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

Except, it wasn’t a rose parlor this morning. It was white—all white. In preparation for the chimney-sweeping demonstration, the curtains had been removed and the carpets rolled away. The bric-a-brac had been boxed up, and each painting or stick of furniture had been carefully draped with a muslin dustcover.

In its austerity and simplicity, the space reminded Bel very strongly of her girlhood, and the hours spent in her mother’s bedchamber. That room, too, had been stripped of drapery and ornament, for her mother’s safety. After that horrific incident with the bedcurtains—and then, a year or two later, the hearthrug catching fire … Simple décor had seemed best. Yes, Bel thought, twisting her hands in her lap—this morning, the Rose Parlor bore a striking resemblance to that spare, sunlit bedchamber in Tortola. All it lacked was the madwoman. Or … perhaps it didn’t.

El amor es locura.

Folding over her lap, Bel buried her face in her hands. She did not cry. In the two days since Toby had left, she’d simply exhausted her supply of tears. Still, her shoulders quivered with the echoes of sobs. So many emotions cycled through her, faster and faster with each hour since he’d left—anger, despair, fear, loneliness, heartbreak. One moment, she missed Toby so fiercely she began packing for Surrey; the next, she would remember the artistic stylings of one Mr. Hollyhurst and resolve never to see his patron again.

She didn’t know what to think anymore. Except that she must be going mad. She ought to be grateful, that Toby had gone away. It had saved her the task of removing herself, or even more difficult—creating false distance between them while they lived under the same roof. Because she had to distance herself, for both their sakes. After the way she’d flown at him, cursed him, struck him …

No, she couldn’t allow that scene to ever recur. She had to stay away from him. By leaving, he’d spared her the trouble.

Not that they would stay apart forever, of course. They were married, after all. Eventually, she and Toby would have to cross paths. But by then, their anger with each other would have cooled, and their passion as well. With clear heads and mended hearts, they could begin again

—and have the same kind of cordial marriage so many of their peers enjoyed. The sort of marriage Bel had always intended to have.

She knew Toby would have no difficulty finding physical pleasure in the arms of another; or others—and Bel would not deny him that. She wanted him to be happy, and his warm, personable nature would not lend itself to solitude.

No, that part would be Bel’s. She would put her emotions aside. She would rededicate her heart and mind to charity. She would save miserable waifs from suffocating in chimneys. Love and passion were not for her.

The room gradually filled with ladies, all attired in shades of gray and black, in accordance with the invitation. The women arranged their dark skirts over the muslin-draped furniture, until the entire tableau began to resemble not a snowdrift, but rather a flea’s-eye vantage of a spotted hound.

And here came the flea.

“Lady Violet Morehouse,” the butler intoned. The matron swept into the room, dressed head to toe in a repellent shade of puce.

“Lady Aldridge, my dear.” She curtsied and flashed a smile so brittle and false, it threatened to slide right off her powdered face and shatter on the floor.

Bel yearned to help it along.

“I apologize for not adhering to the dress requirements,” she said, indicating her plumed, blood-red gown. “But while your morning may be beginning, my own evening is just coming to its close. I have not yet been home.”

“No matter,” Bel said, forcing a generous curtsy. “I’m simply delighted that you could find time to join us.”

Lady Violet cleared her throat and placed a hand to her temple. “I don’t suppose you have a spot of tea to offer? I imagine wine is out of the question. I feel as though I’ve wandered into a Quaker meeting.”

The ladies tittered with laughter.

Bel tamped down the irritation rising in her breast. Charity. She was living for charity now, and Lady Violet needed a great deal of it. “To be sure, I can offer you tea.” She turned to address the room. “Or coffee, or chocolate. Ladies, shall we go in to breakfast?”

As the ladies filed down the corridor, someone clutched at Bel’s elbow. She wheeled about.

“Sophia! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve arrived.” She wrapped her sister in a warm embrace. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come. Augusta’s in Surrey, of course, and I’m on my own this morning.”

“Certainly I came. Do you think I’d leave you to face these dragons alone?” Sophia’s blue eyes twinkled. “But before I forget,” she whispered, “I have a gift for you.” She placed a small, flat package in Bel’s hands, wrapped in brown paper and knotted with twine. “It’s a book,” she explained in a low voice. “But don’t open it now.”

“Not the book. The one Lucy kept hinting about?”