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

No use. He didn’t even know how to complete that syllable. Who? What? Why? When?

Yes, that was it—when? When did my amatory prowess sink to this low, where I might kiss a young lady on a moonlit terrace and the first thought that springs to her mind is …

“Whittlesby”?

“Whittlesby?” he finally echoed, somehow hoping he’d misheard her. Twice.

“Yes. You did promise to find me a husband. I’ve decided he will do.”

A burst of shocked laughter escaped him. “No. No, you’ve misunderstood. Whittlesby will not do at all.”

She frowned. “Then you won’t introduce me?”

“I’d sooner die.” Indeed, some small part of his pride was withering to dust as he spoke. But this was nothing, compared to the agonies he would suffer, surrendering this vibrant, intelligent, beautiful woman to a lump like Whittlesby.

Good God. Whittlesby?

“But you promised to find me a husband.” She latched a hand over his wrist. “Tonight.”

The pressure of her fingers did strange things to his pulse. He teetered on the verge of taking her into his arms and kissing her again—thoroughly, this time. All night long, if need be. Until he kissed away her memory of any man but him.

Honor, he reminded himself sternly. And something about clinging to the few remaining shreds of it. The honorable course, sadly, did not involve kissing those perfect lips all night—

but neither did it mean sending her into the arms of a perfect clod. He needed to set this girl straight. Only then, not before, he would let her go.

The first strains of a waltz reached his ears. “Yes, I promised to find you a husband. And so I shall—inside.” Where the light of a hundred candles would hold this feral temptation at bay.

“Come,” he said, tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m going to give you a lesson about the true nature of influence and the selection of worthy suitors.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

He clarified, “We are going to dance.”

He led her back inside and had her swept up in the waltz before anyone could notice their return.

She was an inexperienced dancer, he could tell—she couldn’t have had much opportunity to practice on that speck of a tropical island. But still, they glided through the room effortlessly, in perfect time with the music. Because Toby was an excellent dancer, and she gave herself over completely to his lead.

“You dance like a dream,” he told her. His dream, likely tonight. Perhaps for weeks to come.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “I’ve never been fond of dancing, but…”

“But…?”

She released a sigh scented with brandy and resignation. “But I’m enjoying dancing with you.”

Well, praise God for small victories.

“Miss Grayson,” he said, feigning shock, “don’t tell me you’re enjoying yourself. And at a ball?” When she blushed, he murmured, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But only if you make me a promise.”

“What kind of promise?” she asked, giving him a guarded look.

“Promise me you will not marry Whittlesby. Not him, nor anyone like him.”

“I’ll promise you nothing of the kind. Who are you, to tell me whom I should and should not marry?”

“Who am I?” He laughed. “I’m the gentleman you charged with finding you a suitable husband. Whittlesby and his ilk are categorically unsuitable.”

“But you don’t understand. I have goals, priorities.” She looked to the ceiling. “I wish to become a lady of influence. It’s the only way to have any measurable effect on society. If I do not marry above my rank, I may as well remain unmarried.”

“If you do not marry your true equal, you will regret it the rest of your life. Listen to me, Isabel.”

His use of her Christian name startled her. Good. Now she was paying attention. Plus, he liked saying it.

“Isabel, you are intelligent. You are young and idealistic and brimming with passion. You don’t lack for fortune or family. And you’re the most intriguing, beautiful woman in the room. That arsenal of persuasion could bring the whole of London to its knees, if judiciously applied. For God’s sake, don’t chain yourself to some pudding with a title. The power you seek—it already resides within you.”

“Please, spare me your nonsensical flattery.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because you might start to enjoy it?”

She set her jaw and stared stubbornly over his shoulder.

“I’m not speaking nonsense, Isabel. It’s the most rational thing in the world.” Toby shook his head. How could he make her see? “It’s like this,” he said calmly. “Imagine true disaster were to strike. Imagine you found yourself married to me. A lowly, dishonorable, too-handsome sir, unsuitable in every way.”

“I never said lowly!”