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

He did not lift his head. “Are you hurt here at all? Any difficulty drawing a breath? Do you feel any pain when I—”

“Toby.” Bel raised a hand to his lips, damming the stream of anxious speech. Then she slid her palm along his smooth-shaven jaw.

Exhaling slowly, Toby closed his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “I’m unharmed, thanks to you.”

His hands slid around her waist, and he gathered her to him tightly. Tightly enough that, had she truly suffered a broken rib, there would have been no denying it.

“My God,” he said, sighing into her hair and gently rocking her in his arms. “My God.”

Bel buried her face in the linen of his shirt, now softened with heat and the scents of both man and horse. And then she began to weep.

“Yes, darling,” he murmured, stroking her back. “Go ahead, cry. The danger is over and you are unharmed, and for that you may weep just as long as you wish. Shed tears enough for us both, if you’d be so good.”

“Oh, Toby.” After a time, she sniffed against his waistcoat. “I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

“Does it?” She lifted her face to his.

“No,” he said, his brown eyes growing thoughtful. “No, I think it makes us one. Doesn’t it?”

Bel nodded as he lowered his lips to hers. Yes, she understood perfectly. Nearly a week ago, they’d been married. She’d lost count of the times they’d engaged in the marital act since. But only now, in this moment, did she feel truly wed to him. As though they shared one future, one life. For better or worse, in safety and in peril. He’d risked his life to save hers, and now—now there was no more “his life” or “hers.” This was their life now. And their life began with a sweet, tender kiss.

The kiss didn’t stay sweet or tender for long.

Toby tried to hold back. He really did. But one stroke of her tongue against his, and the reins of his passion slid straight out of his grip.

So he filled his hands with Isabel instead.

With artless greed, he clutched at her hips, her br**sts, her bottom, her thighs. He wound the fingers of one hand into her hair and cinched it so tight, she gasped.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her throat. “I’m so sorry. But Isabel… Christ, I need this.”

“I know,” she said, tugging at his cravat. “I need it, too.”

He needed to feel her. All of her. Every living, unharmed inch of her body. For a terrifying moment, she’d been lost to him. She’d been safely returned, thank heaven, but it wasn’t enough to simply see her alive and hear her say she was well. He needed to feel it. To verify with his hands, lips, tongue that each glossy strand of hair and silky curve of her flesh remained exactly the same.

“Isabel.” He groaned as she worked her hands under his collar and her fingernails raked against his bare flesh. “You have to stop me. God knows, I can’t stop myself.”

“Don’t. Don’t stop.”

Three more arousing syllables were never spoken.

He had so much energy coursing through him—the fuel of resolve and desperation and veinchilling fear. And now that there was nothing to fear, no desperate crisis… all that energy simmered inside him, building, rising, needing release. He wanted nothing more than to get inside her and let it all explode. Right here, on this stone wall—which seemed to be just the perfect height, God bless the world.

And God bless his wife, she pulled up her skirts so he could nestle his hips between her thighs and test that theory.

Yes. A low moan escaped them both as he pressed the hard ridge of his erection against her feminine core. Just exactly the perfect height. Now it was only a matter of removing these bothersome layers of fabric …

He snaked one hand under her petticoat. Her thigh went rigid beneath his palm.

“Toby, someone’s coming.”

He rested his brow on her shoulder and cursed. Someone’s coming. Oh, why, why, why, why couldn’t it be him?

“It’s the coachman,” she said. “Oh, I’m glad he’s alive.”

“So am I,” Toby said. Stepping back, he released her thigh and rearranged her skirts with sullen tugs. “Now I can kill him.”

Here came that gently reproving Isabel look, and the matching patient tone. “Toby—”

“No, no. I know you’re right. I’ll sack him. Without a reference. And then I’ll kill him.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

No, it was mine, Toby thought ruefully. He should never have let her stay. He should have anticipated the melee. He should never have agreed to run for office in this blighted borough in the first place. “Are you well enough to drive home?” he asked.

She paled. “Must we?”

“Well—”

“Please, Toby. I can’t get back in that carriage right now, not with those horses. Not today. I just can’t.” Tears welled in her eyes, catching on the ebony fringe of her lashes.