A Lady of Persuasion (4 page)

Bel swallowed hard as he approached.

“Everything about you—your voice, your gestures, your opinions … even the way you dance.

So passionate.” He reached out, brushing the backs of his knuckles against the bare flesh of her arm. “So warm. And yet, you would choose a husband in this cold, calculated manner? For a title and status? It hardly seems in your nature.”

“You would presume to know my nature? I am not—” She stiffened. She could not claim to be without passion. That would be a lie.

She continued, “If I have passion, it is for God. If I marry for love, it is for love of His children in their hour of need. From my father and brother, I am burdened with this ill-gotten dowry, gold tainted with blood. From my mother, I inherit
this.”
She swept an impatient gesture down her curvaceous form. “How can I live with myself, if I barter those advantages for my own pleasure, or for something so transitory as romantic love? No, I will redeem them instead—by trading them for a title and status, as you say. For the opportunity to do good.”

She shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Sir Toby didn’t deserve her anger. After all, he was right. Her mother’s unpredictable passions did simmer in her blood, and something about this man brought them to a boil.

Perhaps she had been born with a fiery nature, but she also had the choice to control it. As her mother’s example proved, wild, emotional outbursts did not earn a woman respect or influence.

They earned her a padlocked room, and years of derision and neglect.

“Please forgive me,” she said, once she’d banked her inner fire. “It’s just… What can you know of my nature?”

“I know it is human.” He gave her a little smile that only stoked the flames. “And I know it will be some undeserving man’s great fortune to explore.”

Without giving her time to respond—not that Bel had any coherent response to make—he linked his arm with hers and steered her toward the windows. “Well, then. Let us begin our search for Lord Honorable.” After a moment, he said, “Ah. I’ve spotted an earl who is, by all accounts, a very excellent man and a respected landlord, if a bit stern in his demeanor.

Impeccable aristocratic lineage, pots of money, and a burgeoning political career.”

“Why, he sounds ideal.”

“Yes. There’s just one snag, you see.”

“What’s that?”

Sir Toby smiled down at her. “Lord Kendall is already married, to Lucy.”

With a cry of reproach, Bel attempted to withdraw her arm from his. He had already tightened his grip, in anticipation of just such a retreat.

She asked, “Why must you insist on teasing me?”

“Because you are in dire need of it, my dear. Don’t worry, you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

“I shall not.” She was, however, learning to enjoy the warm press of his arm against hers, the solid support it afforded her. Charming devil of a man. “Surely there are other honorable lords in the assembly, apart from our host. Other gentlemen with burgeoning political careers.”

“Well, if it’s political acumen you seek, look no further. Here we have Lord Markham, the renowned orator.” He directed her attention toward a lean, silver-haired gentleman. A great deal older than she, Bel thought, but perhaps his maturity boded well for her purpose.

“Is he very influential?” she asked.

“Oh, very. Legislation passes and fails on the wave of feeling generated by his speeches.”

“Truly?” Bel perked. This Lord Markham sounded promising.

“Yes, I understand he was instrumental in turning the majority against the abolition bill a few years back.”

She gasped. “Then he will not do at all.”

“But I thought you sought political clout.”

“I do, but it must be in aid of justice, not oppression. That is my entire design in marrying a lord—to further charitable causes as a lady of influence.”

“A lady of influence.” He gave her an amused look. “Over society? Or over a well-connected husband?”

“Ideally, both.” Bel rued the blush warming her cheeks. It had nothing to do with shame over her motives, and everything to do with the way he brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen over her brow. So casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Her brow tingled where his skin had grazed hers.

“I see. So all this time we have been searching for Lord Honorable, when the man you truly seek is Lord Malleable.” She attempted to protest, but he interrupted. “Lord Whittlesby would be an excellent candidate. He’s a marquess, recently widowed. Rather stolid sort of man. A member of my club, though I never see him in his cups or sitting down to cards. His opinions are rarely solicited when conversation turns to matters of politics. He mostly speaks of puddings.”

“Puddings?”

“Hm. Great connoisseur of puddings, Whittlesby. Goes on and on about them.” He drew her close and turned her toward the window. “He’s just there. By the potted palm.”

Bel followed the line of his arm. There, by the aforementioned palm, stood a squat, balding man spooning custard from a flute. She watched as he withdrew a linen square from his breast pocket and proceeded to wipe first his mouth, then his glistening pate.

“An influential title, and possessed of opinions easily influenced,” Sir Toby said. “Surely you can find no cause to reject him.”

“He’s … why, he’s shorter than I.”

“I did not realize your definition of ‘upstanding’ encompassed actual physical stature. Must I add ‘tall’ to the list of qualifications, then? And handsome, as well? This task you’ve set me becomes more and more difficult.”

“Fine looks are of little importance,” she replied, irritated with herself for her petty remark. “As is stature. Beauty of character is often at odds with physical appearance. A tall, handsome man may very well make the least desirable husband.”

“Yes, yes. You ruled me out some minutes ago, remember? I’ve everything against me. Tall.

Handsome.” He pulled a face and made a dramatic shiver. “Not a lord,” he repeated, mimicking her accent, “but a lowly
sir
. This is a disaster.”

This time Bel succeeded in wrenching her arm away. “I did apologize. And I never used the word ‘lowly.’ My own brother is a sir, and I know him to be the equal of any duke.”

He smiled. “How very loyal of you. But if that be the case, then why are you so set on marrying a lord?”

“For his influence in Parliament, of course. Knights and baronets have no seats in the House of Lords.”

“Parliament has two houses, darling. Don’t neglect the House of Commons. That’s where all social debate and progressive bills originate, before Markham and his followers shout them down. Perhaps it’s an MP you ought to marry.”

“Are MPs more honorable, as a rule?”

“Of course not. This is government, my dear.” He shook his head, chuckling. “You are like Diogenes with his lantern, roaming the earth in search of an honest man. Admittance to the House of Commons is only marginally more selective than that of the penny theater. Anyone with a few thousand pounds to spare might buy himself a rotten borough, and the fairly elected members are largely chosen out of habit or by default.”

At his description, Bel suffered a pang of disappointment. She had hoped to marry an honorable, principled man with a seat in Parliament. A man for whom she could feel… not passion or love, but perhaps friendship, and a temperate sort of esteem. But what if that man simply didn’t exist? She’d have to settle for one like Whittlesby, she supposed. She caught sight of the cream-puffed, balding lord through the window and stared at him long and hard, taking careful assessment of her emotions.

Nothing. He stirred nothing within her, save a mild flutter that resembled indigestion.

Sir Toby continued, “Why, even I could secure a seat in Commons whenever I wished. Lowly,

disastrous, unsuitable
sir
that I am.”

“I never said those things,” she argued. “I would never say such things, and it pains me to be accused of them. Kindly stop twisting my words.”

He inched closer to her. “Which words am I twisting? I clearly remember hearing ‘disaster,’

and a pursuant discussion of my unsuitability.” He chucked her under the chin, and his thumb lingered on the edge of her jaw. “Don’t worry, I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

“Then why do you tease me so?”

“Because, as I said, you need teasing. You’re taking yourself so seriously. Too seriously. It’s a grave condition, solemnity. Causes ill humor, indigestion. And it’s bad for the complexion.

Teasing’s one of two proven remedies.”

“One of two?” Bel sighed. “If you’re so concerned for my complexion, may I implore you to switch to the other?”

His hand framed her jaw. “Very well.”

And then his lips were on hers.

Oh
.

She was being kissed. Kissed, for the first time in her life, in a moonlit colonnade, by a man with the beauty of a Greek god and the morality of a satyr. It was everything right and everything wrong all at once, and Bel didn’t know what to make of it. She was so used to placing actions in one category or the other.

She was too shocked to move, so she just—stood still.

His lips brushed over hers in a series of slow, teasing caresses. Tender, gentle … extending every invitation but making no demands. She caught the unmistakable scent of brandy on his breath—a familiar aroma, but an as yet untested flavor. She never took spirits, and here this man’s lips were giving Bel her first taste of sin. It savored of fire. Not bitter, as she’d always imagined it would taste, but raw and potent. The flavor opened all her senses, awakened her entire body to the light pressure of his mouth against hers, the gentle stirrings of the breeze around them, the spar of whalebone pressing between her breasts.

She felt
everything
.

He whispered something against her mouth, something Bel could not hear through the roar of blood pounding in her ears—but she felt it, rushing over her lips. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, tilting her head to meet his. And now he kissed her again, more firmly this time, his lips slightly parted as they covered hers. Once more, the flavor of brandy flooded her senses, intoxicating and dark.

She might have pulled away at any moment. But she didn’t. She remained still, so still as his thumb traced a lazy circle over her pulse. She did not move. She dared not breathe.

But inside, her blood danced. A frenzied, pagan dance that resembled a minuet like a tropical hurricane resembled the London fog. Heat whirled in her center and spiraled out to her limbs, pulsing to a furious beat. The rhythm called to her, pulled her consciousness inward with insistent tugs—until she followed it, sinking deep, deep into the heart of herself.

Here was passion … desire … wild, untamed emotion.

Here was the enemy of all her hopes and dreams.

And yet—he was the one to retreat.

“Oh.” The syllable escaped her lips the instant his pulled away. He stared down at her, so divinely handsome, clearly anticipating her further response. But what more was there to say?

She could not reproach him, when any fault was just as much hers as his. A taste lingered on her lips, that warm elixir of brandy and desire. Bel pressed her lips together to savor it a moment longer.

Soon they would have to go back inside. She would piece together her wits and refresh her composure and find herself a husband. A man who would offer her wealth and influence but hold no influence over her. A man who didn’t stir her blood with a wink or a smile, who would pose no threat to her principles. A man who tasted of custard, not brandy and fire.

Someone safe.

When she swept back through those doors, Bel would regain control of her emotions and refocus on her goals. But for these few stolen moments, in the arms of this charming devil…

all rational thought was lost. Her soul belonged to him.

She closed her eyes, to remain in the darkness. If only a moment could last forever.

If only he would kiss her again.

Well, Toby thought, he wouldn’t be trying
that
again.

So much for curing her solemnity with a kiss. She still carried the weight of the world on that lovely brow, while he … he seemed to have contracted a deathly case of serious. The night felt darker now; vast and humbling. He couldn’t have made a joke if he’d tried. And that kiss had left him too breathless to tease.

He’d kissed her. How had that happened? Hadn’t he just decided
not
to pursue her?

No. He’d decided not to ruin her as a means of revenge. And somewhere between that moment and this one, he’d decided to kiss her, simply for her. It had been lovely. Damn near magical.

He couldn’t regret it.

Still, he said, “I think we had better go back inside.”