A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(64)

“Yes, for one. Mr. Yorke is another.” He laughed a little. “And if I ever wanted to start an interesting scene, I should gather them both in the same room and tell them so.” With his free hand, he picked up a fallen branch and swung it idly, swatting at the bushes and vines as they went. “Don’t you see? If there are only a handful of people I can admire in the world, how lucky am I? I was born to one of them, grew up a stone’s throw from another …” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “And now I’ve managed to marry a third.”

Bel’s heart warmed. How did he do it? How did he always intuit just exactly what she needed to hear and then speak the words so convincingly? It was beyond charm, it was … She didn’t even know what to call it. “Toby, that’s very …” Romantic? Generous? Undeserved? “…

sweet.”

“Sweet?” He hurried forward a step, then swung around to face her, halting her progress. Suddenly, his tone wasn’t teasing anymore—simply husky and soft. “It’s nothing to do with being sweet. I’m being honest.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?”

“Lie to you?” Pausing, he gave her a little smile. “Never.”

And how could she doubt him, when he looked at her thus—with those amber-flecked eyes warm with admiration, wide enough to reflect all her hopes and dreams?

“I honestly meant what I told you yesterday,” he told her, skipping his finger from the crown of her head, to her brow, to the tip of her nose, to her chin. “I admire every part of you, inside and out. And I’m … I’m simply so very grateful.”

“Grateful?” she breathed. “For what?”

“For the fact you’re not wearing a bonnet this morning.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

She almost laughed into his kiss, for in that moment Bel was grateful, too—and for an equally absurd reason. Not because she’d married a man who could turn her insides to jelly with a smile, or because he’d made her mistress of her very own lovely, lamb-plagued castle. Not even because she trusted him so implicitly, so completely that she could accept not only kisses, but pleasure and praise from these lips.

No, in that moment she was overwhelmed with a most vain sort of gratitude—for the fact that Toby was tall. Taller than she, when so many men weren’t. She would always have to reach for his kiss—stretch her neck, arch her feet—and feel just a bit girlish and uncertain and excited as she did. This kiss would never lose its thrill.

A giddy bubble of infatuation rose in her belly. By sheer force of will, she tamped it down. She may have lost the struggle against desire, but she was doubly resolved to guard her heart. Desire would inevitably fade—but love?

Love had a way of altering one’s priorities. And Bel needed to keep hers intact. She pulled away, and he growled deep in his throat.

“Yes, that’s enough of that,” he said, planting one last firm kiss on her lips before releasing her. “Else we’ll never make it to Yorke’s this morning.”

“Why is it we’re going there at all?”

“Just a matter of estate concern. It’s this business with the irrigation canal.”

“Ah, yes.” Isabel remembered her mother-in-law’s complaint. “Mr. Yorke went back on his agreement, simply to vex your mother?”

“I’m certain there’s more to it than that. Mother has a way of exaggerating when it comes to Yorke. You’d think him the three-eyed ogre under the bridge, rather than the neighbor living across it.” Their boots made hollow clunking noises as he led her over the graying planks that bridged a small rill. “I hope you don’t mind the walk,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d feel up to the carriage just yet.”

“No,” Bel agreed, her pulse accelerating at the mere mention of yesterday’s calamity. She’d be just as happy never to ride in a carriage again.

“And I suppose I could have left you at home and allowed you to rest,” he continued, winking at her. “But I’m too selfish for that. This is our honeymoon, after all, and I mean to keep you close.”

They edged a wheat field in silence, walking arm in arm, and Isabel tilted her face to the warm June sunshine. If God had ever created a more beautiful morning, Isabel would still prefer this one. She didn’t think her heart could withstand a day that came any closer to perfection. If the breeze teasing the grain were just a degree warmer, if this sky were just a slightly deeper shade of blue … if her husband, the handsomest thing under the sun, winked at her just one more time—true disaster could strike.

She could fall in love.

“We have a problem.”

Toby frowned as Mr. Yorke tugged him closer to the garden hedge. Behind them, Isabel marveled over a clump of late-blooming strawberries, gathering the tiny red fruits in one palm. Imagine, the dear girl had never seen strawberry plants. There were so many things he could show her, so many delights she’d never experienced.

“We have a serious problem,” Yorke whispered again. “This little plan of yours is off to an inauspicious start.”

“How so?” Toby asked.

“Let me give you a hint. If you don’t want the populace to support your candidacy, you shouldn’t go performing dashing heroics in front of the crowd. You’re the talk of the borough, after that little trick-riding stunt.”