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

No, he would exact his revenge more subtly, more justly. No messy duel, no public denouncement. Did not the Bible advise an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth … or, in this case, a lady for a lady?

When the pattern brought them together again, he pulled his dark-haired temptress close—so close the green silk of her gown tangled with his legs. Her scent teased him: a crisp, freshsmelling blend of verbena and citrus. Tightening his grip on her arm, he whispered just as they parted: “I must tell you a secret.”

He squeezed her fingers before releasing them, allowing his thumb to brush the sensitive center of her palm. He fancied he heard her gasp.

Grayson cast him a wary look. Toby’s arrogance made a feast of it.

He turned back to the lady in green. “You will be shocked,” he murmured as they brushed by one another again, “but it cannot be helped.”

He did not imagine her gasp that time, nor the flush that bloomed from her hairline to her bosom. Lord, she had the most magnificent bosom, and now it was lifting slightly with her every breath, straining the seams of her bodice. Tearing his eyes from the sight was quite possibly the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

An eternity passed before the pattern reunited them. Toby dutifully twirled and promenaded, avoiding Lucy’s inquisitive glances by watching her instead. Within him, bitter envy twined with lust. Admiration glowed on her face as she regarded her partner. He despised Grayson more every moment.

When at last he rejoined the lady in green, it was with profound, bone-deep relief. As though he’d journeyed to the Holy Land and back to earn her favor, rather than circling a ballroom. If he’d tried, he couldn’t have explained the sense of purpose and destiny that gripped him. This jaunty reel had become a mission, more serious than any undertaking of his life. He kept up a low, seductive rush of words as they traced a tight spiral, denying her any opportunity to respond. “I am drawn to you. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. I am enraptured.”

He was a liar.

Isabel Grayson trembled as she resumed her place in the line. Her heart pounded a wild rhythm, twice the tempo of the reel. Fortunately, the pattern now afforded her a few bars of rest. She ventured a furtive glance in the gentleman’s direction, only to encounter the disquieting appraisal in his eyes.

Blushing, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

I am drawn to you, he’d said. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. A lie, a lie. His eyes had most definitely not followed her all evening. If they had, Bel would have noticed—for she’d been staring at him the whole time.

How could she not stare? He was, quite simply, the most handsome man she’d ever seen, despite the fact she’d grown up in the company of three exceedingly handsome men: her father and two brothers. But their rugged, roguish appeal drew as much from their imperfections as from their well-formed features. By contrast, this man—this man was an ideal. Sculpted profile, light brown hair threaded with gold, and a lean, confident grace to all his movements, grand or small.

She’d observed him since the moment he entered the room. While he’d circled the assembly with a lithe, easy step; as he’d chatted with their hosts. Even when courtesy forced her to direct her eyes elsewhere, she’d been aware of him, in some tingling notch at the base of her spine. And now, this dance. His bold glances, the stolen caresses, and those devastating murmured words: I am enraptured.

Her whole body hummed with a foreign, forbidden thrill: desire.

Oh, this was a disaster!

Bel did not want to be feeling desire. She did not want to be feeling anything. Any other young lady in her place might dream of just this—a divinely handsome man to sweep her away on a giddy tide of emotion.

But not her. She had come to this ball for one reason only: to select a husband from among the eligible lords. Her choice would be a wholly rational decision, made on the basis of reflection, prayer, and a well-informed portrait of the man’s moral character and sphere of influence. In aid of the process, she knew that a measure of physical attraction on the gentleman’s side would be beneficial; hence, this lavish, form-fitting gown. But for her part, Bel would not be influenced by capricious flutterings of sentiment, or worse—by sinful stirrings of desire. And it must be desire, this plague of sensation rendering her feverish and lightheaded. It certainly felt sinful. And stirring.

“You dizzy me.”

The words were a whisper as the pattern shifted and the handsome gentleman wove past. Reeling from an unwelcome frisson of pleasure, Bel missed a step.

Her brother gave her a look of concern. “Come now,” Gray said, guiding her back into the pattern. “Don’t trust me to lead. You know I’m just learning this country-dance nonsense myself.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t dare cease counting under my breath, or I’ll lose my place completely.”

Bel gave a nervous laugh and willed her molten-wax knees to solidify. Behave normally, she told herself. One, two, three. Dance, laugh, smile.

“For God’s sake, don’t smile.”

He’d passed behind her again, that seductive phantom, trailing his serpentine whispers that wormed in through her ears and coiled low in her belly. And here he came once more.

“When you smile, I can’t breathe.”

Oh dear. This was not good. Not good at all.

She knew, because she was good. She was. She was a good, good girl. Not at all the type of lady to be tempted by a golden-haired, silver-tongued devil in fitted broadcloth. Yes, she’d been raised by a degenerate father, a lunatic mother, and two brothers who had rebuilt the family fortune through violence and theft—but Bel refused to follow that path. She’d devoted her life to service and charity, although she’d grown frustrated with the limits of her good work on Tortola. Visiting the infirm, teaching children to read, even supporting the sugar cooperative—she was only sticking plasters on a rifle wound. She couldn’t decrease unfair tariffs; she couldn’t abolish slavery. The only people with the ability to effect meaningful change were here, in London: the lords, with their wealth and power and voices in government. Bel could not become one of them, but she could become one of the wealthy, powerful ladies at their sides.