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

Toby thought about telling her that he rather liked her mussed and soiled, and what ever repairs she made to her appearance were likely to be undone in seconds … but he supposed he could rein in his desire for a few more minutes, to indulge her feminine sensibilities. A very few. He pulled her close, thrusting the hard ridge of his arousal into her hip. “How long?” he asked gruffly. “How long before you’ll be ready for me?”


She pulled away and gave him a coy, seductive smile. Good Lord, but he’d done himself no favors, teaching this woman to tease.

“Ten minutes,” she said, fluttering her jet-black lashes. “Perhaps fifteen.”

“Minx.” Toby lifted her into his arms and swept her into the nearest room with a door, which happened to be the blue parlor. “You know I can’t wait that long.”

He kicked the door shut and pressed her against it, using one hand to lift her leg over his hip and working his way under her skirts with the other. The moment his fingertips found the slick warmth of her sex, there was no more coy conversation. There was only need—mindless and intense. He needed to get inside her, and he needed to come. Ideally in that order. With shaking fingers, he unbuttoned his fall and freed his straining erection. She helped him, hooking her legs around his waist and tilting her hips to ease his way. He positioned himself and thrust, sinking straight into her moist heat with no resistance. His body came alive with bliss. Lifting her backside with both hands, he pistoned his hips, pounding her against the door again and again. He thrust fast and hard, shamelessly using her snug, willing body. Pursuing his own release just as selfishly as she’d chased hers in the coach. And she loved it. She writhed and moaned in his arms, urging him on. Taking him deeper. Pulling him closer … closer …

There.

A hoarse cry ripped from his throat as he came. He sagged against her, spent and weakened. But far from sated.

He rested his brow against her bare collarbone. Her skin was slick with perspiration—his, hers. Theirs.

“I’m not finished with you,” he told her, digging his fingers into her hips. “You do know that, don’t you? I’m going to take you upstairs and strip you of every last stitch of clothing and have you in as many different ways as I please. In crude, animal ways that will turn you pale with shock and then pink with pleasure. And tomorrow, the beggars and foundlings of London will just have to fend for themselves, because my wife will be too exhausted to move.” He raised his head and stared straight into her dark, almond-shaped eyes. “What say you to that?”

She smiled. “How long will it take us to get upstairs?”

Laughing softly, Toby nuzzled the curve of her neck. “I love you. My God, how I love you.”

He couldn’t help but say it. He couldn’t hold it in a second longer. Her fingers stilled in his hair. “Oh, Toby. I—”

“Hush. Don’t speak, I beg you.”

She blinked at him.

Toby’s heart pounded in his chest. This night had been so perfect. If she didn’t love him in return, he didn’t want to know. Not tonight. Heartbreak like that could wait for tomorrow …

but tonight, he would embrace ignorance. If he wanted her to love him, the way that he loved her—it seemed logical that he should first let her know how very much that was.

“I…” He smoothed her cheek. “I’ve never said those words before, to any woman. I’ve never felt this before, for any woman. You’re so rich with love, my darling. You give of yourself so freely to even the most undeserving wretches, and I include myself in that group. When it comes to love, I’m but a pauper next to you, but even we paupers have our pride. Perhaps I have just this one coin to give, but I should like to watch it glitter a bit, before you go burying it under ten-pound notes like the generous angel you are. So for tonight, just… just listen. All right?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Isabel, my heart. My own.” He kissed her tenderly. “I love you.”

Her fingers laced behind his neck. “Toby, take me to bed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

As it turned out, Bel did find enough strength to move the following day. Eventually. Long after Toby had left for the hustings, she dragged herself from their rumpled bed. As she stretched, her body protested with pain. It was the sort of mild, dull ache one typically experienced the day following some strenuous exertion—the muscles clinging to their memories of flexing, stretching, drawing taut. The ache ensured she would think of him and their passion, all day. It was not at all unpleasant.

She examined herself in the mirror, finding other ways in which he’d marked her. Her fingers lingered over a berry-stain bruise at the crest of her right breast. No daring necklines for her today.

She found another small purpling mark, just below her nipple, and she remained there for several minutes, transfixed by its reflection.

It had been a long time since Bel had stood before a mirror thus, contemplating wounds inflicted by love. Not since she was a child. Bruises, scratches … bite marks, on occasion—her mother had given her all these, and more.

El amor es locura. Love is madness.