A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(79)

“Toby,” she growled, drawing to a halt. “You must stop. Now.”

“Like oil,” he finished, bending low to whisper in her ear. “Oil, perfumed with the musk of your skin and—”

Her bright voice interrupted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Yorke.”

Toby froze, his lips poised less than an inch from his wife’s ear. Fortunate thing he hadn’t followed the impulse to lick it. As if sensing itself in danger, Isabel’s ear dipped out of reach. Right. She was curtsying.

Following his wife’s example, Toby greeted his silver-haired friend with a polite bow. “Yorke. Hadn’t expected to meet with you in Town.” In other words, why the devil aren’t you at the hustings, in Surrey?

The old man regarded him with a bemused expression. “Hadn’t expected to meet with you, either.”

Isabel said, “Yes, so unfortunate isn’t it? The returning officer’s wife, taken ill.”

Yorke looked to Toby. “Mrs. Brooks took ill?”

Damn.

“Surely you heard?” Isabel asked. “Weren’t you there when they closed the polls earlier?” She looked to Toby. “But perhaps I misunderstood.”

Toby glared at the old man until he startled, realizing his mistake.

“Oh, yes,” Yorke said hastily. “Yes, of course. She took ill. What was her ailment…?” He snapped his fingers. “Rheumatism.”

This would have been a perfectly acceptable answer, had Toby not chosen the exact same moment to blurt out, “The grippe.”

Isabel’s brow creased as she looked from Toby to Yorke, and then back.

“Well, she’s achy, you know. And generally out of sorts. Bit of a fever, some stiffness. It’s a medical mystery, really. She has the doctor quite flummoxed.” The words streamed from Toby’s mouth at record speed. If he spoke quickly and incoherently enough, he might squeak through this muddle. He hoped. “But last I heard, she’s on the mend. I’m certain the polls will reopen Monday.”

“Right,” Yorke said. “I suppose I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Oh, yes. Monday.” Toby said, absorbing Mr. Yorke’s strange look. A look that said the crafty old fellow would be nowhere near Surrey on Monday.

“If you’re staying in town, perhaps we’ll meet at church tomorrow,” Isabel said.

“Perhaps, Lady Aldridge.” With a smile and a tip of his hat, Mr. Yorke went on his way. Toby stared after him. What the hell was going on? Toby hadn’t been in Surrey today, but apparently neither had Yorke. Was it possible the old man wasn’t even campaigning? It would explain why the polls remained so close, and the turnout of electors so low. He found himself wanting to chase after Yorke, take him to the club for some quality liquor and one of their honest discussions. The man was hiding something, and Toby was, too. And he didn’t know where that left them, but he knew it was a great deal further apart than they’d been before. That was a damned shame.

Scenarios tumbled together in his mind. There was no way to explain it, except to assume

Yorke wasn’t making much effort at reelection. And if that was the case, the unthinkable could happen.

Toby could actually win.

“Toby?” Isabel pulled on his arm. “The bed linens?”

“Right,” he said, gathering his wits and flashing her a carefree smile. “Aubergine satin.”

What was he thinking? He had no chance of victory. Yorke knew that too, that’s why he wasn’t even bothering to make an effort. And really, which was a better use of Toby’s time?

Trolling the farmlands of Surrey for votes, or waging a campaign of sensual persuasion to win the heart of his beautiful wife?

No contest there.

Winning the election would be a mere temporary victory—a stay of execution, until Isabel next put him to the test. No, to ensure their lasting happiness, he had to win her. And he would. He had a new weapon in his arsenal now: Love. He loved her, and that had to count for something. He only hoped it would count for enough.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Toby, it is indecent.”

“It is merely a well-cut and finely-sewn piece of silk, with no moral code to speak of. And you, my dear wife, are ravishing.”

Isabel tugged at the bodice of her gown, trying to coax it higher. She turned slightly, eyeing the effect in her mirrored reflection. Perhaps she could tuck a fichu under the neckline? Oh, what was the use? A mortifying amount of cle**age would still be on display. It would be like trimming a haunch of mutton with paper frills, and hoping they discouraged the appetite.

“Trust me,” Toby said, his reflected image sidling up behind hers, “the style is not so brazen as you think. It’s practically prudish by French standards.”

“But we are not in France.” And never would they travel there, if Bel had anything to say about it. It wasn’t only the cut of the gown that shocked her. The deep wine-red hue was the color of sin itself, and the crystals sewn into the bodice flashed like little beacons designed to draw prurient attention. But Toby had ordered the gown made thus, and judging by his expression in the mirror, Bel assumed he was well pleased with the result. “I just feel so exposed. But if it pleases you …”

“It does please me, and that is why. Because you are exposed. That’s what the opera is about—