A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(47)

She gave him a sly smile. “Well, and don’t forget gesturing. And rapping on doors. Truthfully, I still don’t understand the idea—but it was the only thing I could think of to buy you. And I must admit, it does suit you.” She gave him an appraising look, and he struck a cocky, barechested pose that made her blush most satisfactorily. She asked, “Do you like it?”

“I adore it.” He held one end out to her, as though urging her to take it. When she grasped the polished wood, however, he gave a swift tug, pulling her to him. “But I adore you more.”

He meant it to be a tender kiss. A kiss of thanks and appreciation. A kiss that made no demands. But one taste of her, and his body formed quite different intentions. Within seconds, he was as hard as a walking stick. Harder.

“Isabel.” He nipped her ear. “I want you again. Can you bear it, so soon?”

“Of course.” She pulled back and studied him, that boundless trust shining in her eyes. “You would not ask it of me, if I could not.”

And right then, Toby knew. He knew he was doomed.

He could run for Parliament. He could win. He could become bloody Prime Minister and the Prince Regent’s closest adviser. He could travel to Ceylon and back just to bring her a cup of tea, converting a thousand heathens along the way—and he would still never live up to that look in her eyes. No man could. Someday, somehow, he would hurt her—and it would mean the end of everything. Oh, she would forgive him, generous soul that she was. They would still share a cordial affection. But she would never look at him like this again, as if … as if he deserved her faith in him. One day, they would both know he did not. But for now—and for as long as he could keep it so—it remained Toby’s secret. He slid his hands around her waist. “Darling girl. Come back to bed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“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, honeycolored 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 br**sts 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.”