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

What more would she do for him, if he only asked? A thousand erotic possibilities overflowed his mind, forcing all awareness down to his groin. They would all have to wait. His body clamored for release— now. He took her hard and fast, raising up on his arms for better leverage, and she clung to him tightly. Just as he’d told her to.

Rebalancing his weight, he worked one hand between them. He found that small, sensitive nub at the crest of her sex and covered it with his thumb, circling lightly. Her eyes flew open. Her neck rotated back and forth, as if she were shaking her head no.

“Yes,” he insisted through gritted teeth. “Yes. Come for me again.”

And she did. Just as he’d told her to. Crying out and convulsing around him in hot, satin waves, pulling him deeper. Pulling him closer.

Toby clenched his jaw tight, silencing his own passion. The only words that came to mind now were unspeakable, coarse and profane. And then there were no words at all—just a harsh, primal growl of release as the pleasure ripped through him.

It had never been like this. Not ever.

He collapsed onto her, panting into her silken hair. He felt wrung out, exhausted. He felt blissful and blessed. He felt like starting from the beginning and doing it all again. And again. But most of all, he felt inexpressibly fortunate in his choice of a wife. Or more accurately, in his wife’s choice of him.

“Isabel, my darling.” He kissed her brow, damp with perspiration. “Thank you.”

She made a muffled squeak in response, and Toby realized his weight was crushing her into the mattress. God, what a boor he was. He quickly withdrew from her body and rolled aside, smoothing her hair away from her face and murmuring apologies.

“Please don’t distress yourself,” she said, her tone one of strained formality. “I’m sure there is no need for apology, or gratitude.”

No need for gratitude? “Isabel—”

“No, please don’t thank me.” She rose up on an elbow, pushing her nightgown back down her legs. “I haven’t even given you your wedding gift yet.”

And she was up out of bed, before Toby could argue that she’d already given him the greatest gift he could possibly imagine. While she disappeared into the adjoining room, he took the opportunity to straighten his trousers and run a hand through his hair. He sat on the edge of the bed when she emerged, her dressing gown now wrapped tightly around her body. Her hands were behind her back, and her eyes were downcast.

“It’s really nothing,” she began. “I didn’t have any idea what to get you. You’re … you’re very difficult to shop for, you know.”

Toby smiled. Her anxiety was adorable. Combined with her disheveled hair and flushed complexion—the effect was utterly enchanting. She could have pulled a lump of coal from behind her back, and he would have treasured it.

But it wasn’t a lump of coal she withdrew. It was a walking stick, topped with carved ivory and inlaid with gold leaf.

“Is it the style you wanted?” she asked, holding it out to him.

“Yes, the very one.” He took it from her hand and laid it horizontally across his palm, testing its balance. “I can’t believe you remembered. I thought you held walking sticks in the highest contempt.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “An embellished stick, which a perfectly healthy gentleman carries about for no other purpose than to indicate his wealth …?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Well, and don’t forget gesturing. And rapping on doors. Truthfully, I still don’t understand the idea—but it was the only thing I could think of to buy you. And I must admit, it does suit you.” She gave him an appraising look, and he struck a cocky, barechested pose that made her blush most satisfactorily. She asked, “Do you like it?”

“I adore it.” He held one end out to her, as though urging her to take it. When she grasped the polished wood, however, he gave a swift tug, pulling her to him. “But I adore you more.”

He meant it to be a tender kiss. A kiss of thanks and appreciation. A kiss that made no demands. But one taste of her, and his body formed quite different intentions. Within seconds, he was as hard as a walking stick. Harder.

“Isabel.” He nipped her ear. “I want you again. Can you bear it, so soon?”

“Of course.” She pulled back and studied him, that boundless trust shining in her eyes. “You would not ask it of me, if I could not.”

And right then, Toby knew. He knew he was doomed.

He could run for Parliament. He could win. He could become bloody Prime Minister and the Prince Regent’s closest adviser. He could travel to Ceylon and back just to bring her a cup of tea, converting a thousand heathens along the way—and he would still never live up to that look in her eyes. No man could. Someday, somehow, he would hurt her—and it would mean the end of everything. Oh, she would forgive him, generous soul that she was. They would still share a cordial affection. But she would never look at him like this again, as if … as if he deserved her faith in him. One day, they would both know he did not. But for now—and for as long as he could keep it so—it remained Toby’s secret. He slid his hands around her waist. “Darling girl. Come back to bed.”