A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(18)

Well, Toby thought, he’d been right. The brothers were certainly different. Gray had told him the Grayson siblings were born of different mothers, but Toby had been expecting a brother who was half-Spanish, like Isabel. Not one who was half-African, like … like scarcely anyone he knew, save servants. Certainly like no one to whom he’d ever bowed. Toby felt himself the object of keen scrutiny as he stared into Joss’s face—a darker copy of his brother’s. Begrudgingly, he conceded a silent point to Gray. The bastard had certainly played this card well. Or, rather, he’d played the bastard card well. There was no way Toby could register surprise now. Not when he’d just wagered his pride and self-respect against Isabel Grayson’s happiness.

“Captain Grayson. A pleasure.” Smile frozen in place, Toby made a smooth bow. There, that hadn’t been so difficult.

“Sir Toby.” Joss returned the bow. “I’d say the pleasure is mine, but I have an unfortunate habit of honesty, I’m afraid.”

Unfortunate indeed. This Grayson brother was not more congenial than the first. He was less. It was plain to see there was a plank-sized chip on Joss’s shoulder, balanced by the weight of general ill humor on the other. A right surly fellow, if ever Toby had met one. Just bloody perfect.

“You’re really going to allow this?” Joss spoke to Gray, making a dismissive gesture in Toby’s direction. “After one evening, you’re going to let Bel marry this ass?”

“I’m going to let her remain engaged to this ass,” Gray corrected. “For now. We’ll see if she still feels the same, come September.”

“September?” Toby echoed. “It’s barely April. Six weeks is ample time for an engagement. We’ll be married in May.”

“August.”

“June.”

“July, or not at all,” Gray said. “That’s my final concession.”

We’ll see about that.

Catching Toby’s frown, Joss raised an eyebrow. “By all means, press your case further. ‘Not at all’ is my preference.”

Toby kept his indignant retort to himself. What a family. A dandified footpad playing patriarch, seconded by his disagreeable bastard brother. But no matter. Their mutual loathing would only sweeten Toby’s triumph. To win Isabel, he could stomach far worse.

And of course, just as he’d formed the thought, along came worse.

“Papa, Papa!”

A tawny-skinned urchin with close-cropped hair barreled into the room, heading straight for the brothers but colliding instead with Toby’s leg. The child went sprawling to the carpet, first scuffing the shine on Toby’s boot, then attacking the offending boot in retaliation, to the point of sinking his teeth into the fine-grained leather.

“Ah!” Toby struggled for balance, attempting to shake the little demon off his leg. His efforts only resulted in encouraging the boy to cling more tightly, lashing his arms and legs around Toby’s ankle until he seemed a more permanent part of the boot than the tassel. The imp even had the nerve to laugh.

God only knew which brother’s indiscretion this boy represented. Neither man rushed to claim him, presumably too amused by Toby’s predicament to help.

“Jacob, no!” Isabel flew into the room, coming to land at Toby’s feet in a flutter of pale-blue muslin and lace. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, attempting to disentangle the child from Toby’s leg. “I told the nursemaid I’d take him down to the garden, but then he dashed away from me, and I couldn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Toby said, placing a light touch on her shoulder. “I’ve ten young nieces and nephews. Really, it’s all right.” She ceased struggling with the boy and looked up at him. And the grasping child, the insolent brothers, the world around them—simply ceased to exist. Moonlight did not begin to do her beauty justice, Toby realized. Isabel Grayson was made for the morning sun. Gentle, warm light that was in no rush, that had the entire day ahead of itself, that labored patiently to illuminate each glossy strand of her hair, each golden contour of her features, the petal-soft texture of her lips. And when coupled with the radiance that emanated from within—there was no other word for it.

She glowed.

“Sir Toby,” she said, her expression aggrieved. “My nephew … I beg your pardon.”

“Please, don’t distress yourself.” He hooked a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet. She really needed to stand. Once he’d finished his appraisal of her beauty above the neck, it was all too easy to let his gaze descend to where her lace-trimmed neckline gaped, offering a view of lush, full br**sts and the dark, enticing valley between them. Toby ceased seeing features and began seeing … possibilities.

Yes, she truly needed to stand.

“Jacob.” The deep command from Joss had the instantaneous effect of loosening the child’s grip. A moment later, circulation resumed in Toby’s toes.

“Your son?” Toby asked Joss.

Joss nodded in confirmation.

“Delightful child. And did his mother travel with you to London?”

“No, my wife remained on Tortola,” Joss said. “In the churchyard.”

Right. A surly, illegitimate widower. The man’s ill humor began to make sense.

“Come to Auntie Bel, darling.” Rescuing them all from the awkwardness of the moment, Isabel scooped the child into her arms, jutting out one hip to make a seat for him, all the while tickling the squirming bundle of mischief. She had the look of an early Renaissance Madonna: dark, radiant, rounded and soft, serene in the face of squalling infants, and beautiful to an unearthly degree.