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

Bel did not want to be feeling desire. She did not want to be feeling anything. Any other young lady in her place might dream of just this—a divinely handsome man to sweep her away on a giddy tide of emotion.

But not her. She had come to this ball for one reason only: to select a husband from among the eligible lords. Her choice would be a wholly rational decision, made on the basis of reflection, prayer, and a well-informed portrait of the man’s moral character and sphere of influence. In aid of the process, she knew that a measure of physical attraction on the gentleman’s side would be beneficial; hence, this lavish, form-fitting gown. But for her part, Bel would not be influenced by capricious flutterings of sentiment, or worse—by sinful stirrings of desire. And it must be desire, this plague of sensation rendering her feverish and lightheaded. It certainly felt sinful. And stirring.

“You dizzy me.”

The words were a whisper as the pattern shifted and the handsome gentleman wove past. Reeling from an unwelcome frisson of pleasure, Bel missed a step.

Her brother gave her a look of concern. “Come now,” Gray said, guiding her back into the pattern. “Don’t trust me to lead. You know I’m just learning this country-dance nonsense myself.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t dare cease counting under my breath, or I’ll lose my place completely.”

Bel gave a nervous laugh and willed her molten-wax knees to solidify. Behave normally, she told herself. One, two, three. Dance, laugh, smile.

“For God’s sake, don’t smile.”

He’d passed behind her again, that seductive phantom, trailing his serpentine whispers that wormed in through her ears and coiled low in her belly. And here he came once more.

“When you smile, I can’t breathe.”

Oh dear. This was not good. Not good at all.

She knew, because she was good. She was. She was a good, good girl. Not at all the type of lady to be tempted by a golden-haired, silver-tongued devil in fitted broadcloth. Yes, she’d been raised by a degenerate father, a lunatic mother, and two brothers who had rebuilt the family fortune through violence and theft—but Bel refused to follow that path. She’d devoted her life to service and charity, although she’d grown frustrated with the limits of her good work on Tortola. Visiting the infirm, teaching children to read, even supporting the sugar cooperative—she was only sticking plasters on a rifle wound. She couldn’t decrease unfair tariffs; she couldn’t abolish slavery. The only people with the ability to effect meaningful change were here, in London: the lords, with their wealth and power and voices in government. Bel could not become one of them, but she could become one of the wealthy, powerful ladies at their sides.

It was a simple plan, really. She would marry a lord. She would become a lady of influence. And then she would make the world a better place. One, two, three. But first she must get through this dance without disgracing herself completely. The task was proving easier conceived than accomplished.

“Right,” the man whispered as they crossed paths again.

Right? What did he mean, right? Now irritation bubbled inside her. There was nothing right about his presumptive behavior. There was most certainly nothing right about the surreptitious touch that glanced off the base of her spine— there. A firm brush just above her left hip that had her startling, quivering, pivoting …

Turning to the right.

“Then left,” he murmured. “Mind the feathers.”

Bel turned to her left, ducking to avoid a sudden onslaught of ostrich plumes as she circled a dour-faced matron. Her mind whirled. He was helping her through the dance. It wasn’t enough that he already had her intrigued, thrilled, angered, and just a little bit afraid. Now, to this stew of emotion inside her, he was adding gratitude.

He was making her like him.

“Now back,” he whispered. “Nicely done.”

Oh, this just became worse and worse. They stood at rest again, and Bel felt his gaze burning over her skin. In a desperate effort to discourage him, she lifted her chin and shot the handsome stranger a haughty, quelling look.

In return, the man winked. Winked!

More distressed than ever, she averted her eyes. She should have known it wouldn’t work. She had no talent whatever for haughtiness or quelling.

But she was an expert at following rules.

This dance had rules. A pattern. There was a right way to step, and a wrong way. The thought calmed her. If she adhered to the pattern, followed all the right steps, perhaps she could subdue this tempest of sensation within her—all these inconvenient feelings stirred by a gentleman whose name she did not even know and whose fine profile she would never forget, should she live to the age of ninety-four.

Bel squared her shoulders. I have a mission, she reminded herself as she took her brother’s hand and moved numbly through the pattern. Turning first left, then right, then releasing his hand to circle back round. I have a purpose, a cause.

“You have me utterly bewitched.”