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

“Let us not speak of Marie-Claire either.” Toby pressed a hand to his lapel and made a dramatic face. “Do you know, this shop made a pincushion of my adolescent heart. Sent me down the path toward waste and ruin. Forget good intentions. I tell you, the road to hell is paved with toile. But—” His hand caught Bel’s waist. “I have here to protect me my very own angel, who is determined to redeem my corrupted soul.”


Madame Pamplemousse turned her kohl-rimmed gaze on Bel. Her lips curved in a feline smile.

“An angel? I do not think so. Not even half.” She slowly circled Bel, running her palms over the contours of her shoulders, her arms. Then her hips. Bel stiffened.

“Arms to the side, ma chère.” With two well-placed jabs to the ribcage, Madame forced Bel’s arms out. Then, grasping her by the hips, the modiste pivoted her body until they faced the wall of mirrors. Bel felt rather like a marionette.

“To be a true angel,” the modiste said, sliding her hands up Bel’s corseted torso, “you must offer men a glimpse of heaven.” With that, she cupped Bel’s bosom in her palms and thrust upward, until olive skin overflowed her muslin bodice in two generous scoops. Mortified, Bel worked her throat. No sounds came out. Most likely, the woman had cut off her supply of air. Fortunately, Toby had bent over the display case and was not watching.

“Yes, much better,” Madame said, scrutinizing Bel’s reflection. “Lady Aldridge, we will make you a proper corset. One that will have these”—she plumped the handfuls of flesh again

—“floating like clouds.”

The modiste dropped her hands, and Bel’s br**sts fell back into her stays with a nearly audible plunk. Immediately, she crossed her arms over her chest to ward off any further assault. She must be nearing her courses. Her bosom was already heavy and achy today, and Madame’s liberties hadn’t helped matters any.

“She needs a gown,” Toby said, turning from his study of plumes. “Suitable for the opera, ready three days hence.”

“The opera?” Bel echoed. “But we can’t!”

“Three days?” Madame clucked her tongue. “Impossible.”

“Certainly we can,” Toby said, striding forward and meeting Bel’s gaze in the mirrored reflection. Turning to Madame, he continued, “And it is possible. I have seen you work miracles before. Don’t tell me those nimble fingers are losing their touch, Maxime.”

“What would you know of my nimble fingers?” She threw him a coquettish glance as she retrieved a measuring tape from a drawer. “You should not have wasted your time with those girls, mon lapin. I would have corrupted you beyond all hope of redemption.”

“Promises, promises,” said Toby, catching the Frenchwoman’s hand and kissing her fingers playfully. Then he murmured something in French. Something that sounded exceedingly ribald

—but then, in French, nearly everything sounded ribald.

From behind the draperies at the back of the room came a chorus of feminine giggles. Ribald it must have been.

Bel sighed. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to watching Toby flirt with other women. The envy nipping at her elbows was absurd, she knew. Like Madame, most of his partners in this sort of repartee were not even especially young or attractive. They were simply women Toby sought to amuse or flatter, for one reason or another. She doubted he was even aware of it, this constant trade in compliments, any more than he tracked the pennies that entered and left his pocket. He gave the ladies what was, in essence, a glittering token: a fleeting moment of feeling desired by the most attractive man in London. In return, they gave him … pretty much what ever he wished. And as she was well aware of her husband’s desirability, Bel could not argue that it was an unfair trade.

At least he did not treat her the same way. He gave Bel more than moments, she reminded herself. He gave her whole nights of tender affection and asked nothing in return. And it wasn’t as though she expected his wholehearted devotion. It wasn’t as though she wanted his love. Therefore, she should not be jealous. In fact, she ought to encourage his use of charm—

the same talent, albeit differently employed, would ensure his political success. But still. Those giggles grated on her nerves, to an alarming degree. She really must be nearing her courses.

Growing even more tetchy at that thought, she protested, “We can’t go to the opera this week. You can’t expect the polls to close early again.” He’d surprised her that afternoon, arriving home shortly after luncheon due to some unexpected event. “What was the reason, again? The returning officer’s wife took ill?”

If he heard her question, he did not acknowledge it. “On the day of the opera, I’ll simply leave early. A few hours’ absence from the hustings won’t damage my campaign. It may hurt the tavern keeper’s profits, but that can’t be helped.”

“This way, my lady.” The modiste beckoned her toward the rear of the shop. “We will take measurements.”