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

“I know,” he teased. “But you blush so prettily each time you protest. My point is this—if it’s influence you seek, there are any number of ways to achieve it. Even by allying yourself with such a hopeless case as me.”


He pulled her closer, ostensibly to whisper in her ear. But he could not help but enjoy the rustle of silk against his boots and the swell of her ample bosom brushing his chest. “Don’t make a show of looking,” he murmured, “but everyone in this room is staring at you. Can you imagine why?”

“Because you are holding me indecently close? Because we have just emerged from an illicit interlude on the verandah?”

“Precisely. We are the latest scandal.”

She went rigid in his arms.

“Now don’t distress yourself, darling. Sometimes a little scandal is just what you need. Never underestimate the power of rumor and innuendo. At this moment, we are the object of intense speculation—the infamous rake of the scandal sheets, paired with the newly arrived innocent. They’re all desperate to know what we’re whispering to one another. Tomorrow, they’re asking themselves, what will be the headline? Am I ruining you? Or are you reforming me?”

Chuckling, he fanned his fingers across the small of her back. “What a story that would be for The Prattler. Your name would be on the lips of every gossip in Town.”

Finally, her mouth curved a fraction. “Yes, I can imagine it would be.”

“Do you see? Isabel, you are free to marry where you choose, without regard to fortune or rank. Even if the unthinkable occurred, and you were wed to a lowly blighter like me”—he silenced her protest with a wink—“you would still be a lady. You would attract a great deal of notice. You would have a husband with prospects in Parliament.” Granted, they were prospects Toby had been purposely avoiding for the better part of a decade, but just for the sake of argument… He swept her through a turn. “You would not have married a lord at all, but you would be a lady of influence.”

She gave him a cautious smile that set his world spinning. “Surely you’re not seriously suggesting I marry you?”

“No,” he said, forcing a self-deprecating laugh. “I would never suggest such a thing.”

She couldn’t know how these blithe dismissals kept wounding him. She couldn’t know that bruised male pride was a dangerous beast.

Toby lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “If I paid court to you, Isabel, I would make more than suggestions. I would make promises. I would pledge to value your ideals, never stifle or belittle them. I would vow to display your talents to their best advantage, and to guard you from those who wish you ill.”

The music stopped, and Toby whirled her to a halt.

“If I proposed marriage to you,” he said, “I would kneel at your feet. Pledge to you my undying devotion, a share in my worldly possessions, and the protection of my body. I would promise to cherish you all the days of your life, and make your happiness my own. Because that is what you deserve from a husband. No less.”

“Oh,” she sighed. Her lips fell slightly apart. Shallow breaths lifted her chest. At last. He had her well and truly enchanted now. Toby supposed he ought to release her. He’d proven his point, hadn’t he? He still knew how to dazzle a girl. But something compelled him to go on.

“And if I did offer for you,” he asked, “would it be so very horrible?”

He hardly knew what murky pit of his soul that question had crawled out from, but he knew it wasn’t aimed at this girl. It was meant for Sophia, and Lucy, and every other young lady who’d grown out of loving him and married some other man.

But it was Isabel who must answer for them all. She was here, and she was breathless in his arms, and she had the power to crush or redeem him with a single syllable. Yes, he still knew how to dazzle a girl—he’d practically emerged from the womb with that gift. But deep down, at his core—could he ever find what it took to secure a woman’s love?

Give me a word. One word.

“Would it be so unthinkable?” he asked softly, earnestly.

Before she could speak, someone stepped between them and the nearby candelabra, throwing a shadow over them both.

“Excuse the interruption.” The voice was a smooth baritone. “But I’d thank you to let the lady go.”

Without releasing Isabel, Toby cast a glance toward the speaker. Of course, it was her brother. Sir Benedict Grayson, paragon of valor, miserable dancer, and great hulking brute with murder in his eyes. Worse, behind him stood Jeremy, Lucy, and the woman who’d left him at the altar and fled halfway around the world—Sophia.

Now he needed to hear Isabel’s answer more than ever.

Toby said, “I beg your pardon. This is a private conversation.”

“Not any longer, it isn’t.” Grayson folded massive arms over his chest. “The conversation is over.” Lowering his voice, he growled, “Get your hands off my sister.”