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

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the arms holding you belong to a baronet. I’m not a lord, but a sir.”


“Ah!” She pushed away from him, flinging her hands wide. The exasperated cry she made, the dramatic gesture—so unreservedly passionate, so deliciously un-English. What other cries of passion might she produce, if expertly provoked? A man could not help but wonder.

“What have I done?” She leaned against a marble column, framing her brow with her fingertips. “Not a lord, but a sir. And a rake, to top it. This… this is a disaster.” Her accent grew more pronounced as her agitation increased, her vowels tilting at interesting angles. Toby was almost too enthralled to take offense.

Almost.

“A disaster?” he repeated. “Surely it isn’t so—”

“Such behavior … such impropriety. I’ll never find a suitable husband now. What honorable man would have me?” She dropped her hands and looked up at him. “And I couldn’t possibly marry you.”

And that timeless, pagan enchantment? Popped like a soap bubble.

Toby was tempted to point out that he didn’t recall proposing anything, and that the notion of marrying her had not even formed in his mind. But neither of those facts mitigated the innumerable insults contained in her declaration. “Let me understand you. You couldn’t possibly marry me, because I am neither a lord, nor even suitable, nor do I qualify—by your estimation—as an honorable man.” He ran a hand through his hair, muttering, “Right, well. Doesn’t that sum up public opinion nicely?”

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I’m not thinking. You … you make it so I can’t think at all.” She turned and paced away from him. “I must go back inside. I’m a waste of silk, standing out here.”

“To the contrary,” Toby said, enjoying the sight of her nubile form in motion. “I’d say you’re putting that silk to excellent use.”

She gave him a horrified look as she moved for the door. “I must return, before my reputation is completely destroyed.”

“Wait.” He caught her arm. She couldn’t go back inside yet, not before everyone noticed their absence. What sort of revenge would that be? He made his voice soothing. “Please, calm down. Truly, you’ve done nothing so scandalous. You merely became dizzied by the dancing and the closeness of the room, and I’ve brought you outside for some fresh air.” He tugged her over to a bench and motioned for her to sit. “Now, what you need is a bit of refreshment. Allow me to bring you a glass of champagne.”

“Oh, no. I never take spirits, not even medicinally.”

“Lemonade, then.”

“No. No, thank you.” Her hands fluttered in her lap. “You know I am not truly ill.”

“Aren’t you?” He crouched before her. “I distinctly remember you trembling. I told you I felt faint, feverish. You said you felt the same.” It didn’t seem possible that her eyes could widen any further, but widen they did. “You must have been ill. God knows, the attentions of an unsuitable, dishonorable, lowly baronet could not possibly bring you to such a state.”

“You are teasing me.” The words were an accusation, spoken in a wounded tone. As though teasing were an offense tantamount to stealing bread from beggars. “And we shouldn’t be alone.”

“We’re not in hiding. Anyone could come by at any moment.” Toby tilted his head toward a cluster of guests down the colonnade. “And a few minutes in a secluded corner with me are hardly a barrier to marrying well. Just ask half the ladies in that ballroom.”

She turned a puzzled glance toward the glass-paned doors and the colorful blur of dancers beyond them. “Really, I should be—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” he said, scrubbing the teasing tone from his voice. He needed her to trust him. He needed her to stay. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“I’m an unmarried woman with a reputation to guard, and you are clearly the worst sort of rake.” She touched a hand to the lone ornament she wore: a slender gold pendant in the shape of a cross. “I have everything to fear from you.”

“Have you been reading that nonsense in The Prattler?” Toby rose to his feet. “My dear, don’t believe everything you read in the papers. You ought to thank me for whisking you out of that ballroom and rescuing you from your partner—now there’s a true scoundrel. That Grayson’s the one you ought to fear.”

“But…” She shook her head, her black curls inky against the gleaming marble. “Why should I fear my own brother?”

“Your …” He stepped back, stared at her. “Your brother.”

“Yes, my brother.”

Toby returned to a crouch before her. He braced his hands on the bench, one on either side of her skirts, and stared hard into those dark, solemn eyes. “Tell me your name.”