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

A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3) Page 15

She was his, after all. She was marrying him in a matter of days, no matter what her brother said. The wedding must go on as planned. Those had been her words. The surge of triumphant pride only fueled his desire. He kneaded her breast greedily, relishing the way she arched into his touch, denying him nothing. Finally, she was responding to him—not his forbearance with beggars or his philanthropic largesse. At last, here was that passion he’d glimpsed at their very first meeting, all that pent-up emotion she buried under selfless good works. She might hide it from the world, even from herself. But she couldn’t hide it from him. He had won her. She was his.

She would be his wife.

And … and damned if he would steal her innocence like a thief. Not when she would soon belong to him, by rights.

With great reluctance, Toby marshaled his will and released her breast. Framing her face in his palms, he gently pulled her away. Her labored breaths raced his. Resting his forehead against her lovely brow, he whispered, “Darling, I’m sorry. We really should stop.”

He saw the flush of guilt creeping up her face.

“I know, I know,” she said. “It’s wrong. I know it, but…” She chewed her lip. “You make me want to do things I know I shouldn’t.”

With a soft laugh, he pressed a kiss to her brow. “Funny, isn’t it? You make me want to do the things I’ve always known I should.”

“Shall we suit one another, do you think?”

“Splendidly.” And he meant it. The past few minutes had banished any of his concerns about their compatibility. During that kiss, they had suited one another to the ground. He couldn’t resist stealing one more. And then another. Nuzzling her ear, he murmured, “It’s a fortunate thing we’re getting married soon.”

“Oh, yes.” She straightened and inched away, putting distance between them. Passion had been put aside, and her typically placid demeanor had returned. “We couldn’t possibly wait any longer. I only wish we could marry today. I hope the timing of the wedding won’t interfere with your campaign.”

Toby blinked. “My … my campaign.”

“What a shame, that we’ll have to postpone the honeymoon. But I expect the Lake District will be just as lovely in August as it would have been in July.”

“Postpone the honeymoon? What on earth are you talking about?” Brushing a finger across the tip of her nose, he joked, “Isabel, perhaps that fever affected you more seriously than we thought.”

She went rigid, instantly. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing,” he soothed. “Nothing at all.” He slid his fingertip along her jaw. “But my word, you’re so beautiful when you take offense. I’m the one who’s addled, darling. I don’t seem to be following you. Take pity on a besotted fool and explain it again, a little more slowly.”

Smiling again, she pulled a newspaper from the table beside her and held it out to him.

“Haven’t you heard? The Prince Regent is expected to dissolve Parliament tomorrow. It’s in all the newspapers. Polling will begin within a few weeks.”

Toby stared at the newspaper she’d handed him, trying in vain to form a response. She couldn’t possibly be serious. Isabel laid a hand on his sleeve, and his gaze jerked up to hers.

“Isn’t it perfect?” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “Our grand wedding, followed so closely by your candidacy? We’re certain to be the talk of London, if not all England. At last, you’ll have your place in the House of Commons, and I’ll be …” She blushed and dropped her eyes. “I’ll be your wife. I’ll be Lady Aldridge.”

Good God. She was serious. She expected him to postpone their honeymoon and run for Parliament in a few weeks. Toby, on the other hand, had no wish to run for Parliament in a few weeks. Nor in a few years, for that matter. Not when he’d successfully invested a decade in avoiding that very task.

“Darling, there’s no need to be in a hurry. Governments come and go. Our wedding will only happen once. Let’s enjoy our honeymoon, and then I can run for Parliament the next time there’s an election called.”

“But that will be years from now.”

Yes, precisely.

“Besides,” he continued, “you’ve been ill. You need rest, not the strain of a political campaign.”

“But the prospect of the campaign is what’s made me feel better! As soon as I saw the paper, I knew I must resolve to recover my strength. You will need me, to stand by you and work with you. Oh, Toby,” she said, her dark eyes shining. “Think of all the good we will do together.”

He swallowed and looked back at the newspaper. So this was what had prompted her swift recovery, her determination to regain her health and marry him as planned—the prospect of an election. Not the prospect of being with him. A bitter taste filled his mouth. “I’m sorry, Isabel, but I just don’t think this is the time.”

Her eyes grew sharp. “What do you mean? I thought you understood when we became engaged, that I sought a match for political and social influence. You told me you would be serving in the House of Commons.”

“I know, but—”

She mimicked his baritone. “‘Even I could have a seat in Commons, lowly sir that I am.’ Those were your words.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“But what?” She looked near tears.

He touched her cheek. “But I thought… there is something between us now. Something real and undeniable, and stronger than any words carelessly uttered on a verandah.” He leaned forward to kiss her.

She pulled away. “Desire, you mean?”

Desire? Toby schooled his expression, trying not to look wounded. Certainly, there was desire

—on his side, there was a prodigious amount of desire. But during that kiss just now … he’d fancied there was some deeper emotion beneath it.

Evidently, the fancies were all on his side.

She shook her head, casting her eyes to her lap. “Other people may marry for desire, but I cannot. Have I not made it clear from our first meeting, I intend to marry for influence and the opportunity to do good? If you will not offer me that, then perhaps—”

“Wait.” He put a finger on her lips, shushing her. Dear Lord, the girl was a breath away from crying off. Desperation welled in his gut. This could not happen again. First Sophia had jilted him; now Isabel threatened to do the same. Was there no lady in England who could see her way clear to actually marry him as promised?

Toby gathered what pride remained to him. Perhaps he could talk her out of this madness.

“What I mean to say is, it won’t work. Unless you mean for me to purchase a rotten borough

—”

“Oh, no!” Her eyes widened in horror at the suggestion of corruption. Just as he’d known they would.

“Then I should have to run against Mr. Yorke, you see. He’s served our borough faithfully for years, and what’s more, he’s an old friend. He’s also very popular.”

“Popular? But your mother loathes him.”

“My mother is a special case.”

“I can’t believe anyone could be more popular than you. You’re the most popular gentleman in Town.”

“In Town, perhaps I am. But these aren’t society matrons, Isabel, they’re farmers. Mr. Yorke understands their needs.”

“So will you, once you have an opportunity to listen.”

Dear, ridiculous girl, staring up at him with such expectation in her eyes. He pulled back, startled. No, this was more than expectation. Her eyes held the glimmer of faith. Wholly unearned and completely misapplied, but faith it was. By some miracle, she believed in him. What a novel sensation. He found himself quite rapidly drunk on it.

“You will win their loyalty,” she said. “I’m certain I know of no gentleman more persuasive. For heaven’s sake, you just convinced me to eat an ice. Not to mention, to …” Her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “At any rate, you’re very persuasive.”

She smiled at him so sweetly, he almost wanted to believe her. As if farmers would respond to the same charm as debutantes. They’d be mad to vote for Toby over Yorke, even if Toby paid out handsome bribes—which Isabel would never allow him to do. This half-witted MP election scheme would be certain to fail.

But then—perhaps that made it perfect.

Even if he agreed to run, he would most assuredly lose. Isabel would have to give him credit for trying, the sweet girl that she was, and Toby would never have to serve in Commons. By the time the next election rolled around, she’d be occupied with her charities and—God willing

—a child or two, and she’d forget all about this Parliament foolishness. He just had to get her to the altar first.

Promise her anything. Keep her happy. Make her smile.

“Very well, then. I’ll do it.”

Her face lit up. Oh, that look was worth anything.

“You will?” she asked. “You’ll run for MP?”

“I’ll run,” he told her, basking in her palpable excitement. “Mind, I can’t guarantee that I’ll

win.”

“Of course you will. I have complete faith in you.”

Yes, Isabel. But for how long?

Toby bent his head to steal one last kiss—and found himself being plundered. Within seconds, Isabel was half in his lap, tentatively exploring his mouth with her tongue. Perhaps there was nothing behind her kiss but desire and a glimmer of misplaced faith—but Toby couldn’t bring himself to complain. Right now, this felt like more than enough.

And though their wedding was still almost two weeks distant, he made a vow to himself, there and then. Whatever it took—funds, misdirection, outright deceit—he would find a way to make this last.

Forever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Can’t you wait a few minutes longer?” Toby asked, as the orchestra struck the final chord and they whirled to a halt. “I was hoping we could go speak with your brothers.”

“I can’t, it’s my …” Isabel gave him a pained look, then stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. The delicate warmth of her breath sent heat coursing through his veins. “It’s my hem. I tripped on it during the quadrille.”

Toby smiled. It was adorable, how aggrieved she became, owning up to something so meaningless as a ripped hem. But it warmed his heart that she overcame her distress and gave him the honest truth. He’d heard his fill of enigmatic feminine excuses, and he certainly had no use for them in a wife.

But truly, of late he found everything about her adorable. Toby was well and thoroughly besotted with his future bride. How could he not be? He’d been the recipient of admiring gazes, adoring ones—he could count a half-dozen girls in this ballroom alone who’d once regarded him with nigh-on-idolatrous worship in their eyes. But none of them had Isabel’s principles and discernment, and none of them had ever regarded him with such faith.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “If your hem is ripped, it’s not noticeable in the least.”

“But everyone’s staring at me.”

“Of course they are. Not only is this ball being held in your honor—”

“Our honor.”

“Very well, our honor—but you’ve committed the unforgivable sin of being the most beautiful lady in the room.” He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Just three minutes with your brothers, and I’ll escort you to the retiring room myself.”

“Why don’t I just go while you speak with them? Whatever it is you want to discuss, surely you don’t need me.”

“Ah, but I’d miss you.” With his signature persuasive grin, he steered her toward the corner of the ballroom currently anchored by the broad-shouldered bulk of two Grayson men. Truly, he didn’t need her there. But this was a complicated maneuver he’d been planning for weeks, and all of it solely for Isabel’s benefit. There was no way he would allow her to miss the crowning moment.