A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(78)

She sniffed.

“Come with me to the opera, darling.” Tossing aside the newspaper, he framed her face in his warm, confident hands. His brown eyes held her, made her strong. “Let me dress you up and devastate London with your beauty. I promise you, no newspaper will dare accuse me of dallying again—because no one would ever believe it. They’ll know, no painted bauble at the Hidden Pearl could ever compare with the radiant, elegant woman I married. One look at us together, and they will know the truth.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “There’s no other lady for me.”

Bel’s lips pressed together. The rest of her fell apart. Oh, how she wished he would kiss her. Right here in the modiste’s fitting room, while she stood wrapped in her shift and a velvet curtain, in front of all these preening French coquettes.

He did.

And this time, she did not mind the giggling.

Toby held that kiss just as long as he dared. While he kissed her, her lips couldn’t form questions. While he kissed her, his lips couldn’t lie.

There’s no other lady for me.

That much was the truth. The simple, soul-baring truth, and he poured it all into this chaste, sweet kiss, hoping his wife could feel and believe it.

Lord knew, she wasn’t too quick to recognize truth when it was spoken aloud. His heart still pounded in his chest, after that close scrape just now with The Prattler. He’d come a heartbeat from simply confessing everything. But once again, she’d displayed such complete faith in him, he just couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. Confession was out of the question.

No, Toby had a different plan.

“Now, then,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “Be a good girl and have your measurements. Allow me to discuss the style with Madame. I’ll make certain you’re happy.”

And he would, he vowed silently, dropping a final kiss between her eyebrows. He would make her happy. Underneath all those angelic ideals and heavenly curves beat a heart that was simply human. Simply woman. And though he might have no head for philanthropy or politics, Toby understood women.

He had this one week. For God knew what reason, he and Yorke remained close in the polls, but the numbers were certain to turn at the end. In a handful of days, the polling would close and Colin Brooks would certify his defeat. Somehow, in that short window of time, he had to replace Isabel’s naïve faith in him with deeper emotions, ones he could sustain. It was time to step up his campaign, and it all began with the opera. She was so wary of life’s little amusements—ices, jewels, beautiful gowns. Plea sure distressed her, for some unfathomable reason, but he could help her overcome that distress. Surely his success in the bedchamber could be repeated in other settings. He could teach her to enjoy herself, and to enjoy being with him. He would make her feel perfect and adored and deserving of every indulgence the world had to offer.

And then, she would surrender her political dreams and embrace a future of domestic bliss. He didn’t have to destroy her faith in him, just give it a new foundation. Love. That was the plan.

And if he got her with child in the process … call it insurance.

“Oh, Madame?” he called, holding up the edge of the velvet drape. “Ce couleur, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bon choix, monsieur.”

He traded instructions with the modiste in French, so that Isabel would be unable to understand, and therefore unable to object. Aside from the gown for Tuesday, he ordered three more evening gowns and five day dresses, as well as a full complement of petticoats and the like. His wife would have protested the expenditure with every word in her bilingual vocabulary—but Toby knew her to be worth every penny, and more.

An hour later, they emerged from the shop.

“Fancy a drive in the park?” he asked.

Isabel shook her head violently. “Oh, no.”

Toby cursed inwardly. Stupid suggestion, that. Ever since that incident in Surrey, she suffered carriage rides with all the enjoyment of a kitten receiving a bath.

“Is there anything else you need to buy?” He tucked her hand in his arm. “Or shall we find a teashop and take some refreshment?”

“I’m not hungry, thank you. But if there is a draper’s nearby, the children’s dispensary is in need of new bed linens.”

“Very well.” He turned them left, and together they ambled down the street. “While we’re at it, let’s choose some for ourselves.”

“Oh, we couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t we? Don’t we deserve new linens, just as much as sickly foundlings do?”

“It isn’t that,” she hissed, in a voice that communicated her wish for him to lower his own. “It’s not proper, for a husband and wife to go shopping for bed linens together. “

“Whyever not? Seems the most proper thing in the world, to me. But if we are to be shocking, why stop at linen? Let’s order five sets of sheets in aubergine satin.”

She did not even reply to that, aside from turning a shade that hinted toward aubergine, herself. He murmured in her ear, “Have you ever experienced that sensation, Isabel? The feel of satin against bare skin? All your bare skin?”

She squirmed. “Toby, stop.”

“No? It’s like gliding through water, darling. Cool and smooth at first. And then the heat of your flesh makes it warm and slick, like—”