A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(14)

Bel inhaled slowly, absorbing this new information. Sir Toby, once engaged to Sophia! So much for claiming the gentleman’s undivided attention.

Gray swore under his breath. “The man’s an oily bilge rat. He’s angry with me for taking his bride, and now he’s just trying to get back at me by—” He bit off the sentence when Sophia threw him a sharp look.

“By marrying me,” Bel finished for him. “I see. You assume the only reason Sir Toby would propose to me is to get back at you. He couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Is that what you’re implying?”

“Bel, no.” Gray scrubbed his face with his hand. “Of course, any man would be desperate to marry you. But considering past events, and the speed with which he pursued you—”

“But how could he harbor any such scheme?” Bel asked. “Sir Toby didn’t even know my name.”

They both stared at her.

“Is that true?” Sophia asked. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Bel insisted. “When we … left the ballroom together, he had no idea I was Gray’s sister. When I told him my name, he was shocked indeed—and even more surprised that I did not recognize his. He was sure you would have mentioned him to me.”

“I should have,” Sophia said. “I’m so sorry, I should have told you earlier.”

“Don’t apologize,” Gray told his wife. “How could you have predicted last evening’s events?

Normally, there’s time between introductions and betrothal to discuss such things.” He sighed.

“Bel, you must admit, this ‘proposal’ happened with suspicious alacrity.”

“That wasn’t entirely his fault, either. I’m the one who broached the topic of marriage.” Bel pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not certain what came over me,” she said, too stunned to censor her comments. “One moment, he was a handsome stranger, and the next I was conversing with him as though I’d known him for years. He … he put me so at ease. He made me smile.”

And he’d kissed her. It wasn’t as though she could neglect that bit. She’d lain awake all night, trying to erase the sensation of his lips against hers. Trying to forget the taste of him, so forbidden and sweet.

“Don’t worry,” Gray said. “When the rat comes calling today, I’ll send him scurrying. You’re not going to marry him.”

“But I must,” Bel protested. “Or what will people say?”

“They’ll say you’ve come to your senses, recovered your wits.”

They’ll know I lost them. They’ll see me as another flighty, impressionable girl. Bel said, “I’m going marry Sir Toby.” She turned to Sophia. “What’s past is past. I don’t see why your prior engagement should affect mine. Say what you will, I cannot suspect him of any malicious intent.”

“To be truthful, neither can I,” Sophia said.

While Gray harrumphed and made a show of busying himself with his food, Sophia pushed aside her plate to make room for a stack of newspapers tied with twine.

“You ought to see these,” she told Bel. “I know you do not read The Prattler. I’m not so fond of the scandal sheets as I once was, but Lady Kendall saved these and passed them along to me.” She picked open the knot and opened the top paper to the third page. “There,” she said, pointing out an illustration with her fingertip. “This appeared in February, a full month before we arrived in London and my marriage to Gray was announced.”

Bel took the paper from her sister’s hand to examine it more closely. The image was most definitely a likeness of Sir Toby, though his harmonious features were thrown out of balance by the caricaturist’s pen. His forehead was too wide; his jaw, unnaturally square. Regardless, he remained breathtakingly handsome, even rendered in unkind strokes. Bel read the caption aloud. “The Rake Reborn.” Then beneath it, a line in smaller print:

“London’s famed Lothario survives to carouse another day.” In the background of the illustration, a group of ladies struck desperate postures, hands to their foreheads and shoulders limp. Ribbons of speech flowed from the ladies’ mouths. “It’s his golden-haired beauty,” one sighed. “No, his silver tongue!” argued another. The third fanned herself and declaimed, “How he gives me the vapors! We must recover by the sea.” At the bottom, the caricature was signed, H. M. Hollyhurst.

Bel looked up, puzzled. “Recover by the sea? I don’t understand.”

“When I disappeared, my parents spread the word that I’d taken ill and been sent to the seaside to convalesce. Instead of focusing on the scandal of my disappearance, the gossipmongers—

and this Mr. Hollyhurst—took a keen interest in Toby. They labeled him the ‘Rake Reborn,’

insinuated that he rejoiced in my illness and used it as an opportunity to prolong his debauched bachelor life.”

Bel looked at the illustration again, cringing. She’d suspected him to be a rake, but seeing the evidence in print… Sir Toby surrounded by fair-haired, slender, classical beauties adorned with plumes and jewels. A dozen Sophias.

She laid aside her toast. “I understand why Sir Toby said he’s weary of gossip.”

“He must be,” Sophia said, riffling the papers, “for he’s been in The Prattler every day for months. If it’s not one of Mr. Hollyhurst’s caricatures, it’s a notice in the society column. They’ve cataloged his attendance at every ball, boxing match, opera house, and gaming club. The paper has even gone so far as to tally the number of his paramours, since his near escape.”