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

Bel clapped her hands together and forced a bright tone. “Yes, thank you. That would be delightful.” Her breakfast had been cut short, after all. A spot of tea would be most welcome. He maneuvered the carriage into the green in the center of the square, drawing the team to a halt beneath the shade of a large tree. Alighting from the phaeton, he tossed the reins and a coin to an eager boy, then beckoned a waiter from the establishment across the street. The two men conferred briefly, and then the waiter returned to the tea shop.

Wearing a renewed smile, Toby strolled around to Bel’s side of the carriage. “There we are. Give it a moment, he’ll have a lovely treat out for you.”

“Shouldn’t we go inside?”

“Oh, no.” He tossed his hat on the phaeton seat. “It’s not the done thing. The ladies all take their refreshment out here, in the square, where they can see and be seen.”

Bel folded her hands. She knew it would be impossible to become a lady of influence without attracting public notice; and one did not attract public notice without a certain amount of spectacle—whether that spectacle involved sipping tea in a flashy carriage or selecting an infamous rake for a husband. So long as she reminded herself it was all for a purpose, she could justify the indulgence.

Or so she thought.

The waiter appeared, bearing a tray with a glass dish. In the dish sat something that looked like a child’s ball—perfectly round, pale yellow in color, and sparkling in the morning sun.

“How lovely,” she said, accepting the proffered dish and a small silver spoon. She looked to Toby. “What is it?”

“Why, it’s an ice, of course. Gunter’s is famous for them. That’s a sample of their newest flavor: lemon and lavender.”

“An ice,” she said wonderingly. The chill of the glass dish nipped at her gloved fingers. “I’ve never had one. Nothing freezes in the West Indies, you know. Until we arrived in London, I’d never seen ice of any sort, much less one flavored with lemon and lavender.” She prodded the treat with her spoon, breaking through a thin, granular crust to discover a softer, creamy texture beneath.

“You’d best eat it quickly. Or it won’t be an ice much longer, but only a syrup.”

Bel looked up. “Is that how it’s sweetened, then? With sugar?”

“Why, yes. It’s sweet and cold, and …” He gave her a teasing grin. “And you could discover that for yourself, if you’d only have a taste.”

Her spoon hovered over the pale yellow ball. Beads of dew formed on the ice’s surface and rolled down to pool in the shallow glass bowl. Bel’s mouth watered, but she pushed the dish back at him. “I’m so sorry. I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

She shook her head, feeling indescribably ill-mannered for refusing yet another of his gestures. But of all the things for him to suggest, why did he have to suggest this?

“Why not?” He looked her up and down. “Please don’t tell me you’re concerned for your figure.”

Her face burned, and she dropped her eyes. To be sure, he would have noticed her ample figure. She’d learned some years ago that her body drew men’s notice, whether she wished it or not. And she did not. Bel was extremely self-conscious about the voluptuous curves she’d inherited from her mother—over-large br**sts, wide hips.

Though she had no wish to see those curves increase, they weren’t the reason she declined the ice. “I don’t eat sugar,” she explained. “Not unless it is imported by my brothers’ company.”

“Why not?”

“Because the sugar my brothers import is grown and harvested by free men.” She cast a pointed look at the ice. “That is likely the product of slave labor.”

Toby studied the growing puddle of lemon. “Darling, that Quaker sugar boycott—it went out with my grandmother’s generation. The slave trade was abolished more than a decade ago.”

“The slave trade was abolished, yes. But slavery itself remains legal and is still the practice in nearly all sugar-producing countries.” Bel clutched the seat iron with one hand, trying to keep a grip on her emotions. “You would offer this to me as refreshment? Tell me, what is refreshing about human bondage?”

“I don’t know. I suppose … That is to say …” He shrugged. “It’s only an ice.”

They stared at one another then, in exquisitely painful silence. Bel started to wonder if she’d made a very grave mistake. Of course, the entire engagement had been a mistake, but she’d hoped it not an irredeemable one. Toby’s infamous reputation would be of benefit in her quest to raise public consciousness, she’d reasoned. But rakishness was one thing, and oppression was another. It’s only an ice.

Of course, she reminded herself—to him, it was only an ice. He didn’t look at it and see the misery of a thousand souls served up in a chilled glass dish, as she did. He didn’t know any of those thousand souls by name, as she did.

Toby lifted an eyebrow. “It’s just going to melt, if you don’t eat it. It will go to waste.”

Bel sighed. He was right, there was no way to undo the injustice committed in the ice’s creation. Still, she shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Then you shan’t.” Toby handed the dish to the young boy tending the horses. “Here, lad. Have at it.”