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

Feeling a voyeur, Toby turned to stare out the window. A profound sense of envy welled inside him. It wasn’t jealousy. No longer did he hate Gray for stealing Sophia. Clearly the two belonged together, and without their marriage, Toby would never have found Isabel. No, he envied Gray—and Jeremy, and perhaps now Joss, too—for a different reason altogether. They were loved, unreservedly. Unconditionally. Not just for their strengths, but for their weaknesses, as well. Jeremy could rant and roar at his wife by morning, and find forgiveness before nightfall. Sophia was devoted to her husband, whether he was a fêted knight or a coarse sea captain.

Toby knew Isabel cared for him. So long as he lived up to all her ideals, he felt secure in her esteem. But just how long would that be? He was only human, after all. Even if he managed to come through this election business unscathed … he’d always known, from the day of their wedding onward, that he would inevitably falter in her estimation. When Isabel did see him at his most callow, self-serving worst, he would have no loving reprieve. It would be over. What a fool he was. He’d been working so hard to win his wife’s heart, he’d neglected to guard his own. Now it beat for her, yearned for her, and the stakes were higher than ever. If he lost her regard now …

“Toby.”

A light touch warmed his hand. Isabel had entered so quietly, he hadn’t even heard her. But here she was—solemn, graceful, and so damned beautiful his heart ached. Only the shadows pooling under her eyes betrayed her fatigue. He pulled her into his arms, settling her weight against his chest. “Oh, my dear girl. How hard you’ve worked today.”

“He’s a beautiful baby,” she murmured, nestling into his body.

“Of course he is.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the familiar verbena essence of her hair. He loved this scent, so fresh and comforting. He loved this woman. Someday he would tell her so—and then stand there with his heart lodged in his throat, waiting to hear if she felt the same.

But not today. Today, he was all out of words.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Really, Toby. Are you certain it’s proper?” Isabel frowned up at the gilded, curlicued sign: Mme. Pamplemousse, Modiste. A young couple jostled past, causing her feet to shuffle on the Bond Street pavement. “Do gentlemen truly accompany their wives to such a place?”

“No,” he said, holding open the door for her. “Gentlemen usually accompany their mistresses to such a place.”

Bel halted, one slipper balanced on the threshold.

“Don’t look so anxious,” he teased, prodding her inside and up the narrow staircase. “I wasn’t referring to me. If I’d brought a mistress to this establishment, I wouldn’t bring my wife around now, would I?”

“Sir Toby!” As they reached the top, an unseen woman called from the interior. Her voice blended silk and smoke. “Mon dieu. We thought you’d never return.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Bel asked, eyeing her husband warily as she stepped inside. A dazzling sight waited within. Bolts of fabric in every color of the rainbow, lining both walls in perfect, parallel symmetry. After blinking a few times, she realized the fabric actually lined one wall, and mirrors covered the other, creating the illusion. Spools of ribbon and lace filled any available gap between the bolts, and toward the window, a glass case held a glittering array of plumes and brilliants. The crowded, colorful space gave the appearance of disarray, but the floorboards beneath Bel’s slippers gleamed. The corners were the cleanest parts of the room, free of cobwebs or collected dust.

“We heard you had married.” A silver-haired matron clad in violet silk swished forward to greet them, her broad hips trading the rustling weight of her skirts back and forth. As the woman took Toby’s arm, her thin, dark eyebrows rose. “We did not want to believe it. We were so delighted when you escaped that little pale thing, that Sophie. She had an eye for color, that one, but I always knew she would have played you false.” She turned to Bel. “But I see your taste has improved. This one, she is not English?”

“Only half,” Bel told her.

“Ah,” Madame said, looking Bel up, then down. “One hopes it is the correct half.”

Bel gaped at Toby. He gave her a sly grin. “Isabel, allow me to introduce Madame. She’s designed every one of my sister Margaret’s gowns, since her debut Season. I was Margaret’s unwilling escort for many a fitting.”

“Unwilling?” The Frenchwoman pursed her lips in a rouge-red moue. “This does not match with Mirette’s account.”

“Mirette?” Bel bit her lip. Had she said that aloud?

Madame Pamplemousse grasped Bel’s arm. “My niece and apprentice seamstress, come from Paris to learn our trade. Sir Toby corrupted her most horribly.”

“I corrupted her?” Toby laughed. “I was a tender fifteen years old. That niece of yours had three years on me, and a half-dozen beaux on her chatelaine. It was all I could to wheedle a kiss.”

The modiste made a very French sound of skepticism. “What of Josephine?”

“Pray, let us not speak of Josephine.”

“Marie-Claire?”