A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(55)

“Anyway, my mother disagreed with the doctors. She did not believe she was mad. Not from a fever, at any rate.”

“But mad people never know they’re mad. That’s part of their illness. Do you think Colonel Montague believes he’s mad?”

“I suppose not.” She frowned.

“Of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t stand for election if he did. That’s the paradox of it—if you’re aware that you’re mad, then you’re not mad.”

“But that’s nonsensical.”

“Precisely.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Montague’s nephews don’t accept the extent of his illness, either, or they wouldn’t have put on that display today. It’s only natural, for people to believe the best of their loved ones. Their affection blinds them to the truth. Love is its own form of madness.”

“Yes. My mother said that, too.”

She fell into a ponderous silence. They walked on together, joined at the hip.

“What will happen now?” she asked, as they entered a copse of beech trees. “With the election?”

“Colin Brooks—” He kicked a stone out of their path. “He’s the returning officer …”

“The one in the horrid yellow coat?”

“God, yes.” Toby laughed. “He’ll set a date for the polling to begin, probably a few days hence. There’ll be speeches at the hustings every day, and the accumulated votes tallied each afternoon. When one candidate has a clear majority, they’ll close the polls.”

“I don’t want to go back there,” she said, shuddering.

“I wouldn’t allow you to return, if you did. Even I don’t have to attend. Some candidates stay away from the hustings entirely, and let their supporters speak for them.”

“Oh, but you must attend! How else will you persuade the electors to give you their votes?

You never had a chance to address them today.” She looked up at him through her lashes.

“Though if your heroics with the horses did not convince them of your suitability, I don’t know what will. The way you leapt onto that moving horse …”

“Really, it was nothing,” Toby said, in a tone of false humility that he knew would draw him even more praise. Isabel’s admiration was perhaps a bit more than he deserved, but he wasn’t about to spurn it.

“It was wonderful. And terrifying. Oh, Toby. I was so certain you would be trampled.”

She nestled close to him, and he let his hand wander down the curve of her hip. Really—

shouldn’t a daring rescue like that entitle a man to a few liberties? Here he’d been wanting to slay a dragon for her, and Toby supposed subduing a panicked carriage horse was as close as he’d ever get.

“Thank you,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Really, the trick of it’s all in the timing. And it’s Mr. Yorke you ought to thank,” Toby replied, breathing in the delicious scent of her hair. “I’d never have learned that maneuver if not for him.”

“Truly?”

“My mother forbade me to practice that vault, you see. Told me I’d break my neck. So naturally, Yorke encouraged me just to spite her. I spent most of my fourteenth summer in his eastern pasture, practicing. Took me weeks, and I took my share of nasty spills, but I finally mastered the way of it.”

“I can understand why your mother objected. It sounds horribly dangerous.” She raised her head and looked up at him. “Why on earth did you want to learn?”

“I had my heart set on joining the cavalry. Though deep down, I knew I never could. With my father gone, it was too great a risk. If I died without an heir, my mother and sisters would be left alone. Still, at fourteen I had my dreams. Pictured myself charging around French battlefields, spilling Bonapartist blood.”

Toby laughed a little. Ah, to be young and spend hours spinning detailed, grandiose fantasies of changing the world. Isabel certainly wasn’t a girl any longer, but she’d somehow retained that youthful idealism he’d long outgrown. He didn’t always understand her zeal, but he did admire it. At times, he envied it. Honor, Justice, Charity … the way she pronounced those terms, he could hear the capital letters implied. They were words she spoke often, but never lightly. And she took the same earnest tone when she spoke of being a Lady, with a capital L. Toby hadn’t thought much of being a Sir since he was a boy, envisioning himself the hero of a lost Arthurian legend: Sir Toby the Valiant. Isabel made him feel that there could be something to this whole notion of nobility, aside from assuming his place in the throng of bored aristocrats—men with nothing better to do of an afternoon than sit at the club swilling brandy. Perhaps he could make his title something more than just the fading gleam on a centuries-old suit-of-armor.

Or perhaps Isabel could.

“Cavalry or no, that vault turned out to be a useful trick.” He squeezed her hand and donned a devilish grin. “Soon I came to appreciate its other application.”

“What’s that?”

“Why, impressing the young ladies, of course.” He brushed a light kiss on her lips. “Did it work?”

She nodded, blushing.

“Very good. Let’s see if I can impress you further.” He thrust his free arm under her hips and swept her off her feet.