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

The dairymaid’s sweet, meandering romance had taken an abrupt, quite carnal turn down the road to ruin. There she was in the dairy, reclined against the tiled countertop, hiking her skirts to her knees while the gentleman reached for her bared breast. Bel quickly scanned the preceding pages. No, no proposal of marriage therein. She felt more than a bit disappointed in the moral character of this dairymaid, with whom she’d come to identify. But then, considering the word “wanton” in the title, perhaps she ought to have been forewarned. Even the gentleman looked different in this illustration—less refined, more dark and devious. Still, she turned the page with great curiosity. Not curiosity of a prurient nature, of course. This was purely academic interest. Gentleman’s hand on lady’s breast—this much Bel had experienced. But she was to be married in less than a week, and everything that filled the pages beyond could prove invaluable education.

Lady Violet’s remarks still haunted her. Toby had such a rakish reputation. Surely he was experienced in what God intended to be the marital act, even though he had not been married. She was keenly afraid of disappointing him in her ignorance and ineptitude. She was even more afraid he might turn to another—adultery being a sin even greater than fornication—

should her efforts fail to please.

That was it. She was reading the rest of The Book for the good of Toby’s soul. Certainly not to slake her own depraved curiosity.

With fumbling fingers, she leafed through the next several printed pages, barely skimming the text. A strange rustling sound gave her a start—until she realized it to be her own raw-edged breath. Finally she came to the next illustration.

What an education it was. There were all sorts of body parts on display—male, female—but they remained fortunate blurs in Bel’s peripheral vision as her gaze trained in on the gentleman’s face. She realized, for the first time in several chapters, the illustration offered a full view of the hero’s face. A face that had altered, since the first pages of the book. It now looked a great deal like her brother’s.

Oh dear sweet heaven. It was. It was Gray’s face. And these illustrations were Sophia’s artistic hand at work—that was why the style had struck Bel as so familiar.

With a cry of horror, she clapped the book shut and flung it back in the drawer. She rose from the bed, rubbing her hands briskly up and down her arms. Never mind the hour-long soak she’d taken earlier that evening—Bel felt unclean. And well she should, for spying through her sister’s personal belongings. She ought to have known it was the wrong thing to do. No wonder Sophia had resisted all of Lucy’s hints that she should pass along The Book. How could she, after filling it with illustrations of such … such a private nature?

Well, if Bel had been after an education, she’d certainly learned her lesson. She made up her mind then and there that all further instruction in marital relations would come from her husband, and her husband alone. She did not need That Book, nor anything like it.

“Appalling,” she muttered, referring to her own behavior. With a resolute shove, she slammed the table drawer shut.

A moment later, she opened it again.

She might not need That Book, but one thing was clear. She now had desperate need of that sleeping draught.

A quarter-hour before his wedding was scheduled to begin, Toby stood in the annex of St. George’s of Hanover, wearing a new tailcoat of close-cut superfine and a wide, idiotic grin. Hundreds of guests representing the first skim of the cream of English society crammed the church pews, all waiting to see the infamous bachelor at long last take a wife. And they would not be disappointed. They would be treated to a spectacle of blossoms and lace and seed pearls the likes of which London had never seen, and a wedding breakfast so richly spiced they’d be tasting it for weeks. And at the center of it all would sparkle an unparalleled, legendary beauty: Isabel.

His Isabel.

Toby smoothed his coat sleeve. He was determined to present a relaxed exterior, but inwardly he hummed with anticipation. This morning, he claimed a public victory. Tonight, in private, he claimed his prize. Barring a last-moment crisis, this was going to be a good day. When Gray entered the room and shot him an angry glare, Toby’s grin only widened. Gray’s presence meant Isabel had arrived at the church; the rage in his eyes meant the wedding was still on.

It was going to be a very good day.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” Gray said, prowling the small room. “I can’t believe I’m going to hand my sister over to you.”

Toby watched him with satisfaction. “I thought agitated pacing was the groom’s duty. Come on, Gray. It’s not so bad as all that. You make it sound as though you’re leading her to the guillotine.”

“It’s your head I’d have on a platter.” Gray stopped circling the room and drilled him with a threatening look. “I told you months ago—keep her happy, or there will be no wedding.”

The bottom dropped out of Toby’s stomach. “Is Isabel not happy?”

“No. She’s not happy. She’s goddamned ecstatic, and I hate you for it.”

Toby covered his sigh of relief with a laugh.

Gray continued, “After today, I’ve no threat to hold over your head. Well, I suppose I could always kill you.” He said this with an insulting, nonchalant wave of his hand that suggested dispatching Toby would cost him all the effort of swatting a gnat. “But I’m not eager to make my sister a widow at the tender age of twenty.”