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

“Oh, but I could. I could denounce Grayson and Sophia in front of the entire ballroom. Everyone thinks they’re the golden couple, the freshly knighted hero and his beautiful, innocent bride? I could expose the truth.”


“And I could expose your innards.” Lucy’s fingernails dug into his arm, proving a fierce huntress still prowled within that elegant exterior. “You wouldn’t dare. I’ve been planning this evening for months, Toby.”

The dance parted them before Toby could respond. Then the lady in green silk smiled, and something in his chest pulled tight. He couldn’t have spoken if he’d tried. It was perfect, that smile, composed of full, sensuous lips the color of fine Madeira. Lips designed for sin, framing an innocent row of pearly teeth. And about the corners of her mouth, the slightest hint of melancholy—just enough to intrigue the mind, stir the heart. Those lips defied mere admiration; they wanted a kiss.

There was only one thing wrong with that smile.

It wasn’t directed at him. That bastard Grayson was its lucky recipient, and it was all Toby could do not to thrust out his boot and trip the man as he moved forward to take the beauty’s hands.

Tempting, that idea—but inconceivable. Toby might scuff his boot.

No, he would exact his revenge more subtly, more justly. No messy duel, no public denouncement. Did not the Bible advise an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth … or, in this case, a lady for a lady?

When the pattern brought them together again, he pulled his dark-haired temptress close—so close the green silk of her gown tangled with his legs. Her scent teased him: a crisp, freshsmelling blend of verbena and citrus. Tightening his grip on her arm, he whispered just as they parted: “I must tell you a secret.”

He squeezed her fingers before releasing them, allowing his thumb to brush the sensitive center of her palm. He fancied he heard her gasp.

Grayson cast him a wary look. Toby’s arrogance made a feast of it.

He turned back to the lady in green. “You will be shocked,” he murmured as they brushed by one another again, “but it cannot be helped.”

He did not imagine her gasp that time, nor the flush that bloomed from her hairline to her bosom. Lord, she had the most magnificent bosom, and now it was lifting slightly with her every breath, straining the seams of her bodice. Tearing his eyes from the sight was quite possibly the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

An eternity passed before the pattern reunited them. Toby dutifully twirled and promenaded, avoiding Lucy’s inquisitive glances by watching her instead. Within him, bitter envy twined with lust. Admiration glowed on her face as she regarded her partner. He despised Grayson more every moment.

When at last he rejoined the lady in green, it was with profound, bone-deep relief. As though he’d journeyed to the Holy Land and back to earn her favor, rather than circling a ballroom. If he’d tried, he couldn’t have explained the sense of purpose and destiny that gripped him. This jaunty reel had become a mission, more serious than any undertaking of his life. He kept up a low, seductive rush of words as they traced a tight spiral, denying her any opportunity to respond. “I am drawn to you. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. I am enraptured.”

He was a liar.

Isabel Grayson trembled as she resumed her place in the line. Her heart pounded a wild rhythm, twice the tempo of the reel. Fortunately, the pattern now afforded her a few bars of rest. She ventured a furtive glance in the gentleman’s direction, only to encounter the disquieting appraisal in his eyes.

Blushing, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

I am drawn to you, he’d said. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. A lie, a lie. His eyes had most definitely not followed her all evening. If they had, Bel would have noticed—for she’d been staring at him the whole time.

How could she not stare? He was, quite simply, the most handsome man she’d ever seen, despite the fact she’d grown up in the company of three exceedingly handsome men: her father and two brothers. But their rugged, roguish appeal drew as much from their imperfections as from their well-formed features. By contrast, this man—this man was an ideal. Sculpted profile, light brown hair threaded with gold, and a lean, confident grace to all his movements, grand or small.

She’d observed him since the moment he entered the room. While he’d circled the assembly with a lithe, easy step; as he’d chatted with their hosts. Even when courtesy forced her to direct her eyes elsewhere, she’d been aware of him, in some tingling notch at the base of her spine. And now, this dance. His bold glances, the stolen caresses, and those devastating murmured words: I am enraptured.

Her whole body hummed with a foreign, forbidden thrill: desire.

Oh, this was a disaster!