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

Bel winced. “Toby, don’t. Don’t torture yourself. It doesn’t matter what they say. No one reads that horrid thing anyway.”

“But of course they do,” Madame Pamplemousse said. “Everyone in London reads The Prattler.”

“Not just everyone in London,” Toby added. “Since polling began, it’s the best-selling paper in Surrey, according to Colin Brooks. Perhaps I ought to deliver copies when I ride out there each morning.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bel said.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied. “Because—according to today’s edition—I’m not riding to Surrey at all.”

“What?”

“It says right here, I’ve been completely absent from the hustings. My entire candidacy is a sham.”

“What? But that’s absurd!”

“Is it?” Toby’s slow footfalls crossed the room.

“Yes, of course it is. You’ve been gone from dawn to dusk every day. Where else would you have been spending your time?”

He paused. “Do you really wish to know?”

Bel considered. Did she? His serious tone boded ill, but in the end her curiosity won out. “Yes. Yes, read me what ever scandalous falsehood they’re peddling now.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, according to this distinguished publication, I’ve been spending my days here in London, at the Hidden Pearl. There’s a charming illustration provided by Mr. Hollyhurst. Would you care to see?”

“No.” Bel closed her eyes. “Dare I guess the nature of this establishment, the Hidden Pearl? I don’t suppose it’s a shop that sells jewels.”

“Well… I wouldn’t call them jewels. Cheap trinkets, more like.”

“Toby!” Bel’s teeth ground together. How he found this amusing was beyond her comprehension. “But—” She jostled on one leg as a maid peeled the muslin gown from her torso. “But that’s a preposterous assertion!”

“Completely,” Toby agreed. His voice sounded nearer now, just on the other side of the drapery. “I haven’t gone near the Hidden Pearl in weeks.”

Bel gasped with indignation.

“Very well, months.”

She pulled the drape to the side and craned her neck around it to glare at him. He grinned at her over the paper. “Years?”

Insufferable tease. “It’s not a laughing matter, Toby!”

“Of course it is. As you say, it’s a preposterous assertion. The only thing for it is to laugh.”

“We know it to be preposterous, but what of everyone else? What if people read that paper and believe that you … that you …”

“Have a penchant for trinkets?” His eyebrow quirked. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. Have you so little faith in me?”

Bel gripped the curtain to her chest and blinked away an unshed tear. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so out of sorts today.”

But she did know. Stupid girl, she chided herself. She’d been well aware of Toby’s reputation before she married him. Her husband was an infamous rake. What had she thought, that public speculation would miraculously cease on their wedding day? That the women of London would stop batting their lashes in his direction? That The Prattler would plaster his image on a broadsheet as a sterling example of morality—“The Rake Reformed”?

Stupid, stupid girl.

Toby’s gaze flitted back and forth between her face and the velvet drape wrapped around her chest. “That’s a lovely color on you,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that will serve very well.”

She sniffed.

“Come with me to the opera, darling.” Tossing aside the newspaper, he framed her face in his warm, confident hands. His brown eyes held her, made her strong. “Let me dress you up and devastate London with your beauty. I promise you, no newspaper will dare accuse me of dallying again—because no one would ever believe it. They’ll know, no painted bauble at the Hidden Pearl could ever compare with the radiant, elegant woman I married. One look at us together, and they will know the truth.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “There’s no other lady for me.”

Bel’s lips pressed together. The rest of her fell apart. Oh, how she wished he would kiss her. Right here in the modiste’s fitting room, while she stood wrapped in her shift and a velvet curtain, in front of all these preening French coquettes.

He did.

And this time, she did not mind the giggling.

Toby held that kiss just as long as he dared. While he kissed her, her lips couldn’t form questions. While he kissed her, his lips couldn’t lie.

There’s no other lady for me.

That much was the truth. The simple, soul-baring truth, and he poured it all into this chaste, sweet kiss, hoping his wife could feel and believe it.

Lord knew, she wasn’t too quick to recognize truth when it was spoken aloud. His heart still pounded in his chest, after that close scrape just now with The Prattler. He’d come a heartbeat from simply confessing everything. But once again, she’d displayed such complete faith in him, he just couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. Confession was out of the question.

No, Toby had a different plan.

“Now, then,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “Be a good girl and have your measurements. Allow me to discuss the style with Madame. I’ll make certain you’re happy.”

And he would, he vowed silently, dropping a final kiss between her eyebrows. He would make her happy. Underneath all those angelic ideals and heavenly curves beat a heart that was simply human. Simply woman. And though he might have no head for philanthropy or politics, Toby understood women.

He had this one week. For God knew what reason, he and Yorke remained close in the polls, but the numbers were certain to turn at the end. In a handful of days, the polling would close and Colin Brooks would certify his defeat. Somehow, in that short window of time, he had to replace Isabel’s naïve faith in him with deeper emotions, ones he could sustain. It was time to step up his campaign, and it all began with the opera. She was so wary of life’s little amusements—ices, jewels, beautiful gowns. Plea sure distressed her, for some unfathomable reason, but he could help her overcome that distress. Surely his success in the bedchamber could be repeated in other settings. He could teach her to enjoy herself, and to enjoy being with him. He would make her feel perfect and adored and deserving of every indulgence the world had to offer.

And then, she would surrender her political dreams and embrace a future of domestic bliss. He didn’t have to destroy her faith in him, just give it a new foundation. Love. That was the plan.

And if he got her with child in the process … call it insurance.

“Oh, Madame?” he called, holding up the edge of the velvet drape. “Ce couleur, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bon choix, monsieur.”

He traded instructions with the modiste in French, so that Isabel would be unable to understand, and therefore unable to object. Aside from the gown for Tuesday, he ordered three more evening gowns and five day dresses, as well as a full complement of petticoats and the like. His wife would have protested the expenditure with every word in her bilingual vocabulary—but Toby knew her to be worth every penny, and more.

An hour later, they emerged from the shop.

“Fancy a drive in the park?” he asked.

Isabel shook her head violently. “Oh, no.”

Toby cursed inwardly. Stupid suggestion, that. Ever since that incident in Surrey, she suffered carriage rides with all the enjoyment of a kitten receiving a bath.

“Is there anything else you need to buy?” He tucked her hand in his arm. “Or shall we find a teashop and take some refreshment?”

“I’m not hungry, thank you. But if there is a draper’s nearby, the children’s dispensary is in need of new bed linens.”

“Very well.” He turned them left, and together they ambled down the street. “While we’re at it, let’s choose some for ourselves.”

“Oh, we couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t we? Don’t we deserve new linens, just as much as sickly foundlings do?”

“It isn’t that,” she hissed, in a voice that communicated her wish for him to lower his own. “It’s not proper, for a husband and wife to go shopping for bed linens together. “

“Whyever not? Seems the most proper thing in the world, to me. But if we are to be shocking, why stop at linen? Let’s order five sets of sheets in aubergine satin.”

She did not even reply to that, aside from turning a shade that hinted toward aubergine, herself. He murmured in her ear, “Have you ever experienced that sensation, Isabel? The feel of satin against bare skin? All your bare skin?”

She squirmed. “Toby, stop.”

“No? It’s like gliding through water, darling. Cool and smooth at first. And then the heat of your flesh makes it warm and slick, like—”

“Toby,” she growled, drawing to a halt. “You must stop. Now.”

“Like oil,” he finished, bending low to whisper in her ear. “Oil, perfumed with the musk of your skin and—”

Her bright voice interrupted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Yorke.”

Toby froze, his lips poised less than an inch from his wife’s ear. Fortunate thing he hadn’t followed the impulse to lick it. As if sensing itself in danger, Isabel’s ear dipped out of reach. Right. She was curtsying.

Following his wife’s example, Toby greeted his silver-haired friend with a polite bow. “Yorke. Hadn’t expected to meet with you in Town.” In other words, why the devil aren’t you at the hustings, in Surrey?

The old man regarded him with a bemused expression. “Hadn’t expected to meet with you, either.”

Isabel said, “Yes, so unfortunate isn’t it? The returning officer’s wife, taken ill.”

Yorke looked to Toby. “Mrs. Brooks took ill?”

Damn.

“Surely you heard?” Isabel asked. “Weren’t you there when they closed the polls earlier?” She looked to Toby. “But perhaps I misunderstood.”

Toby glared at the old man until he startled, realizing his mistake.

“Oh, yes,” Yorke said hastily. “Yes, of course. She took ill. What was her ailment…?” He snapped his fingers. “Rheumatism.”

This would have been a perfectly acceptable answer, had Toby not chosen the exact same moment to blurt out, “The grippe.”

Isabel’s brow creased as she looked from Toby to Yorke, and then back.

“Well, she’s achy, you know. And generally out of sorts. Bit of a fever, some stiffness. It’s a medical mystery, really. She has the doctor quite flummoxed.” The words streamed from Toby’s mouth at record speed. If he spoke quickly and incoherently enough, he might squeak through this muddle. He hoped. “But last I heard, she’s on the mend. I’m certain the polls will reopen Monday.”

“Right,” Yorke said. “I suppose I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Oh, yes. Monday.” Toby said, absorbing Mr. Yorke’s strange look. A look that said the crafty old fellow would be nowhere near Surrey on Monday.

“If you’re staying in town, perhaps we’ll meet at church tomorrow,” Isabel said.

“Perhaps, Lady Aldridge.” With a smile and a tip of his hat, Mr. Yorke went on his way. Toby stared after him. What the hell was going on? Toby hadn’t been in Surrey today, but apparently neither had Yorke. Was it possible the old man wasn’t even campaigning? It would explain why the polls remained so close, and the turnout of electors so low. He found himself wanting to chase after Yorke, take him to the club for some quality liquor and one of their honest discussions. The man was hiding something, and Toby was, too. And he didn’t know where that left them, but he knew it was a great deal further apart than they’d been before. That was a damned shame.