A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(8)

Bel swallowed hard as he approached.

“Everything about you—your voice, your gestures, your opinions … even the way you dance. So passionate.” He reached out, brushing the backs of his knuckles against the bare flesh of her arm. “So warm. And yet, you would choose a husband in this cold, calculated manner? For a title and status? It hardly seems in your nature.”

“You would presume to know my nature? I am not—” She stiffened. She could not claim to be without passion. That would be a lie.

She continued, “If I have passion, it is for God. If I marry for love, it is for love of His children in their hour of need. From my father and brother, I am burdened with this ill-gotten dowry, gold tainted with blood. From my mother, I inherit this.” She swept an impatient gesture down her curvaceous form. “How can I live with myself, if I barter those advantages for my own pleasure, or for something so transitory as romantic love? No, I will redeem them instead—by trading them for a title and status, as you say. For the opportunity to do good.”

She shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Sir Toby didn’t deserve her anger. After all, he was right. Her mother’s unpredictable passions did simmer in her blood, and something about this man brought them to a boil.

Perhaps she had been born with a fiery nature, but she also had the choice to control it. As her mother’s example proved, wild, emotional outbursts did not earn a woman respect or influence. They earned her a padlocked room, and years of derision and neglect.

“Please forgive me,” she said, once she’d banked her inner fire. “It’s just… What can you know of my nature?”

“I know it is human.” He gave her a little smile that only stoked the flames. “And I know it will be some undeserving man’s great fortune to explore.”

Without giving her time to respond—not that Bel had any coherent response to make—he linked his arm with hers and steered her toward the windows. “Well, then. Let us begin our search for Lord Honorable.” After a moment, he said, “Ah. I’ve spotted an earl who is, by all accounts, a very excellent man and a respected landlord, if a bit stern in his demeanor. Impeccable aristocratic lineage, pots of money, and a burgeoning political career.”

“Why, he sounds ideal.”

“Yes. There’s just one snag, you see.”

“What’s that?”

Sir Toby smiled down at her. “Lord Kendall is already married, to Lucy.”

With a cry of reproach, Bel attempted to withdraw her arm from his. He had already tightened his grip, in anticipation of just such a retreat.

She asked, “Why must you insist on teasing me?”

“Because you are in dire need of it, my dear. Don’t worry, you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

“I shall not.” She was, however, learning to enjoy the warm press of his arm against hers, the solid support it afforded her. Charming devil of a man. “Surely there are other honorable lords in the assembly, apart from our host. Other gentlemen with burgeoning political careers.”

“Well, if it’s political acumen you seek, look no further. Here we have Lord Markham, the renowned orator.” He directed her attention toward a lean, silver-haired gentleman. A great deal older than she, Bel thought, but perhaps his maturity boded well for her purpose.

“Is he very influential?” she asked.

“Oh, very. Legislation passes and fails on the wave of feeling generated by his speeches.”

“Truly?” Bel perked. This Lord Markham sounded promising.

“Yes, I understand he was instrumental in turning the majority against the abolition bill a few years back.”

She gasped. “Then he will not do at all.”

“But I thought you sought political clout.”

“I do, but it must be in aid of justice, not oppression. That is my entire design in marrying a lord—to further charitable causes as a lady of influence.”

“A lady of influence.” He gave her an amused look. “Over society? Or over a well-connected husband?”

“Ideally, both.” Bel rued the blush warming her cheeks. It had nothing to do with shame over her motives, and everything to do with the way he brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen over her brow. So casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Her brow tingled where his skin had grazed hers.

“I see. So all this time we have been searching for Lord Honorable, when the man you truly seek is Lord Malleable.” She attempted to protest, but he interrupted. “Lord Whittlesby would be an excellent candidate. He’s a marquess, recently widowed. Rather stolid sort of man. A member of my club, though I never see him in his cups or sitting down to cards. His opinions are rarely solicited when conversation turns to matters of politics. He mostly speaks of puddings.”

“Puddings?”

“Hm. Great connoisseur of puddings, Whittlesby. Goes on and on about them.” He drew her close and turned her toward the window. “He’s just there. By the potted palm.”

Bel followed the line of his arm. There, by the aforementioned palm, stood a squat, balding man spooning custard from a flute. She watched as he withdrew a linen square from his breast pocket and proceeded to wipe first his mouth, then his glistening pate.

“An influential title, and possessed of opinions easily influenced,” Sir Toby said. “Surely you can find no cause to reject him.”