A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(89)

“But you could be that man. With a bit more time, if you only made the effort. You have so much potential. Such warmth, such compassion, a natural gift for—”

“Stop. Just stop.” Toby released her and raised a hand to his temple. “Don’t tell me what I could be, with just a bit of improvement. I’m not one of your blasted charity projects, I’m your husband. And you’re right, it’s not enough for me anymore, to earn your good opinion. I want your love, whether I deserve it or not.”

She choked back a sob. “You lied to me. The campaign, the opera, Mr. Hollyhurst… and now this.” Fumbling with the pursestring, she opened her reticule and withdrew a scrap of paper.

“Look at this. Just look at it.”

She waved the caricature under his nose. Toby didn’t need to look at it—the horrid image was burned into his memory.

Mimicking his voice, she continued, “‘Let me take you to the opera,’ you said. ‘Let me spoil you,’ you said. ‘If you want to be a lady of influence, you must appear beautiful, desirable, au courant.’ And look at me in this horrid drawing—depraved, disgusting, mad with lust. Who would listen to that woman, I ask you? What kind of influence can I have now?” She balled the paper in her hands and threw it at him. “You’ve made me a public joke. You’ve ruined everything. If you really loved me, how could you do this? You … you liar!”

“Isabel—”

With an open palm, she buffeted his shoulder. “You told me you would never hurt me. You said you would die before you let me come to harm.” She hit him again. “You made me trust you, you …”

She unleashed a series of epithets in Spanish. From the tenor of them, Toby was glad he could not understand their meaning. She punctuated each insult with a blow to his shoulder.

“Isabel, please.”

“Bastardo!” she cried, striking him again.

That one, he understood. And accepted as his due.

“Liar!” she cried again, pulling back her arm.

He caught her wrist before she could land another blow. “Isabel.”

Breathing hard, she stared at her hand with disbelief. The anger in her eyes cooled to shock. Finally she whispered, “I struck you.”

“Yes.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve never struck anyone in my life.”

“I wish I could tell you it didn’t hurt.”

Gentling his grip, he folded both her hands in his and held them tight. Almost the same way they’d stood as they’d recited holy vows. Together they paused there, just breathing. Holding disaster at bay for a few moments more. Her bottom lip trembled. It gutted him, that he didn’t feel he had the right to kiss it.

“I went to my aunt’s card party this morning,” she said quietly, staring at their hands. “The ladies there … they were all laughing at me, whispering about me in the corners. And then Sophia showed me that picture of me, crazed and disheveled. Just like my poor mother. No one listened to her, either. You can’t know how long I’ve worked, how hard I’ve tried to never be that woman. This woman.” Her voice cracked, and Toby’s heart cracked with it. “I wanted their respect, and they all laughed.”

“Darling, I’m sorry. So sorry. But every lady in England could laugh at you, and I would love you still. And I’d gladly endure the derision of the world, if you could feel the same for me.”

It was true. All his life, Toby had been happy to be every man’s friend. But it wasn’t enough anymore, to be that fellow everyone liked. He wanted to be the man one woman loved, beyond reason.

“Isabel, this is who I am. I’m a flawed, self-absorbed aristocrat of middling consequence. I enjoy my life, my friends, and my family. I like to have a good time, and I like to surround myself with nice things. Much as I admire your zeal for charity, I doubt I’ll ever match it. I have no interest in Parliament and accordingly little talent for politics. I am deeply, deeply sorry to have hurt you, but I’ll spend a lifetime making it right if only you’ll give me the opportunity.”

She struggled against his grip. “You would—”

“Isabel, please.” Desperation frayed his voice. “Give me one moment. Afterward, I promise you, you may strike, insult, and berate me as much as you wish. I know I deserve it. But for just this one moment, pretend with me that this morning never happened. Pretend the lies were never spoken. Look at me.”

He waited until she did.

“Look at me,” he repeated slowly, “for just this moment, and see me for the man I truly am. And know that I love you, more than I can express. More than I can comprehend. Can that be enough for you?” His heart climbed into his throat, and he swallowed hard around it. He needed to ask. “Isabel, can I be enough for you?”

Tears slid down her cheeks. Impossible to say whether despair or joy propelled them. Blast those enigmatic female tears.

She said, “You don’t know what you ask of me.”

He slid his hands to her face and cupped it roughly. “Yes, I do. I’m asking you to love me, the way that I love you.” He kissed her lips, needing to taste her. More tears escaped her trembling eyelids. “Completely,” he said, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, her ear. “Unreservedly, passionately, madly …”