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

And he would, he vowed silently, dropping a final kiss between her eyebrows. He would make her happy. Underneath all those angelic ideals and heavenly curves beat a heart that was simply human. Simply woman. And though he might have no head for philanthropy or politics, Toby understood women.

He had this one week. For God knew what reason, he and Yorke remained close in the polls, but the numbers were certain to turn at the end. In a handful of days, the polling would close and Colin Brooks would certify his defeat. Somehow, in that short window of time, he had to replace Isabel’s naïve faith in him with deeper emotions, ones he could sustain. It was time to step up his campaign, and it all began with the opera. She was so wary of life’s little amusements—ices, jewels, beautiful gowns. Plea sure distressed her, for some unfathomable reason, but he could help her overcome that distress. Surely his success in the bedchamber could be repeated in other settings. He could teach her to enjoy herself, and to enjoy being with him. He would make her feel perfect and adored and deserving of every indulgence the world had to offer.

And then, she would surrender her political dreams and embrace a future of domestic bliss. He didn’t have to destroy her faith in him, just give it a new foundation. Love. That was the plan.

And if he got her with child in the process … call it insurance.

“Oh, Madame?” he called, holding up the edge of the velvet drape. “Ce couleur, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bon choix, monsieur.”

He traded instructions with the modiste in French, so that Isabel would be unable to understand, and therefore unable to object. Aside from the gown for Tuesday, he ordered three more evening gowns and five day dresses, as well as a full complement of petticoats and the like. His wife would have protested the expenditure with every word in her bilingual vocabulary—but Toby knew her to be worth every penny, and more.

An hour later, they emerged from the shop.

“Fancy a drive in the park?” he asked.

Isabel shook her head violently. “Oh, no.”

Toby cursed inwardly. Stupid suggestion, that. Ever since that incident in Surrey, she suffered carriage rides with all the enjoyment of a kitten receiving a bath.

“Is there anything else you need to buy?” He tucked her hand in his arm. “Or shall we find a teashop and take some refreshment?”

“I’m not hungry, thank you. But if there is a draper’s nearby, the children’s dispensary is in need of new bed linens.”

“Very well.” He turned them left, and together they ambled down the street. “While we’re at it, let’s choose some for ourselves.”

“Oh, we couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t we? Don’t we deserve new linens, just as much as sickly foundlings do?”

“It isn’t that,” she hissed, in a voice that communicated her wish for him to lower his own. “It’s not proper, for a husband and wife to go shopping for bed linens together. “

“Whyever not? Seems the most proper thing in the world, to me. But if we are to be shocking, why stop at linen? Let’s order five sets of sheets in aubergine satin.”

She did not even reply to that, aside from turning a shade that hinted toward aubergine, herself. He murmured in her ear, “Have you ever experienced that sensation, Isabel? The feel of satin against bare skin? All your bare skin?”

She squirmed. “Toby, stop.”

“No? It’s like gliding through water, darling. Cool and smooth at first. And then the heat of your flesh makes it warm and slick, like—”

“Toby,” she growled, drawing to a halt. “You must stop. Now.”

“Like oil,” he finished, bending low to whisper in her ear. “Oil, perfumed with the musk of your skin and—”

Her bright voice interrupted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Yorke.”

Toby froze, his lips poised less than an inch from his wife’s ear. Fortunate thing he hadn’t followed the impulse to lick it. As if sensing itself in danger, Isabel’s ear dipped out of reach. Right. She was curtsying.

Following his wife’s example, Toby greeted his silver-haired friend with a polite bow. “Yorke. Hadn’t expected to meet with you in Town.” In other words, why the devil aren’t you at the hustings, in Surrey?

The old man regarded him with a bemused expression. “Hadn’t expected to meet with you, either.”

Isabel said, “Yes, so unfortunate isn’t it? The returning officer’s wife, taken ill.”

Yorke looked to Toby. “Mrs. Brooks took ill?”

Damn.

“Surely you heard?” Isabel asked. “Weren’t you there when they closed the polls earlier?” She looked to Toby. “But perhaps I misunderstood.”

Toby glared at the old man until he startled, realizing his mistake.

“Oh, yes,” Yorke said hastily. “Yes, of course. She took ill. What was her ailment…?” He snapped his fingers. “Rheumatism.”

This would have been a perfectly acceptable answer, had Toby not chosen the exact same moment to blurt out, “The grippe.”