A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(80)

seeing and being seen.”

“I thought the opera was about Don Juan.”

Chuckling, Toby placed his hands on her nearly-bare shoulders. Tracing lazy circles with his thumbs, he leaned over to brush a kiss below her ear. “I love your hair like this, upswept.” His lips trailed down her neck and over her nape. “So tightly coiled and expertly bound.” The words sent excitement rippling down her spine. “It makes me think of the exquisite joy I will have, freeing it later tonight.” His tongue flicked against her ear. As he drew his fingertips down the sensitive flesh of her arms, Bel’s knees dissolved. At this rate, they would never leave the house. She could not say that she would mind. Their planned outing made her uncomfortable, in any number of ways.

“You are beautiful,” he crooned, resting his chin on her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her. Together they stared at their entwined reflections. “We are beautiful together.”

She had to concede they did make a striking couple. People commented on it so often, she was growing accustomed to hearing it.

“I think I’ll make love to you like this,” he whispered. “Right here, in front of the mirror.”

Comments like that, on the other hand, she had not grown accustomed to hearing. At all. Not that they were unpleasant to her ear. She loved hearing how badly he wanted her—loved feeling the evidence of it pulsing against her back. Her cheeks went crimson in the mirror.

“Would you like that?” he asked, his voice an insidious rumble against her nape. “Would you like me to strip you bare and kiss you all over until you watch yourself cry out in ecstasy?”

Just the suggestion had her moist and aching between her legs. She swallowed hard. Her voice came out as a squeak. “Now?”

His smiling brown eyes caught hers in the mirror. “No. Not now. Later. For now, it is enough to know you desire me.” His voice grew rough, and his hands moved down, roving over her silk-sheathed hips. “Isabel. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. All the time. Always. Tonight your beauty may be on display for all London to see, but underneath this gown, you belong to me. All evening long, in your darkest, most secret places, I want you hot and wet and yearning for me. And when we come home, I intend to claim what’s mine. Do you understand?”

She nodded, entranced by the commanding desire in his eyes and aroused beyond all reason. Her ni**les peaked, and she turned in his arms, rubbing her br**sts against his strong, solid chest to ease the ache. If only he would make love to her now, strip her free of this indecent gown and make her tremble with pleasure.

She pressed her lips to his throat. “Toby.”

“No. Not yet. It’s too soon.” Grasping her by the elbows, he pulled away. His eyes bored into hers. “Isabel. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. And that is not the work of a few minutes. No, to make you truly comprehend, I shall require hours, darling. Hours.”

Hours? He meant to make her wait for hours?

“How—” She knew he would laugh the moment she asked. But she couldn’t help it. “How many hours?”

To his credit, he did not laugh too loudly. He tucked her arm in his and steered her toward the door. “Well, the performance itself is nigh on four. Then we have the carriage rides to and fro, the intermission …” His free hand cupped her bottom as he guided her into the corridor. They nearly collided with a footman, and Bel gasped. Toby quickly donned his usual grin—

that charming expression of equal parts innocence and devilry. “I should say above five hours, Lady Aldridge. Why ever do you ask?”

Five hours. How many had passed? Not even one yet, by Bel’s estimation. And here she was practically a puddle of wax on the floor of their theater box. How would she survive the night?

It was a private box, of course. Perfectly chosen for this war of seduction her husband seemed so intent on waging. Seduction was not even the right word—that would imply he sought her surrender. No, this was a campaign of subtle, sensual teasing with no end in sight. It was not battle, but torture.

It was exquisite.

In the carriage, he’d stared blankly out the small window in an attitude of perfect nonchalance. All the while, his gloved fingers were working their way beneath her voluminous skirts, caressing her calf, her knee, her thigh.

When they joined the crush of opera attendees, he held her close at his side, guiding her through the crowd with an authoritative touch. With an insouciant smile pasted on his face, he kept up a steady stream of suggestive whispers in her ear. To the casual onlooker, it probably looked as though he were relating the latest on-dit, or perhaps discussing the weather. But the only humidity of note was the perspiration collecting between her br**sts, not to mention the veritable storm of arousal gathering at the apex of her thighs.

And now they were seated in their box, surrounded by ornate, gilded majesty and cascades of heavy blue velvet, listening to the discordant hum of the orchestra tuning their instruments. Toby pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.

Bel stared at it, entranced by the small bubbles soaring to the glassy, amber surface. “Oh, I couldn’t. You know I don’t—”

“Tonight, you do. This is the opera, my dear. It’s about excess, spectacle, sensation, and opulence. It’s about pleasure. We’ve been working so hard, between the charities and the campaign. You’ve earned the right to enjoy yourself tonight. Have I not earned the right to spoil you?”