A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

She made a muffled squeak in response, and Toby realized his weight was crushing her into the mattress. God, what a boor he was. He quickly withdrew from her body and rolled aside, smoothing her hair away from her face and murmuring apologies.

“Please don’t distress yourself,” she said, her tone one of strained formality. “I’m sure there is no need for apology, or gratitude.”

No need for gratitude? “Isabel—”

“No, please don’t thank me.” She rose up on an elbow, pushing her nightgown back down her legs. “I haven’t even given you your wedding gift yet.”

And she was up out of bed, before Toby could argue that she’d already given him the greatest gift he could possibly imagine. While she disappeared into the adjoining room, he took the opportunity to straighten his trousers and run a hand through his hair. He sat on the edge of the bed when she emerged, her dressing gown now wrapped tightly around her body. Her hands were behind her back, and her eyes were downcast.

“It’s really nothing,” she began. “I didn’t have any idea what to get you. You’re … you’re very difficult to shop for, you know.”

Toby smiled. Her anxiety was adorable. Combined with her disheveled hair and flushed complexion—the effect was utterly enchanting. She could have pulled a lump of coal from behind her back, and he would have treasured it.

But it wasn’t a lump of coal she withdrew. It was a walking stick, topped with carved ivory and inlaid with gold leaf.

“Is it the style you wanted?” she asked, holding it out to him.

“Yes, the very one.” He took it from her hand and laid it horizontally across his palm, testing its balance. “I can’t believe you remembered. I thought you held walking sticks in the highest contempt.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “An embellished stick, which a perfectly healthy gentleman carries about for no other purpose than to indicate his wealth …?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Well, and don’t forget gesturing. And rapping on doors. Truthfully, I still don’t understand the idea—but it was the only thing I could think of to buy you. And I must admit, it does suit you.” She gave him an appraising look, and he struck a cocky, barechested pose that made her blush most satisfactorily. She asked, “Do you like it?”

“I adore it.” He held one end out to her, as though urging her to take it. When she grasped the polished wood, however, he gave a swift tug, pulling her to him. “But I adore you more.”

He meant it to be a tender kiss. A kiss of thanks and appreciation. A kiss that made no demands. But one taste of her, and his body formed quite different intentions. Within seconds, he was as hard as a walking stick. Harder.

“Isabel.” He nipped her ear. “I want you again. Can you bear it, so soon?”

“Of course.” She pulled back and studied him, that boundless trust shining in her eyes. “You would not ask it of me, if I could not.”

And right then, Toby knew. He knew he was doomed.

He could run for Parliament. He could win. He could become bloody Prime Minister and the Prince Regent’s closest adviser. He could travel to Ceylon and back just to bring her a cup of tea, converting a thousand heathens along the way—and he would still never live up to that look in her eyes. No man could. Someday, somehow, he would hurt her—and it would mean the end of everything. Oh, she would forgive him, generous soul that she was. They would still share a cordial affection. But she would never look at him like this again, as if … as if he deserved her faith in him. One day, they would both know he did not. But for now—and for as long as he could keep it so—it remained Toby’s secret. He slid his hands around her waist. “Darling girl. Come back to bed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Just a few miles more.” Toby peered at the carriage window, watching the familiar landscape roll past. He turned his attention to his obviously uncomfortable wife, whose clear, honeycolored complexion was tinged with green. “You’re miserable, aren’t you? Too much jouncing about?”

“I’m enjoying the lovely countryside. But I must admit, I’m not accustomed to lengthy carriage rides.” Again, she twisted her hips to find a slightly different position on the tufted seat. He winced. She must be sore. No, she was not accustomed to lengthy carriage rides, nor to lengthy nights of being ridden like a carriage horse. Not for the first time since their wedding, he felt a stab of guilt. He knew he’d been using his wife as if he were a sailor on shore leave—

but damned if he could help it. He wanted her, all the time. And she obliged him, whenever he asked.

Even now, the sight of those luscious breasts bouncing in time to the horses’ clopping hooves

He said casually, “Perhaps you’d feel the ruts less if you came over here and sat in my lap.”

She gave him that typically Isabel look—serious and searching. He could practically see the thoughts turning over in her mind. Could her husband possibly be so wicked, she was wondering, as to suggest what her recently expanded imagination supposed?

No, she decided mutely—and incorrectly—with a little shake of her head. “It is kind of you to offer, I’m sure. But I would not wish to wrinkle you.”

Just like her, to give him far more credit than his due. If Toby had his way, her light-blue traveling habit would meet with a fate far worse than wrinkling. She had so much misplaced faith in him—he only hoped a shred of it might survive his electoral defeat.

“Will it be a large crowd, there at the hustings?” she asked.

“Oh, undoubtedly. Hundreds, most likely.”

“But I understood the number of electors to be rather small. Only those freemen who hold land, your mother told me.”

“Yes, but it’s rather a holiday, you see. It’s the spectacle that draws people from miles around, whether or not they can cast a vote. Little enough excitement to be had in a sleepy borough like ours. Any excuse for a day spent gawking and lifting pints of ale will serve. And this is just the announcement of candidacy—wait until the polling begins in earnest. That’s when the real debauchery starts.”

“And how long will the polling last?”

“Until there is a clear winner—as many as fifteen days, not counting Sundays.” It wasn’t likely to last five, Toby thought to himself. By all reasoning, Yorke ought to take a commanding lead from the first and end the thing swiftly.

“As many as fifteen days of drunken debauchery?” Isabel’s eyebrows rose. “No wonder people anticipate an election.”

“It could be worse. Ours is a sedate little corner of England. We could be in one of those counties up north, where the polling always ends in riots. Or worse,” he added, jerking his head toward the window, “just a ways back, in Garret.”

“What takes place in Garret?”

“Oh, they have a sort of sham election, every Parliament. People from all around come to see it

—outlandish costumes, coarse humor, barrels and barrels of ale. You see, a man needn’t be a landowner to vote there.”

“No?”

“No.” He gave her a teasing grin. “There is only one qualification to vote in Garret. A man must have enjoyed a woman in the open air, somewhere within that district.”

The green cast of her complexion turned to pink. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Unable to resist, Toby rose from his seat opposite and crossed the gap, settling down next to her. “In fact,” he continued, leaning into her and directing her gaze out the window, “I believe we may still be traveling through that district now. You did remark on the lovely countryside. And I think a breath of open air may be just the remedy you need. Shall we venture out and find an obliging little haystack or hillock to enjoy, hm?”

She blushed deeper. “You are an outrageous tease.”

“I’m not teasing at all. I’d have a far better chance of winning in Garret than in my own borough. There’s just that small matter of eligibility.” He snaked an arm behind her waist and cupped her lush, rounded hip in his palm. With his other hand, he reached for his walking stick. “I’ll halt the carriage right now, if you like.” He stretched his arm, extending the knob of ivory toward the coach’s side, as though he would rap to signal the driver.

“You wouldn’t!” Twisting her body, she stretched out a hand to stay his arm.

“Oh, yes, I would,” he said, reaching out again.

“Toby!” she exclaimed, wrestling his arm with both hands now and wriggling herself straight into his lap. Just where he’d been wanting her.

He said quietly, “I would.” Then he paused, waiting for that beautiful face to turn toward his. “I would, but only if you asked it.”

Her frown melted to an inviting, “Oh.”

Lowering his arm, he cast aside the walking stick. He needed two hands on her delicious body

—one simply wasn’t enough. “There now. Isn’t it better, sitting like this?”

She nodded breathlessly, her eyes never leaving his.

“You don’t feel ill anymore?”

She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

“Very good,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers.

And when their lips met, the world stopped. God, he loved kissing her, nearly as much as he loved bedding her. Toby had never thought himself an especially fanciful fellow, but damned if there wasn’t something magical in the brush of her mouth against his. Not in the sense of fairystory pixie dust or cauldrons bubbling with superstitious claptrap. Magic of the ancient, primeval sort. The unleashing of an elemental force. When they kissed, a vast realm of passion opened between them, wild and uncharted. And they explored it together, feeling their way through the dark with questing lips and seeking tongues and bold, wandering fingers. He could have held his wife in his lap and kissed her all the way to Devonshire. But as luck—

and geography—would have it, they reached his borough in Surrey first.

“Toby.”

“Mmm?”

“Is this the town?”

Preoccupied with tasting every inch of her delicate throat, he spared only the briefest of glances out the window. “Probably.”

With a little yelp, she squirmed out of his lap and flung herself to the opposite seat. He followed her. “We’ve a few minutes yet.”

“Toby, no!” She evaded his grasp, volleying back to her original seat. This time, he let her escape. “It’s all right, darling. No one can see in. Unless they’re trying.”

“Of course they’ll be trying! And look at us, all mussed and wrinkled.” Her hands fluttered over her gown, and she threw him a grieved look. “Toby, please. Make yourself presentable.”

“What? Is my cravat askew?”

“No, no. It’s not your cravat that’s askew, it’s your …” She flicked a glance at his lap. Toby looked down, then laughed. “Well, my wife, unless you intend to come over here and relieve the condition—”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Right. Then the only other remedy would be time.”

“Did you know,” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone, “that mechanical brushes can clean a flue in one-third the time of a climbing boy, and with twice the efficiency? You might mention that in your speech today.”

Time, or talk of chimney sweeps.

“Isabel,” he said, making discreet adjustments to his fall, “these are country cottagers. They don’t employ chimney sweeps.”

“But they are humans, and Christians, and must therefore respond to the plight of those pitiable children. An injustice perpetrated against the most meek of souls is an injustice against us all.”