A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(22)

Oh dear. Anticipation gleamed bright in his eyes, and Bel could not bring herself to dim it. She gave a brave nod and once again latched her fingers over the seat iron.

“No, no,” he said, glancing at her two-fisted grip as he gathered the reins. “You’ll only feel more jounced about that way. Best to hold onto my arm.”

He offered his elbow, and Bel stared at it. “If you insist…”

“I do.”

She threaded one arm through his, linking her hands around his upper arm. The waiter emerged from the teashop bearing a large hamper, which Toby directed him to secure behind the phaeton seat. Then, with a clipped word from their master, the horses jolted into motion. Bel clutched at Toby’s arm as they turned out into the street. His muscles flexed under her fingers, and a thrill shot through her.

“Are you well?” he shouted, urging the horses faster.

“Yes,” she managed in a weak voice. When collision with an approaching barouche seemed imminent, Bel suppressed a cry of alarm and clamped her eyes shut.

Oh, this was much better in the dark.

He was right. The jolts of the carriage felt less pronounced now that she gripped his arm rather than the metal frame. Leaning into him, she endeavored to make her body pliant, weightless. Soon she learned how a small flex of his arm or shift of his weight preceded any alteration in course. The easy command he displayed soothed her concern, as did the familiar, sophisticated scent of his cologne. Yet they also stirred her, in some deep, undeniably feminine way. The more she became aware of his strength, the more her own body softened in response. She coasted along with the rocking motions of the carriage, the fear in her belly replaced by a new sensation … a dark, sweet hunger that built and built.

“We’re here,” he announced, drawing the team to a halt.

Surely we’re not, thought Bel, feeling a profound sense of interruption. Wherever this wave of sensation was carrying her, she couldn’t possibly be more than halfway along. She opened her eyes. A forbidding brick-and-stone façade rose up before them. “What is this place?”

“It’s Dr. David’s dispensary for children.” He tossed the reins to a groom and slid down from the seat. “Quickly now,” he said, hurrying around to help her down. Puzzled, she watched him beckon a manservant from the dispensary’s entrance. Together, the men worked to unstrap the hamper from the back of the carriage.

Toby grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward the entrance. “Hurry along. We don’t want it to melt.”

Bel followed him, mute with confusion, as they entered a cool, ceramic-tiled foyer and made a sharp left. Behind them, the manservant trotted to keep up, bearing the hamper.

“This way, then.” Toby led them up a twisting flight of stairs and down a narrow corridor. A variety of unpleasant scents battled for prominence: sickness, laudanum, vinegar. Finally they emerged into a narrow ward lined with small beds on either side. In each bed lay a pale-faced, wide-eyed waif, frozen in an unnatural attitude of innocence. They wore the smug expressions of children interrupted in the midst of an illicit game and quite satisfied with their success at concealing it.

At Toby’s direction, the servant began opening the hamper. Toby strode to the center of the room, clapping his hands. “All right, children. Time for medicine.”

A chorus of groans rose up from the beds. A thin voice protested, “We already had our medicine!”

“Ah, yes. But this is a different medicine. Especially ordered by your new nurse, Miss Grayson.” He turned to Bel and gave her a frown that she immediately recognized as an exaggerated mirror of her own expression. “Don’t worry, I know she looks stern. But I promise, she’s soft as kittens inside.” He went to the hamper and pushed aside a layer of straw, then a sheet of waxed parchment. Inside, rows of pastel ices glistened like jewels. Toby lifted out two frosted glass dishes and held them out to Bel. “Here,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself.”

Impossible man. Surely these children had other, more urgent needs he might have addressed, rather than spending money on this extravagant treat: bandages, linens, nourishing food, real medicine. But just like the children, he looked so pleased with his own mischief. And so handsome besides. Smiling, she took the ices from his hands.

“There’s my girl,” he said, giving her a little wink. A correspondingly girlish thrill swept through her. Turning, he called to the room, “Who likes strawberry?”

The resulting clamor persisted for a good quarter hour, as the ices were distributed and demolished by the eager children. Bel seated herself at the bedside of a spindly-limbed boy sporting bandages on both arms, feeding him spoonfuls of apricot-flavored ice. The rapturous expression on his face warmed her heart.

Toby joined her, sitting on the other side of the boy’s bed. “Well? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“You know I am. Thank you.”

“This ward houses the children who are nearly ready to be released. Perhaps next time we’ll visit some of the truly miserable ones. You’ll be in perfect ecstasy, I predict.”

Bel looked back at the bandaged child. He had fallen asleep, a cherubic smile on his face. “Peter Jeffers, aged nine, ward of Charlesbridge-Crewe Chimney Sweeps,” she read from a slate tacked to the boy’s headboard. “Aged nine? Why, he looks no more than five or six!”