A Lady of Persuasion (17 page)

“How’s this for advice? Run away. You’re making a terrible mistake. Marriage is for virgins and fools.”

“And here you’ve remained a bachelor all these years.” Toby chuckled. “Astonishing.”

The old man released a heavy sigh. “Didn’t think I’d be able to dissuade you. Thought it was worth a try, though—just to witness the fit that woman would have when her son’s wedding fell through for the second time.” Mr. Yorke withdrew a flask from his breast pocket. “Since you’re determined to go through with it, perhaps you need some encouragement of the liquid variety?”

Toby reached for the flask gratefully. “Actually, I believe I do.” He leaned against the stone window ledge and motioned for Yorke to join him. “You do realize, it’s been a good fifteen years since she took me to task for drinking. I hope you’re not expecting to ruffle her feathers with this.” He tossed back a mouthful of liquor.

“I only wish. Speaking of that woman—”

“You know, ‘that woman’ happens to be my mother. Not to mention, a lady.”

“That woman
has just related to me another of her pernicious lies. She says you mean to stand up against me in the election. You mean to contest my seat in Parliament, she says! I know it has to be a falsehood.”

“Well…” Toby hedged. Here was one of those promises, come back to haunt him. “It’s true, I had been planning to—”

“Do you want to know how I know it’s a falsehood? Aside from the fact that you’d have no hope of winning, of course.” Yorke took back his flask and downed a swallow. “That woman tells me you’re running as a Whig.”

“That woman speaks the truth, I’m afraid. But I can explain. You see—”

“Gah!” Yorke drained the brandy and sent the flask clattering to the floor. “Honestly. As a Whig, Toby?” He might as well have recited,
“Et tu, Brute?”
“Have I taught you nothing? It would be one thing if you wanted to take up politics on the proper side. I’d take you under my wing, find a borough for you. Hell, I’d nominate you myself. But after all these years—all those times I let you sleep off mischief in my hayloft, poach grouse from my woods—this is how you repay me? By turning Whig?”

“I know, I know. It’s a tragedy. I’ll have to start frequenting Brooks’.” Toby put a hand on Yorke’s shoulder, taking quick stock of his friend and their lifelong acquaintance. The old man was right, Toby did owe him better than this. He owed him a great deal. He recalled many a fine afternoon spent angling for trout in the stream between their lands, and he recalled several occasions when his neighbor had fished him out of a scrape.

What he didn’t recall was precisely when Yorke had become so ancient. The man’s snowy hair had thinned considerably in recent years, and his once-subtle smile lines had deepened to permanent furrows.

“Give me a moment to explain,” Toby said. “It’s not my mother’s idea, it’s my lovely bride’s.

She’s a very principled girl; I don’t deserve her at all. She has her heart set on seeing me in Parliament, Lord knows why. But I promised her I’d run, in a moment of… weakness. Serious weakness.”

“Ah,” Yorke said meaningfully. “While your wits had gone south on holiday?”

“Something like that,” Toby said. His wits began packing their trunks for a return visit, just at the memory. “Of course, I’ve explained to my bride your long history of service and unparalleled popularity with the electors. She’s been well informed that I have no hope of winning, but she is determined to see me try, I’m afraid. And besotted fool that I am, I’ve decided to indulge her.”

“And to inconvenience me.”

Toby raised his hands in an exasperated gesture. “What can I say? She’s prettier.”

Yorke laughed heartily. “She’s a rare beauty, is what she is.”

“Isn’t she, though? And I’m going to marry her in a matter of minutes. I can’t go ruining it the first week, by kidnapping her to the Lake District instead of fulfilling my promise to stand up in Surrey.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a honeymoon, would it? No, I understand.”

“I knew you would. Don’t worry, I’ll not put up any real opposition. After the nominations, I’ll stay away from the hustings entirely. Once Isabel understands how capably you represent the borough and what faith the electors have in you, she’ll recover from any disappointment. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to find other methods of keeping her occupied.”

Yorke gave him a merry look. “No doubt.”

“See? There’s no need for concern.”

“Who’s concerned?” The old man harrumphed. “It’s not as though I’ve been running unopposed all these years, you know. I know something about beating out upstart candidates.”

“Madman Montague doesn’t count. Don’t throw me in with him.”

“And,” Yorke continued, undeterred, “it gives me one more opportunity to thwart that woman’s machinations. She’ll be bitterly disappointed when you lose.”

Toby smiled. “Indubitably. Don’t you see? I’ll keep my promise to run for Parliament, you’ll keep your seat. I’ll make my bride happy; you’ll continue making my mother miserable. It’s the perfect solution, all around.”

“So long as the women don’t catch on, eh?”

Toby gave a self-conscious tug on his ear. It might not be an auspicious beginning to a marriage, plotting to deceive his bride just minutes before the ceremony. But once they were married, he fully intended to go about deserving Isabel’s good opinion. On his own terms, by some endeavor of his own choosing. Surely he could find some way to make himself useful that did not involve sooty foundlings or arse-numbing sessions of Parliament. A method that didn’t require him to publicly trounce an old, respected friend.

Chuckling, Yorke held out his hand. “I do like the way you think. Very well, then. May the best man win.”

“Precisely,” Toby said, shaking it.

“Actually,” Jeremy said, standing impatient in the doorway, “the best man is here. And he’s tired of fending off anxious looks from the priest, the bride’s brothers, and the mother of the groom. Can we get this thing underway?” Remembering himself, he added a perfunctory bow toward the older man. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Yorke.”

Toby stood, pulling down the front of his waistcoat.

“This is your last chance to change your mind,” Yorke said. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Toby answered, to all the questions implied. “Yes, I am.”

At the knock on the connecting door, Bel nearly jumped out of her skin. Absurd, to be so surprised by the very event she’d been standing there anticipating. Her heart slammed into her ribs, and her eyes darted wildly about the bedchamber. Should she meet him at the door? Lie down on the bed? Flee to her dressing room and hide?

And here she’d thought the wedding ceremony taxing on her nerves. Parading down the aisle of St. George’s under the scrutiny of hundreds? That was nothing, compared to waiting for her new husband to attend her on their wedding night. At least in church, she’d known in which direction to walk.

In the end, she did what she always did when shock rendered her immobile. She stood still.

The door swung open, and Toby struck a casual pose, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Good evening, Lady Aldridge.”

He was still dressed in the same pinstriped trousers he’d worn for the wedding, though his topcoat, waistcoat, and cravat had disappeared. Bel tore her gaze from the gaping collar of his shirt to focus on the one permanent fixture of his appearance: that charming, boyish grin.

She attempted a smile in return, instinctively wrapping her arms about her chest and gathering the edges of her lace-trimmed dressing gown. How she envied his easy confidence in every situation. Throughout the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, their installation here at Aldridge House, and even their first dinner as husband and wife—he’d been the epitome of poise. Bel had remained close to his side all day, praying some of his self-assurance might rub off on her.

Perhaps, she thought, the same strategy would serve her well this evening.

Perhaps she did know in which direction she should walk. Really, it was the same as in church.

She walked toward him.

His grin widened as she approached. She felt her own smile growing, too.

“Good evening, Sir Toby,” she said, stopping just inches from him.

His arm snaked around her waist, and he pulled her tight for a kiss. It was the briefest, most chaste of kisses, but somehow more intimate than any kiss they’d shared before. This was not a suitor’s kiss, but a husband’s kiss. Comfortable, authoritative … and performed in a state of undress.

Before Bel had any chance to catch her breath, he released her waist and strolled past her into the bedchamber. Now she was the one left leaning against the doorframe for support.

“Did I tell you,” he asked, taking up the poker and stirring the fire, “how immensely proud you made me today?”

“You did,” she said, smiling to herself. “Several times.” In the carriage, after the ceremony.

Then again, whispering in her ear during the wedding breakfast. Once more, over dinner. “I begin to believe it.”

“Well, I’ll be certain to tell you several more times, so there can be no misunderstanding.” He replaced the poker and met her in the center of the room, grasping her hands in his. “Truly, Isabel. I’m the most fortunate fellow in England. As long as I live, I’ll never forget how lovely you looked this morning.”

Once again, Bel wished she had his easy way with words. She wanted to compliment him, too, tell him he’d made the most dashing groom imaginable. That he’d stolen her breath with his radiant male beauty. That she’d been aching for his kiss all day, and the slight brush of his lips against hers just now had her whole body humming with desire.

“Toby, I…” Oh, how she cursed her clumsy tongue! “I feel fortunate, too.” She stared up at him, hoping her eyes conveyed the admiration her words could not.

His fingertip brushed the place between her eyebrows. “Always so serious,” he teased.

Smiling, he withdrew a small box. “I have a wedding present for you.”

Bel took the box and opened it. Cradled on a bed of blue velvet lay a magnificent pendant, set with an iridescent opal as big as her fingernail and ringed with sparkling diamonds. “Oh, Toby.

You shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should. I know you’re not much for extravagant jewels. Little do you need them, beautiful as you are. But you are Lady Aldridge now, and if you’re to be a lady of influence, you must look the part.” He plucked the necklace from its box and laced the chain through his fingers. Between them, the pendant twirled, flashing in the firelight. “There are several more valuable pieces in the family, of course, and those will be yours as well. But I wanted to select something especially for you. Did I choose well?”

The pendant bobbed just a bit as he dangled it, and Bel caught a flash of anxiety in his eyes.

Sweet man. He was genuinely worried that she might not like it. Her heart squeezed. That hint of uncertainty endeared him to her more than any gift could possibly have done. That, more than anything, showed that he cared.

“You chose perfectly. I adore it, thank you.”

“May I put it on you?”

“Now?”

“Yes, of course.” He circled behind her, undoing the clasp of the necklace with sure fingers.

“I’ll tell you a secret. This is the real reason a gentleman gives his lady a necklace. For the pleasure of fastening it round her neck.”

“Truly?” Bel shuddered as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin above her collarbone.

“Truly. And lucky me, you’ve even left your hair up.”

“I should have let the maid take it down.” Bel cringed. Her maid had asked, and she hadn’t known what to tell her. Her hair … there was so much of it. It had such a habit of getting in the way.

“No, no. It will be my pleasure to do so later. For now, it makes it all the easier for me to do this…” The weight of the pendant settled between her breasts as he fastened the clasp. “And this…” His touch whispered up to caress the soft place beneath her ear.

“And this …” His open mouth pressed against her nape, warm and wet, his breath rushing over her sensitized flesh.

“Oh.” Her knees buckled, and she fell back against his chest. But he was there to support her, so tall and strong.

Light kisses feathered down the column of her neck, each one sending a current of pleasure straight to the soles of her feet. And then his tongue … oh, his tongue climbed a path straight to her ear, and desire screamed through her. At least, Bel
thought
she might scream—or faint, or plead, or do something else equally mortifying, like melt into a puddle at his feet. She seemed to be melting already, at the juncture of her thighs.

He drew her earlobe into his mouth and suckled it lightly. Oh. Oh. Yes, something unmistakably liquid was happening down there. Ohhh … dear. She tensed every muscle in her body, attempting to solidify her will and her person.