A Lady of Persuasion (33 page)

“You are beautiful,” he crooned, resting his chin on her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her. Together they stared at their entwined reflections. “We are beautiful together.”

She had to concede they did make a striking couple. People commented on it so often, she was growing accustomed to hearing it.

“I think I’ll make love to you like this,” he whispered. “Right here, in front of the mirror.”

Comments like that, on the other hand, she had not grown accustomed to hearing. At all. Not that they were unpleasant to her ear. She loved hearing how badly he wanted her—loved feeling the evidence of it pulsing against her back. Her cheeks went crimson in the mirror.

“Would you like that?” he asked, his voice an insidious rumble against her nape. “Would you like me to strip you bare and kiss you all over until you watch yourself cry out in ecstasy?”

Just the suggestion had her moist and aching between her legs. She swallowed hard. Her voice came out as a squeak. “Now?”

His smiling brown eyes caught hers in the mirror. “No. Not now. Later. For now, it is enough to know you desire me.” His voice grew rough, and his hands moved down, roving over her silk-sheathed hips.
“Isabel
. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. All the time.

Always. Tonight your beauty may be on display for all London to see, but underneath this gown, you belong to me. All evening long, in your darkest, most secret places, I want you hot and wet and yearning for me. And when we come home, I intend to claim what’s mine. Do you understand?”

She nodded, entranced by the commanding desire in his eyes and aroused beyond all reason.

Her nipples peaked, and she turned in his arms, rubbing her breasts against his strong, solid chest to ease the ache. If only he would make love to her now, strip her free of this indecent gown and make her tremble with pleasure.

She pressed her lips to his throat. “Toby.”

“No. Not yet. It’s too soon.” Grasping her by the elbows, he pulled away. His eyes bored into hers. “Isabel. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. And that is not the work of a few minutes. No, to make you truly comprehend, I shall require hours, darling. Hours.”

Hours?
He meant to make her wait for hours?

“How—” She knew he would laugh the moment she asked. But she couldn’t help it. “How many hours?”

To his credit, he did not laugh too loudly. He tucked her arm in his and steered her toward the door. “Well, the performance itself is nigh on four. Then we have the carriage rides to and fro, the intermission …” His free hand cupped her bottom as he guided her into the corridor.

They nearly collided with a footman, and Bel gasped. Toby quickly donned his usual grin—

that charming expression of equal parts innocence and devilry. “I should say above five hours, Lady Aldridge. Why ever do you ask?”

Five hours. How many had passed? Not even one yet, by Bel’s estimation. And here she was practically a puddle of wax on the floor of their theater box. How would she survive the night?

It was a private box, of course. Perfectly chosen for this war of seduction her husband seemed so intent on waging. Seduction was not even the right word—that would imply he sought her surrender. No, this was a campaign of subtle, sensual teasing with no end in sight. It was not battle, but torture.

It was exquisite.

In the carriage, he’d stared blankly out the small window in an attitude of perfect nonchalance.

All the while, his gloved fingers were working their way beneath her voluminous skirts, caressing her calf, her knee, her thigh.

When they joined the crush of opera attendees, he held her close at his side, guiding her through the crowd with an authoritative touch. With an insouciant smile pasted on his face, he kept up a steady stream of suggestive whispers in her ear. To the casual onlooker, it probably looked as though he were relating the latest
on-dit
, or perhaps discussing the weather. But the only humidity of note was the perspiration collecting between her breasts, not to mention the veritable storm of arousal gathering at the apex of her thighs.

And now they were seated in their box, surrounded by ornate, gilded majesty and cascades of heavy blue velvet, listening to the discordant hum of the orchestra tuning their instruments.

Toby pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.

Bel stared at it, entranced by the small bubbles soaring to the glassy, amber surface. “Oh, I couldn’t. You know I don’t—”

“Tonight, you do. This is the opera, my dear. It’s about excess, spectacle, sensation, and opulence. It’s about pleasure. We’ve been working so hard, between the charities and the campaign. You’ve earned the right to enjoy yourself tonight. Have I not earned the right to spoil you?”

She smiled. He was right, they had both been working tirelessly over the past week. Every day, Toby rode out to the hustings in Surrey while Bel went about her charitable endeavors. In the evenings, they reunited just in time for dinner and bed, where a bout of lovemaking—

sometimes tender, sometimes wild—sent them into an exhausted sleep. There was no doubt in Bel’s mind that her husband had been laboring tirelessly to satisfy her, in every way. How could she deny him this one evening of amusement?

She took a small sip of the champagne. The tart-sweet taste exploded on her tongue, fizzing through her whole body.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s so strange.” She sipped again, holding the potent liquid in her mouth. Bubbles teased her nose, and she swallowed, giggling. “But delicious.”

She sipped again and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the world stayed dark. It took her a moment to realize they had dimmed the gaslights to signal the beginning of the performance. Her brain felt misty. The air was cottony around her, warm and soft to the touch.

“May I taste?” Toby asked.

“Yes, of course.” She offered him the glass, but that wasn’t what he wanted. She realized her mistake the instant before his mouth captured hers. As their lips met, some champagne-soaked shred of her conscience trilled in alarm. Here they were kissing in
public
. In full view, for anyone to see.

It was marvelous.

She leaned into the kiss, caressing his tongue with hers, sipping lightly at his lower lip. She couldn’t get enough of him, and she wanted all London to see. Perhaps it was the champagne, or the rich surroundings, or the arousal he’d so cleverly been stoking all night. But at that moment, Bel wanted the world to know how much her husband desired her, how much she desired him. How beautiful they were together, how young and alive.

Then the orchestra struck a chord, and she jumped in her seat. The kiss broke apart.

Champagne splattered the exposed tops of her breasts and the bodice of her indecent, extravagant gown—and she didn’t even care. Because the music was beginning, and the music

… it was
everything
.

The orchestra launched into the overture, and Bel felt certain the power of the music would lift the roof from the opera house. She felt it reverberating in her bones. She breathed it into her lungs. It had colors, and flavors—and that was when Bel realized she must be a bit drunk, to believe she could taste a piece of music. But she sipped her champagne again, wanting to stay drunk forever. Wanting to drown in this sea of glorious sound.

Then the curtain opened to reveal a fantastic garden and costumed performers who shortly began to sing. With voices surely stolen from angels, they sang. And the whole world fell away. Bel forgot even Toby. The champagne went flat in her glass. She was swept into the grandeur of
Don Giovanni
, and if she had not known it to be impossible, she would have later sworn she did not breathe or blink once during the whole of the first act.

As the curtain closed for intermission, Toby’s hand covered hers. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

She clutched his hand. “Oh, Toby. It’s wonderful. I never dreamed …” The amber fog of the gas lamps slowly diffused, and she looked up into his handsome face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He grinned. “The best is yet to come.”

Oh, no. The unthinkable reality struck with orchestral power. An ominous, thundering chord of truth.

She loved him.

What a fool she’d been. It wasn’t the music that made her feel everything so acutely. It wasn’t the champagne that laid waste to her inhibitions. No, it was this man sitting next to her, who’d wreaked havoc on her senses and stoked her passions since the moment they met. It was Toby, all Toby.

And she loved him.

A dark, sweet melody played in her heart, and her pulse beat a fierce, insistent percussion. She loved him. Loved him, loved him, and it terrified her.

Worry creased his brow. “Are you well? Shall I fetch you another glass of champagne?”

She shook her head. “Perhaps some water.”

“Certainly.” He kissed her hand before releasing it. “I’ll be back in a trice.”

Then he was gone, giving Bel a few precious moments to collect her thoughts and reevaluate her life. She’d fallen in love with her husband, and now everything was ruined. Wasn’t it?

How could she fully devote herself to service and charity, with this loud, symphonic love suffusing her body, drowning out all her best intentions? She tried to recall her schedule for tomorrow. She was certain she had some appointment, some visit scheduled … perhaps a meeting with the house staff about the upcoming demonstration of flue-sweeping machinery?

But for the life of her—for the love of Toby—she couldn’t remember.

The champagne’s effect had faded now. Bel saw clearly what she needed to do. She must choose. This love had infected her unawares, but perhaps she still had hope for a cure. It was not too late to deny this passion, to push her husband away and refocus on her work. She’d been in London society long enough to understand the polite, affectionless arrangements that characterized most marriages. She could insist upon the same.

Or she could love. Freely, deeply—embracing both passion and terror at once. She could place her soul in the keeping of a man well known to be a suave, charming rake.

Really, there was no choice at all.

“Here we are.” Toby slid back into the box, a dewy glass of water in his hand.

Bel took it, tipping the glass and downing the water gratefully. Slowly. So long as she was drinking, she need not speak. Soon the lights dimmed again, and Toby pulled his chair close to hers. Close enough that she felt his warmth, even in the dark.

“Are you able to understand the opera?” he asked in a low voice. “I don’t suppose you have any Italian?”

“No,” she whispered back, setting the water glass aside. “But I learned Spanish from my mother. It’s similar enough that I can follow the story.” And what a story it was—the dashing, infamous lothario and the besotted women who would follow him anywhere, even to his grave.

Out of blind, unrequited love.

Yes, she’d learned this story from her mother in more ways than one. If her father had had fewer lovers than Don Giovanni’s thousands—it surely was only because their island was so small. And yet, despite the man’s faithless philandering, her mother had loved him with a fierce, loyal passion—even beyond the boundaries of reason and health. The doctors said her mother’s madness was a lingering effect of her brain fever, but her mother had believed otherwise.

She insisted she’d gone mad with love.
El amor es locura
, she’d said. Love is madness. An all-consuming, feverish passion that robs the mind of sense, that spins a soul toward darkness and despair.

Bel would be a fool to follow that example. Her gloved hands fisted in her lap. She must resist this love. She must break free of the bond he’d somehow tied around her heart.

Then the woman on stage began to sing, Toby’s hand covered hers, and she knew. She didn’t truly want to be freed.

“Have you seen this opera before?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How does it end?” She turned to him. “I need to know how it ends. Happily?”

“No, darling.” He chuckled. “Our hero dies, alone and unrepentant, and the devil takes his soul to hell.”

Oh, God help her
.

As she listened to the haunting aria, the hairs rose on Bel’s neck and a familiar, terrible heaviness formed in her chest. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Until a few weeks ago, she’d believed this to be the sort of tension a woman could only resolve by weeping. Now, thanks to her talented husband, she knew there to be another cure. Her body cried out for the pleasurable release only he could give.

“Remarkable, isn’t she?” Toby’s whispered question mingled with the fading applause.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “The way the note hangs in the air, even after she ceases to sing …

I know I’m not actually hearing it any longer, but I feel it, resonating in the air. In me.”

He was silent. Bel’s cheeks heated. She must sound ridiculous and naïve.

“I understand perfectly,” he finally said. His voice held no trace of amusement—only warmth and tenderness. “I think I feel that way sometimes, when I’m parted from you. Even when you’re not with me, it’s like … there’s an echo of you that settles in my chest.” He lifted her hand from her lap and brought it to his lips, then pressed it to his solar plexus. “Here. I feel you here, always. Sometimes it hurts.”

Bel swallowed hard. “Toby?”

“Yes, love?”

“Would you take me home? I want to go home.”

“Are you certain?” His eyes searched hers in the near dark. “The second act has only just started. Don’t worry about the ending. It’s a comedy, you know.”