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

He waited until she did.

“Look at me,” he repeated slowly, “for just this moment, and see me for the man I truly am. And know that I love you, more than I can express. More than I can comprehend. Can that be enough for you?” His heart climbed into his throat, and he swallowed hard around it. He needed to ask. “Isabel, can I be enough for you?”

Tears slid down her cheeks. Impossible to say whether despair or joy propelled them. Blast those enigmatic female tears.

She said, “You don’t know what you ask of me.”

He slid his hands to her face and cupped it roughly. “Yes, I do. I’m asking you to love me, the way that I love you.” He kissed her lips, needing to taste her. More tears escaped her trembling eyelids. “Completely,” he said, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, her ear. “Unreservedly, passionately, madly …”

Her body went rigid in his arms, and she made a strange sound in her throat. Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed away. “I’m sorry, Toby. Last night, I thought perhaps I… but now you’ve …” She shook her head and turned away. “I’m sorry.”

And there it was. The verdict he’d been dreading. She didn’t love him. At least, not the way he loved her. Perhaps she loved him in some dutiful, selfless, Christian way. But she did not live and breathe and burn for him, the way he lived and breathed and burned for her. Very well, then. Now he knew.

And look, the world even kept turning.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated weakly.

“Stop apologizing. The fault is entirely mine. I understand.”

Awkward silence blanketed the room.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, clearing his throat and stepping back around the desk. As he walked, his step faltered slightly. He felt off-balance, as though he were learning to walk with a javelin skewering his chest. “I know you’re busy. You must have some kind of meeting or appointment to keep. But before you go, I have something to tell you.” He picked up the urgent message he’d received that morning, fingered the broken wax seal. How odd, to think he’d read it just hours ago.

“Mr. Yorke died last night,” he said. “Or perhaps early this morning. I’m not sure. At any rate, he was here in Town, and he has no close family …” Toby made a fist and propped it on the chair’s back. “Had no close family. My mother and I will accompany his body back to Surrey, for the burial.”

“Oh, Toby.”

She came toward him, and he turned to look out the window. It was a revoltingly sunny day. Isabel stopped a few paces away. “Toby, I’m so sorry. I know how fond you were of him.”

“Do you, really?” He stared hard at the wavy pane of glass. “Because I don’t think I ever truly did, until today. It wasn’t until today that I realized … Yorke was the closest thing to a father I ever had.”

She made a soft, soothing noise and reached for his hand.

He pulled it away, folding his arms over his chest. Of course, now she would comfort him. She could shower him in sweet, generous affection now, when he was down and plainly hurting and as wretched as some leper in a parable. Isabel had no shortage of pity to offer him. It was only the deep, abiding passion that he was denied.

“You’ll have everything you wanted now,” he told her. “I’ll be the MP. You’ll be Lady Aldridge, the influential MP’s wife. This house is yours, to host as many demonstrations and

Society meetings and social functions as you please. Turn it into a home for foundlings, if you wish. I really don’t care. I’ll be in Surrey for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re … you’re just leaving me here?”

Her tone was wounded.

Good. Petty though it might be, he wanted to hurt her. To inflict just a fraction of the pain she’d caused him.

“Did you have some better plan?” Toby walked around her, crossing to the doorway. “Forgive me, but I really must be off to Yorke’s town house. There’s a sort of gathering, and I promised my mother—”

“Oh, your poor mother.” Suddenly she flew across the carpet to stand before him, latching one hand over his arm. “Toby, let me come with you.”

“To Surrey?”

“Well, I meant to the town house.” Her brow wrinkled. “I mean, I do have the demonstration Friday. The invitations have already gone out. I must be here in Town for that, I couldn’t possibly cancel it now.”

“No, of course,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t possibly. I understand you perfectly, Isabel. You’re under no obligation to come with me to Yorke’s house, nor to Surrey …” He gave her what he hoped was a cold, unfeeling look. “I’m certain we’ll see one another soon enough.” He turned to leave.

She dodged around him, blocking the door. “Toby, please. I can see how you’re hurting. I want to help. Let me go with you.”

“No.”

She winced. “But—”

“No,” he repeated firmly, walking past her to exit the room. “You’re not welcome. This is a family matter, not a charity event.”