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

And he’d kissed her. It wasn’t as though she could neglect that bit. She’d lain awake all night, trying to erase the sensation of his lips against hers. Trying to forget the taste of him, so forbidden and sweet.

“Don’t worry,” Gray said. “When the rat comes calling today, I’ll send him scurrying. You’re not going to marry him.”

“But I must,” Bel protested. “Or what will people say?”

“They’ll say you’ve come to your senses, recovered your wits.”

They’ll know I lost them. They’ll see me as another flighty, impressionable girl. Bel said, “I’m going marry Sir Toby.” She turned to Sophia. “What’s past is past. I don’t see why your prior engagement should affect mine. Say what you will, I cannot suspect him of any malicious intent.”

“To be truthful, neither can I,” Sophia said.

While Gray harrumphed and made a show of busying himself with his food, Sophia pushed aside her plate to make room for a stack of newspapers tied with twine.

“You ought to see these,” she told Bel. “I know you do not read The Prattler. I’m not so fond of the scandal sheets as I once was, but Lady Kendall saved these and passed them along to me.” She picked open the knot and opened the top paper to the third page. “There,” she said, pointing out an illustration with her fingertip. “This appeared in February, a full month before we arrived in London and my marriage to Gray was announced.”

Bel took the paper from her sister’s hand to examine it more closely. The image was most definitely a likeness of Sir Toby, though his harmonious features were thrown out of balance by the caricaturist’s pen. His forehead was too wide; his jaw, unnaturally square. Regardless, he remained breathtakingly handsome, even rendered in unkind strokes. Bel read the caption aloud. “The Rake Reborn.” Then beneath it, a line in smaller print:

“London’s famed Lothario survives to carouse another day.” In the background of the illustration, a group of ladies struck desperate postures, hands to their foreheads and shoulders limp. Ribbons of speech flowed from the ladies’ mouths. “It’s his golden-haired beauty,” one sighed. “No, his silver tongue!” argued another. The third fanned herself and declaimed, “How he gives me the vapors! We must recover by the sea.” At the bottom, the caricature was signed, H. M. Hollyhurst.

Bel looked up, puzzled. “Recover by the sea? I don’t understand.”

“When I disappeared, my parents spread the word that I’d taken ill and been sent to the seaside to convalesce. Instead of focusing on the scandal of my disappearance, the gossipmongers—

and this Mr. Hollyhurst—took a keen interest in Toby. They labeled him the ‘Rake Reborn,’

insinuated that he rejoiced in my illness and used it as an opportunity to prolong his debauched bachelor life.”

Bel looked at the illustration again, cringing. She’d suspected him to be a rake, but seeing the evidence in print… Sir Toby surrounded by fair-haired, slender, classical beauties adorned with plumes and jewels. A dozen Sophias.

She laid aside her toast. “I understand why Sir Toby said he’s weary of gossip.”

“He must be,” Sophia said, riffling the papers, “for he’s been in The Prattler every day for months. If it’s not one of Mr. Hollyhurst’s caricatures, it’s a notice in the society column. They’ve cataloged his attendance at every ball, boxing match, opera house, and gaming club. The paper has even gone so far as to tally the number of his paramours, since his near escape.”

The number of his paramours? Bel almost asked Sophia to relate the estimate, then stopped herself. “Surely you don’t credit any of it? Sir Toby told me himself, one shouldn’t believe everything in the newspapers. Do you believe such behavior of him?”

“No,” Sophia said. “At least, not to this degree. But I am amazed that he has tolerated such treatment.” She lowered her voice. “Do you realize, he could have made an immense scandal when I eloped, or even sued my father for breach of our marriage contract? Yet he said nothing, at least not publicly. He allowed the illusion of my illness to stand and took a drubbing in the papers all the while.”

An unhappy realization settled on Bel. “He must have been very much in love with you.”

Gray coughed violently.

Sophia pursed her lips. “No, actually. I don’t believe he was. But his pride must have incurred deep wounds, even if his heart remained intact. It must have been difficult for him to endure all this”—she indicated the newspapers—“so quietly. I don’t know why he did, after the way I used him so ill. But he has borne the brunt of public speculation regarding our broken engagement, and if he had not, I would have been ruined. We should not have been welcome in Society. Your own prospects for marriage would have been destroyed.”

“We owe him much, then.”