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

Desire? Toby schooled his expression, trying not to look wounded. Certainly, there was desire

—on his side, there was a prodigious amount of desire. But during that kiss just now … he’d fancied there was some deeper emotion beneath it.

Evidently, the fancies were all on his side.

She shook her head, casting her eyes to her lap. “Other people may marry for desire, but I cannot. Have I not made it clear from our first meeting, I intend to marry for influence and the opportunity to do good? If you will not offer me that, then perhaps—”

“Wait.” He put a finger on her lips, shushing her. Dear Lord, the girl was a breath away from crying off. Desperation welled in his gut. This could not happen again. First Sophia had jilted him; now Isabel threatened to do the same. Was there no lady in England who could see her way clear to actually marry him as promised?

Toby gathered what pride remained to him. Perhaps he could talk her out of this madness.

“What I mean to say is, it won’t work. Unless you mean for me to purchase a rotten borough

—”

“Oh, no!” Her eyes widened in horror at the suggestion of corruption. Just as he’d known they would.

“Then I should have to run against Mr. Yorke, you see. He’s served our borough faithfully for years, and what’s more, he’s an old friend. He’s also very popular.”

“Popular? But your mother loathes him.”

“My mother is a special case.”

“I can’t believe anyone could be more popular than you. You’re the most popular gentleman in Town.”

“In Town, perhaps I am. But these aren’t society matrons, Isabel, they’re farmers. Mr. Yorke understands their needs.”

“So will you, once you have an opportunity to listen.”

Dear, ridiculous girl, staring up at him with such expectation in her eyes. He pulled back, startled. No, this was more than expectation. Her eyes held the glimmer of faith. Wholly unearned and completely misapplied, but faith it was. By some miracle, she believed in him. What a novel sensation. He found himself quite rapidly drunk on it.

“You will win their loyalty,” she said. “I’m certain I know of no gentleman more persuasive. For heaven’s sake, you just convinced me to eat an ice. Not to mention, to …” Her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “At any rate, you’re very persuasive.”

She smiled at him so sweetly, he almost wanted to believe her. As if farmers would respond to the same charm as debutantes. They’d be mad to vote for Toby over Yorke, even if Toby paid out handsome bribes—which Isabel would never allow him to do. This half-witted MP election scheme would be certain to fail.

But then—perhaps that made it perfect.

Even if he agreed to run, he would most assuredly lose. Isabel would have to give him credit for trying, the sweet girl that she was, and Toby would never have to serve in Commons. By the time the next election rolled around, she’d be occupied with her charities and—God willing

—a child or two, and she’d forget all about this Parliament foolishness. He just had to get her to the altar first.

Promise her anything. Keep her happy. Make her smile.

“Very well, then. I’ll do it.”

Her face lit up. Oh, that look was worth anything.

“You will?” she asked. “You’ll run for MP?”

“I’ll run,” he told her, basking in her palpable excitement. “Mind, I can’t guarantee that I’ll

win.”

“Of course you will. I have complete faith in you.”

Yes, Isabel. But for how long?

Toby bent his head to steal one last kiss—and found himself being plundered. Within seconds, Isabel was half in his lap, tentatively exploring his mouth with her tongue. Perhaps there was nothing behind her kiss but desire and a glimmer of misplaced faith—but Toby couldn’t bring himself to complain. Right now, this felt like more than enough.

And though their wedding was still almost two weeks distant, he made a vow to himself, there and then. Whatever it took—funds, misdirection, outright deceit—he would find a way to make this last.

Forever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Can’t you wait a few minutes longer?” Toby asked, as the orchestra struck the final chord and they whirled to a halt. “I was hoping we could go speak with your brothers.”

“I can’t, it’s my …” Isabel gave him a pained look, then stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. The delicate warmth of her breath sent heat coursing through his veins. “It’s my hem. I tripped on it during the quadrille.”