A Lady of Persuasion (5 page)

He slid his hand down the slope of her shoulder for one last caress, and her eyes fluttered open.

Blast
. Now he’d done it.

Toby recognized the dazzled look in those eyes. He knew it all too well. Charming young ladies was his singular talent, and he’d developed it through years of practice. He knew the precise instant he had them. When they took all their youthful hopes and romantic dreams and shaped them into a tight little ball and tossed it into his hands.
Here
, they said.
Take my heart
and break it
.

Normally, Toby was happy to oblige. What was that line in the novel his sister Augusta loved so well? “A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.” Truer words were never penned. He took that ball of hopes and dreams, made a little show of juggling it, and handed it back—a bit dented, perhaps, but largely intact. Occasionally, he misjudged and the ball slipped from his grasp to shatter on the floor. But even then, the young ladies recovered quickly enough.

Because they always held something back. This little plaything they tossed him—it held the affections of a girl. Their true womanly hearts, their deepest passion and love, this they guarded, saved for another man. Anyone who labeled Toby a heartbreaker underestimated the shrewdness of feminine intellect. He knew, from years of experience, that young women were a great deal wiser than general opinion would allow.

There was something different about this woman, however—aside from her enchanting accent and strident politics. When he’d kissed her, she’d offered him nothing—but neither had she held anything in reserve. She didn’t know how to flirt. None of his compliments or teasing had warmed her a single degree, but in that moment when their lips met … she’d simply been
his
.

With her, there could be no half-measures.

That kiss had rocked him to his boots.

His blood was still fizzing with her nearness, her scent, her taste. Her skin was so smooth; the edge of temptation, keen. And just when he’d nearly lost himself in those dark, serious eyes, she pursed her delicious lips and whispered …

“Whittlesby.”

Toby blinked. Had he truly just heard her say—

“Lord Whittlesby.” She swallowed. “When we go back inside, will you introduce us?”

“Wh—” The breath rushed out of him in an indefinable question. He released her, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Wh—”

No use. He didn’t even know how to complete that syllable.
Who? What? Why? When?

Yes, that was it—when?
When did my amatory prowess sink to this low, where I might kiss a
young lady on a moonlit terrace and the first thought that springs to her mind is …

“Whittlesby”?

“Whittlesby?” he finally echoed, somehow hoping he’d misheard her. Twice.

“Yes. You did promise to find me a husband. I’ve decided he will do.”

A burst of shocked laughter escaped him. “No. No, you’ve misunderstood. Whittlesby will not do at all.”

She frowned. “Then you won’t introduce me?”

“I’d sooner die.” Indeed, some small part of his pride was withering to dust as he spoke. But this was nothing, compared to the agonies he would suffer, surrendering this vibrant, intelligent, beautiful woman to a lump like Whittlesby.

Good God.
Whittlesby?

“But you promised to find me a husband.” She latched a hand over his wrist. “Tonight.”

The pressure of her fingers did strange things to his pulse. He teetered on the verge of taking her into his arms and kissing her again—thoroughly, this time. All night long, if need be. Until he kissed away her memory of any man but him.

Honor
, he reminded himself sternly. And something about clinging to the few remaining shreds of it. The honorable course, sadly, did not involve kissing those perfect lips all night—

but neither did it mean sending her into the arms of a perfect clod. He needed to set this girl straight. Only then, not before, he would let her go.

The first strains of a waltz reached his ears. “Yes, I promised to find you a husband. And so I shall—inside.” Where the light of a hundred candles would hold this feral temptation at bay.

“Come,” he said, tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m going to give you a lesson about the true nature of influence and the selection of worthy suitors.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

He clarified, “We are going to dance.”

He led her back inside and had her swept up in the waltz before anyone could notice their return.

She was an inexperienced dancer, he could tell—she couldn’t have had much opportunity to practice on that speck of a tropical island. But still, they glided through the room effortlessly, in perfect time with the music. Because Toby was an excellent dancer, and she gave herself over completely to his lead.

“You dance like a dream,” he told her. His dream, likely tonight. Perhaps for weeks to come.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “I’ve never been fond of dancing, but…”

“But…?”

She released a sigh scented with brandy and resignation. “But I’m enjoying dancing with you.”

Well, praise God for small victories.

“Miss Grayson,” he said, feigning shock, “don’t tell me you’re
enjoying
yourself. And at a
ball?”
When she blushed, he murmured, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But only if you make me a promise.”

“What kind of promise?” she asked, giving him a guarded look.

“Promise me you will not marry Whittlesby. Not him, nor anyone like him.”

“I’ll promise you nothing of the kind. Who are you, to tell me whom I should and should not marry?”

“Who am I?” He laughed. “I’m the gentleman you charged with finding you a suitable husband. Whittlesby and his ilk are categorically unsuitable.”

“But you don’t understand. I have goals, priorities.” She looked to the ceiling. “I wish to become a lady of influence. It’s the only way to have any measurable effect on society. If I do not marry above my rank, I may as well remain unmarried.”

“If you do not marry your true equal, you will regret it the rest of your life. Listen to me, Isabel.”

His use of her Christian name startled her. Good. Now she was paying attention. Plus, he liked saying it.

“Isabel, you are intelligent. You are young and idealistic and brimming with passion. You don’t lack for fortune or family. And you’re the most intriguing, beautiful woman in the room.

That arsenal of persuasion could bring the whole of London to its knees, if judiciously applied.

For God’s sake, don’t chain yourself to some pudding with a title. The power you seek—it already resides within you.”

“Please, spare me your nonsensical flattery.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because you might start to enjoy it?”

She set her jaw and stared stubbornly over his shoulder.

“I’m not speaking nonsense, Isabel. It’s the most rational thing in the world.” Toby shook his head. How could he make her see? “It’s like this,” he said calmly. “Imagine true disaster were to strike. Imagine you found yourself married to me. A lowly, dishonorable, too-handsome sir, unsuitable in every way.”

“I never said lowly!”

“I know,” he teased. “But you blush so prettily each time you protest. My point is this—if it’s influence you seek, there are any number of ways to achieve it. Even by allying yourself with such a hopeless case as me.”

He pulled her closer, ostensibly to whisper in her ear. But he could not help but enjoy the rustle of silk against his boots and the swell of her ample bosom brushing his chest. “Don’t make a show of looking,” he murmured, “but everyone in this room is staring at you. Can you imagine why?”

“Because you are holding me indecently close? Because we have just emerged from an illicit interlude on the verandah?”

“Precisely. We are the latest scandal.”

She went rigid in his arms.

“Now don’t distress yourself, darling. Sometimes a little scandal is just what you need. Never underestimate the power of rumor and innuendo. At this moment, we are the object of intense speculation—the infamous rake of the scandal sheets, paired with the newly arrived innocent.

They’re all desperate to know what we’re whispering to one another. Tomorrow, they’re asking themselves, what will be the headline? Am I ruining you? Or are you reforming me?”

Chuckling, he fanned his fingers across the small of her back. “What a story that would be for
The Prattler
. Your name would be on the lips of every gossip in Town.”

Finally, her mouth curved a fraction. “Yes, I can imagine it would be.”

“Do you see? Isabel, you are free to marry where you choose, without regard to fortune or rank. Even if the unthinkable occurred, and you were wed to a lowly blighter like me”—he silenced her protest with a wink—“you would still be a lady. You would attract a great deal of notice. You would have a husband with prospects in Parliament.” Granted, they were prospects Toby had been purposely avoiding for the better part of a decade, but just for the sake of argument… He swept her through a turn. “You would not have married a lord at all, but you would be a lady of influence.”

She gave him a cautious smile that set his world spinning. “Surely you’re not seriously suggesting I marry
you?”

“No,” he said, forcing a self-deprecating laugh. “I would never suggest such a thing.”

She couldn’t know how these blithe dismissals kept wounding him. She couldn’t know that bruised male pride was a dangerous beast.

Toby lowered his voice to a seductive murmur.
“If
I paid court to you, Isabel, I would make more than suggestions. I would make promises. I would pledge to value your ideals, never stifle or belittle them. I would vow to display your talents to their best advantage, and to guard you from those who wish you ill.”

The music stopped, and Toby whirled her to a halt.

“If I
proposed marriage to you,” he said, “I would kneel at your feet. Pledge to you my undying devotion, a share in my worldly possessions, and the protection of my body. I would promise to cherish you all the days of your life, and make your happiness my own. Because that is what you deserve from a husband. No less.”

“Oh,” she sighed. Her lips fell slightly apart. Shallow breaths lifted her chest.

At last
. He had her well and truly enchanted now. Toby supposed he ought to release her. He’d proven his point, hadn’t he? He still knew how to dazzle a girl. But something compelled him to go on.

“And
if I
did offer for you,” he asked, “would it be so very horrible?”

He hardly knew what murky pit of his soul that question had crawled out from, but he knew it wasn’t aimed at this girl. It was meant for Sophia, and Lucy, and every other young lady who’d grown out of loving him and married some other man.

But it was Isabel who must answer for them all. She was here, and she was breathless in his arms, and she had the power to crush or redeem him with a single syllable. Yes, he still knew how to dazzle a girl—he’d practically emerged from the womb with that gift. But deep down, at his core—could he ever find what it took to secure a woman’s love?

Give me a word. One word
.

“Would it be so unthinkable?” he asked softly, earnestly.

Before she could speak, someone stepped between them and the nearby candelabra, throwing a shadow over them both.

“Excuse the interruption.” The voice was a smooth baritone. “But I’d thank you to let the lady go.”

Without releasing Isabel, Toby cast a glance toward the speaker. Of course, it was her brother.

Sir Benedict Grayson, paragon of valor, miserable dancer, and great hulking brute with murder in his eyes. Worse, behind him stood Jeremy, Lucy, and the woman who’d left him at the altar and fled halfway around the world—Sophia.

Now he needed to hear Isabel’s answer more than ever.

Toby said, “I beg your pardon. This is a private conversation.”

“Not any longer, it isn’t.” Grayson folded massive arms over his chest. “The conversation is over.” Lowering his voice, he growled, “Get your hands off my sister.”

The musicians struck up a new melody, but no one in the room was dancing. All eyes were on their little tableau.

“In a moment,” Toby said smoothly, enjoying the upper hand. He refused to let Grayson cow him. The man might be a dockside laborer in gentleman’s clothing, but Toby was taller. “I’m still waiting on a word from Miss Grayson. I’ve asked her a question, and she hasn’t yet answered.”

He turned back to Isabel, tripping straight into her solemn, remarkable eyes. A strange sense of destiny overcame him. In his gut, Toby knew that the events of the next minute could very well mean the rearrangement of his life, his face, or both. He had a choice. He could release her, from his embrace and his question, surrender a second lady to this thieving bastard, and continue the miserable pastime of searching for his misplaced self-worth at the bottom of brandy decanters.

Or he could hold on to this beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman.

Perhaps forever.

Grayson scowled. “Bel, what the devil is he talking about? You don’t have to answer this man anything.” He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. “Do you want me to hit him?”

“No!” she gasped, her gaze flitting around the assembled crowd. “No, nothing of the sort. Sir Toby just asked me—”

“To marry him,” Toby interrupted. Loudly and clearly, with a certainty that surprised even him.

An excited murmur swept the crowd.

Leveling a cool gaze at Grayson, he continued, “I’ve asked your sister to marry me. And now I’m waiting …” He glanced over his shoulder. “It would seem we’re all waiting … to hear her reply.”