A Lady of Persuasion (20 page)

“Just a few miles more.” Toby peered at the carriage window, watching the familiar landscape roll past. He turned his attention to his obviously uncomfortable wife, whose clear, honey-colored complexion was tinged with green. “You’re miserable, aren’t you? Too much jouncing about?”

“I’m enjoying the lovely countryside. But I must admit, I’m not accustomed to lengthy carriage rides.” Again, she twisted her hips to find a slightly different position on the tufted seat.

He winced. She must be sore. No, she was not accustomed to lengthy carriage rides, nor to lengthy nights of being ridden like a carriage horse. Not for the first time since their wedding, he felt a stab of guilt. He knew he’d been using his wife as if he were a sailor on shore leave—

but damned if he could help it. He wanted her, all the time. And she obliged him, whenever he asked.

Even now, the sight of those luscious breasts bouncing in time to the horses’ clopping hooves

…

He said casually, “Perhaps you’d feel the ruts less if you came over here and sat in my lap.”

She gave him that typically Isabel look—serious and searching. He could practically see the thoughts turning over in her mind. Could her husband possibly be so wicked, she was wondering, as to suggest what her recently expanded imagination supposed?

No, she decided mutely—and incorrectly—with a little shake of her head. “It is kind of you to offer, I’m sure. But I would not wish to wrinkle you.”

Just like her, to give him far more credit than his due. If Toby had his way, her light-blue traveling habit would meet with a fate far worse than wrinkling. She had so much misplaced faith in him—he only hoped a shred of it might survive his electoral defeat.

“Will it be a large crowd, there at the hustings?” she asked.

“Oh, undoubtedly. Hundreds, most likely.”

“But I understood the number of electors to be rather small. Only those freemen who hold land, your mother told me.”

“Yes, but it’s rather a holiday, you see. It’s the spectacle that draws people from miles around, whether or not they can cast a vote. Little enough excitement to be had in a sleepy borough like ours. Any excuse for a day spent gawking and lifting pints of ale will serve. And this is just the announcement of candidacy—wait until the polling begins in earnest. That’s when the real debauchery starts.”

“And how long will the polling last?”

“Until there is a clear winner—as many as fifteen days, not counting Sundays.” It wasn’t likely to last five, Toby thought to himself. By all reasoning, Yorke ought to take a commanding lead from the first and end the thing swiftly.

“As many as fifteen days of drunken debauchery?” Isabel’s eyebrows rose. “No wonder people anticipate an election.”

“It could be worse. Ours is a sedate little corner of England. We could be in one of those counties up north, where the polling always ends in riots. Or worse,” he added, jerking his head toward the window, “just a ways back, in Garret.”

“What takes place in Garret?”

“Oh, they have a sort of sham election, every Parliament. People from all around come to see it

—outlandish costumes, coarse humor, barrels and barrels of ale. You see, a man needn’t be a landowner to vote there.”

“No?”

“No.” He gave her a teasing grin. “There is only one qualification to vote in Garret. A man must have enjoyed a woman in the open air, somewhere within that district.”

The green cast of her complexion turned to pink. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Unable to resist, Toby rose from his seat opposite and crossed the gap, settling down next to her. “In fact,” he continued, leaning into her and directing her gaze out the window, “I believe we may still be traveling through that district now. You did remark on the lovely countryside. And I think a breath of open air may be just the remedy you need. Shall we venture out and find an obliging little haystack or hillock to enjoy, hm?”

She blushed deeper. “You are an outrageous tease.”

“I’m not teasing at all. I’d have a far better chance of winning in Garret than in my own borough. There’s just that small matter of eligibility.” He snaked an arm behind her waist and cupped her lush, rounded hip in his palm. With his other hand, he reached for his walking stick. “I’ll halt the carriage right now, if you like.” He stretched his arm, extending the knob of ivory toward the coach’s side, as though he would rap to signal the driver.

“You wouldn’t!” Twisting her body, she stretched out a hand to stay his arm.

“Oh, yes, I would,” he said, reaching out again.

“Toby!” she exclaimed, wrestling his arm with both hands now and wriggling herself straight into his lap. Just where he’d been wanting her.

He said quietly, “I would.” Then he paused, waiting for that beautiful face to turn toward his. “I would, but only if you asked it.”

Her frown melted to an inviting, “Oh.”

Lowering his arm, he cast aside the walking stick. He needed two hands on her delicious body

—one simply wasn’t enough. “There now. Isn’t it better, sitting like this?”

She nodded breathlessly, her eyes never leaving his.

“You don’t feel ill anymore?”

She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

“Very good,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers.

And when their lips met, the world stopped. God, he loved kissing her, nearly as much as he loved bedding her. Toby had never thought himself an especially fanciful fellow, but damned if there wasn’t something magical in the brush of her mouth against his. Not in the sense of fairy-story pixie dust or cauldrons bubbling with superstitious claptrap. Magic of the ancient, primeval sort. The unleashing of an elemental force. When they kissed, a vast realm of passion opened between them, wild and uncharted. And they explored it together, feeling their way through the dark with questing lips and seeking tongues and bold, wandering fingers.

He could have held his wife in his lap and kissed her all the way to Devonshire. But as luck—

and geography—would have it, they reached his borough in Surrey first.

“Toby.”

“Mmm?”

“Is this the town?”

Preoccupied with tasting every inch of her delicate throat, he spared only the briefest of glances out the window. “Probably.”

With a little yelp, she squirmed out of his lap and flung herself to the opposite seat.

He followed her. “We’ve a few minutes yet.”

“Toby, no!” She evaded his grasp, volleying back to her original seat.

This time, he let her escape. “It’s all right, darling. No one can see in. Unless they’re trying.”

“Of course they’ll be trying! And look at us, all mussed and wrinkled.” Her hands fluttered over her gown, and she threw him a grieved look. “Toby, please. Make yourself presentable.”

“What? Is my cravat askew?”

“No, no. It’s not your cravat that’s askew, it’s your …” She flicked a glance at his lap.

Toby looked down, then laughed. “Well, my wife, unless you intend to come over here and relieve the condition—”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Right. Then the only other remedy would be time.”

“Did you know,” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone, “that mechanical brushes can clean a flue in one-third the time of a climbing boy, and with twice the efficiency? You might mention that in your speech today.”

Time, or talk of chimney sweeps
.

“Isabel,” he said, making discreet adjustments to his fall, “these are country cottagers. They don’t employ chimney sweeps.”

“But they are humans, and Christians, and must therefore respond to the plight of those pitiable children. An injustice perpetrated against the most meek of souls is an injustice against us all.”

Toby held his tongue. It was becoming a bit of a pattern, he’d noticed. Isabel was a willing, and even enthusiastic, partner in lovemaking. But the moment their physical pleasure was concluded, her charitable zeal returned in double force. Just last night, while he’d been struggling for breath in the aftermath of an explosive coupling, Isabel had popped straight from bed and fished the tinderbox and candle from the drawer of his writing desk. Her reason? It had been imperative, at two in the morning, to pen a note to Augusta regarding some alteration in the text of their Society leaflet.

For his part, Toby had gone to sleep.

Well, he supposed, different women had differing reactions following the coital act. Some found languor and sleep, while others experienced a burst of energy. And no matter what task Isabel rose from their bed to complete, in time she always came back. Toby could understand the habit, on a rational level, and he hardly knew how to object. But he still felt a small surge of resentment, each time he lazily stretched to embrace his wife and grasped nothing but air.

The coach rolled to a halt in the town square.

“Here we are, then,” Toby said, leaning forward in his seat. He took his wife’s hand. “Shall I have the driver take you on to Wynterhall? Our trunks have likely arrived by now, and the house staff will be expecting you.”

“What do you mean? I don’t want to go on to the house, not alone. I want to stay here with you, and watch the proceedings.”

“Isabel, it’s only the nomination of candidates … a trifling matter of procedure and an excuse to tap a few kegs of ale. Not a referendum on the human condition. Besides, the hustings can become disorderly. This isn’t a scene for a lady.”

She peered out the carriage window. “But there are several ladies in the crowd already. Please, let me stay. If you like, I’ll sit in the carriage and watch from here. I want to witness the birth of your political career.” With a little smile, she added, “And I’d so looked forward to hearing your speech.”

“Had you?” Toby asked, suddenly wishing he’d prepared one.

* * *

Wandering piemen and orange-sellers hawked their wares in colorful song. Above all, a string of bright banners fluttered in the breeze. Bel had never attended a country fair, but in her imagination, they looked much like this.

A man wearing an outmoded jonquil-yellow topcoat mounted the hustings platform and called out to the throng. His voice was every bit as loud as his coat. Bel could tell from his proud bearing, he took his duties very seriously.

“All right, then,” he called. “We all know how this goes. As your returning officer, empowered by the sheriff to oversee this election, I’ve summat to read aloud.” He withdrew a folded sheaf of parchment from his pocket.

“Can’t we skip over that part?” a voice whined from the crowd.

“No, we can’t skip over that part,” the yellow-clad man mimicked back. He shook his clutch of papers and fortified his booming voice. “It’s procedure, you idiot. It’s government. It’s this paper what separates us from the heathens.”

Another bystander called out, “It’s that paper what makes you a pompous arse.”

“No, it ain’t,” a third shouted. “It’s that bloody coat.”

“Trust me, gents, it’s neither.” This came from a round-cheeked woman draped over the sill of a second-story window. “He’s a pompous arse, wearing nothing at all.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and the yellow-clad man’s face turned a violent shade of red.

“I only wish he’d read me that paper some night,” she continued. “Couldn’t be any more boring than his—”

Bel couldn’t make out the remainder of her remark. A fresh storm of laughter drowned it out.

Still, she blushed as her mind filled in the blank.

“Enough!” the man in the yellow coat berated the crowd. “Drink your ale, you uncivilized idiots. And you, woman”—he waved a finger at the cackling figure in the window—“I’ll paddle your meddling arse six shades of red this evening.”

“Oh, Colin,” she sang out, fluttering her eyelashes. “Do you promise?”

When the crowd finally settled—several minutes later—the man in the yellow coat began to read. Bel understood why the crowd had protested the idea. First there was the writ calling for a new Parliament, and then the act against bribery. Then another man came forward, to administer the officer’s oath against bribery. And as the gears of government creaked along, the sun inched higher in the sky, baking the square with soporific heat. Soon the horses were stamping and whickering with impatience. The coachman’s head slumped to the side, and even Bel was swallowing back a yawn.

Finally, the yellow-clad returning officer put out the call for nominations.

“Montague!” the crowd roared as one. They repeated the name until it became a three-syllable chant: “Mon-ta-gue! Mon-ta-gue!”

Montague?
Who was Montague, and why had Bel not heard of him if he possessed such a loyal following? She’d thought Mr. Yorke posed Toby’s only opposition.

A bent, decrepit man mounted the platform, helped up the stairs by a man half his age and twice his size. He wore a faded Army redcoat with tarnished buttons and cuffs worn white at the edge. The crowd’s chanting increased in volume until he doddered to the center of the stage and snapped a military salute.

To a man, the assembled electors came to attention and saluted in return.

“All hail Madman Montague!” a man cried out from the throng.

The hulking man at the candidate’s elbow made a threatening gesture with his fist. “Don’t you be disrespecting the colonel.”

“Aw, come on. Ain’t as though he can hear me.”

The man in the yellow coat regained control of the stage. “Colonel Geoffrey Montague is hereby a candidate for the office of Member of Parliament.”