsome.
Feeling reassured, Bel fixed her taper in a candlestick and settled herself on the edge of the bed to continue reading.
The beginnings of the lovers’ assignations were almost sweet, she thought, despite her general disinclination to romance. A kiss on the hand here, a whispered endearment there … She lingered over one depiction of the couple in a lovely pastoral scene, with rolling countryside in the background and gauzy clouds overhead. Those deft, light strokes, the attention to detail—it was the oddest thing, but Bel felt that the style of illustration was somehow familiar to her. Feeling certain that a proposal of marriage would be imminent, Bel eagerly flipped another page
—and nearly dropped the book.
The dairymaid’s sweet, meandering romance had taken an abrupt, quite carnal turn down the road to ruin. There she was in the dairy, reclined against the tiled countertop, hiking her skirts to her knees while the gentleman reached for her bared breast. Bel quickly scanned the preceding pages. No, no proposal of marriage therein. She felt more than a bit disappointed in the moral character of this dairymaid, with whom she’d come to identify. But then, considering the word “wanton” in the title, perhaps she ought to have been forewarned. Even the gentleman looked different in this illustration—less refined, more dark and devious. Still, she turned the page with great curiosity. Not curiosity of a prurient nature, of course. This was purely academic interest. Gentleman’s hand on lady’s breast—this much Bel had experienced. But she was to be married in less than a week, and everything that filled the pages beyond could prove invaluable education.
Lady Violet’s remarks still haunted her. Toby had such a rakish reputation. Surely he was experienced in what God intended to be the marital act, even though he had not been married. She was keenly afraid of disappointing him in her ignorance and ineptitude. She was even more afraid he might turn to another—adultery being a sin even greater than fornication—
should her efforts fail to please.
That was it. She was reading the rest of The Book for the good of Toby’s soul. Certainly not to slake her own depraved curiosity.
With fumbling fingers, she leafed through the next several printed pages, barely skimming the text. A strange rustling sound gave her a start—until she realized it to be her own raw-edged breath. Finally she came to the next illustration.
What an education it was. There were all sorts of body parts on display—male, female—but they remained fortunate blurs in Bel’s peripheral vision as her gaze trained in on the gentleman’s face. She realized, for the first time in several chapters, the illustration offered a full view of the hero’s face. A face that had altered, since the first pages of the book. It now looked a great deal like her brother’s.
Oh dear sweet heaven. It was. It was Gray’s face. And these illustrations were Sophia’s artistic hand at work—that was why the style had struck Bel as so familiar.
With a cry of horror, she clapped the book shut and flung it back in the drawer. She rose from the bed, rubbing her hands briskly up and down her arms. Never mind the hour-long soak she’d taken earlier that evening—Bel felt unclean. And well she should, for spying through her sister’s personal belongings. She ought to have known it was the wrong thing to do. No wonder Sophia had resisted all of Lucy’s hints that she should pass along The Book. How could she, after filling it with illustrations of such … such a private nature?
Well, if Bel had been after an education, she’d certainly learned her lesson. She made up her mind then and there that all further instruction in marital relations would come from her husband, and her husband alone. She did not need That Book, nor anything like it.
“Appalling,” she muttered, referring to her own behavior. With a resolute shove, she slammed the table drawer shut.
A moment later, she opened it again.
She might not need That Book, but one thing was clear. She now had desperate need of that sleeping draught.
A quarter-hour before his wedding was scheduled to begin, Toby stood in the annex of St. George’s of Hanover, wearing a new tailcoat of close-cut superfine and a wide, idiotic grin. Hundreds of guests representing the first skim of the cream of English society crammed the church pews, all waiting to see the infamous bachelor at long last take a wife. And they would not be disappointed. They would be treated to a spectacle of blossoms and lace and seed pearls the likes of which London had never seen, and a wedding breakfast so richly spiced they’d be tasting it for weeks. And at the center of it all would sparkle an unparalleled, legendary beauty: Isabel.
His Isabel.
Toby smoothed his coat sleeve. He was determined to present a relaxed exterior, but inwardly he hummed with anticipation. This morning, he claimed a public victory. Tonight, in private, he claimed his prize. Barring a last-moment crisis, this was going to be a good day. When Gray entered the room and shot him an angry glare, Toby’s grin only widened. Gray’s presence meant Isabel had arrived at the church; the rage in his eyes meant the wedding was still on.
It was going to be a very good day.
“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” Gray said, prowling the small room. “I can’t believe I’m going to hand my sister over to you.”
Toby watched him with satisfaction. “I thought agitated pacing was the groom’s duty. Come on, Gray. It’s not so bad as all that. You make it sound as though you’re leading her to the guillotine.”
“It’s your head I’d have on a platter.” Gray stopped circling the room and drilled him with a threatening look. “I told you months ago—keep her happy, or there will be no wedding.”
The bottom dropped out of Toby’s stomach. “Is Isabel not happy?”
“No. She’s not happy. She’s goddamned ecstatic, and I hate you for it.”
Toby covered his sigh of relief with a laugh.
Gray continued, “After today, I’ve no threat to hold over your head. Well, I suppose I could always kill you.” He said this with an insulting, nonchalant wave of his hand that suggested dispatching Toby would cost him all the effort of swatting a gnat. “But I’m not eager to make my sister a widow at the tender age of twenty.”
“Er … Thank you? I guess?”
“Damn it, I’m serious. After today, I can’t order you to keep her happy.” Gray approached him. “So I’m not threatening you anymore, I’m … Bloody hell, I’m begging you. This is my baby sister. My only sister. And this morning, she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her in her life.” He jabbed a finger in Toby’s chest. “Don’t cock it up.”
“Good God, man. I think you’re going to cry.”
Gray bristled. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, I swear it. Your eyes are all glittery.” Toby raised a finger to the corner of his own eye. “Look, right here … a little tear just about to fall—”
“Go to hell.” Gray turned on his heel, making a show of raking his hand through his hair before surreptitiously swiping at his eyes.
Toby felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Perhaps it was poor form to gloat, when he’d already won the battle. “Listen,” he said. “You’ve nothing to worry about. No one wants to see Isabel happy more than I do.”
Gray threw him a look of utter skepticism.
“No, I mean it,” Toby said slowly, just as surprised as anyone to realize he was speaking the truth. “I know you can’t credit it. She’s been your sister all your life, and here she’s been my intended just a matter of months. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I tell you quite honestly, there’s nothing more important to me than seeing Isabel happy. Nothing.”
Gray made a sound of derision.
For both their sakes, Toby decided to lighten the mood. “Look at it this way. You’re not losing a sister, you’re gaining a brother.”
“God. Now I really will weep.” Collecting himself, Gray gave Toby a superior smirk. “Well, I’d best be getting back to Sophia. You know, my wife.”
“Oh, no. That won’t work anymore, either. I’m not envious of you. How could I be, seeing how it all turned out?” For the second time in the space of a minute, Toby’s impulsive honesty came as a revelation. It was true. What ever his mixed feelings toward Gray, jealousy no longer had any part in them. “Mind, I still think Sophia’s too good for you.”
“Of course she is. I’m no fool.”
“And I know we can agree Isabel’s simply too good for this world.” Toby smiled. “There’s nothing for it, Gray. I think we’ll just have to get along.”
Gray’s shoulders scrunched together, as if the idea sent chills down his spine.
“Come on,” Toby prodded, enjoying the moment thoroughly. “I’m an amiable sort. I’m friends with everyone.” He opened his arms and tilted his head to the side. “Brotherly hug?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’d sooner cut off my own bollocks.” Gray made for the exit, leaving Toby’s arms suspended mid-air. He paused at the door just long enough to repeat those encouraging words: “Don’t cock it up.”
Don’t cock it up, indeed. What an enlightening chat. All this time, Toby had focused on getting even with Gray—only to find they’d emerged as allies. At some point in their betrothal, somewhere in the midst of begging, charming, cajoling, and outright lying to earn her approval