A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(9)

“He’s … why, he’s shorter than I.”

“I did not realize your definition of ‘upstanding’ encompassed actual physical stature. Must I add ‘tall’ to the list of qualifications, then? And handsome, as well? This task you’ve set me becomes more and more difficult.”

“Fine looks are of little importance,” she replied, irritated with herself for her petty remark. “As is stature. Beauty of character is often at odds with physical appearance. A tall, handsome man may very well make the least desirable husband.”

“Yes, yes. You ruled me out some minutes ago, remember? I’ve everything against me. Tall. Handsome.” He pulled a face and made a dramatic shiver. “Not a lord,” he repeated, mimicking her accent, “but a lowly sir. This is a disaster.”

This time Bel succeeded in wrenching her arm away. “I did apologize. And I never used the word ‘lowly.’ My own brother is a sir, and I know him to be the equal of any duke.”

He smiled. “How very loyal of you. But if that be the case, then why are you so set on marrying a lord?”

“For his influence in Parliament, of course. Knights and baronets have no seats in the House of Lords.”

“Parliament has two houses, darling. Don’t neglect the House of Commons. That’s where all social debate and progressive bills originate, before Markham and his followers shout them down. Perhaps it’s an MP you ought to marry.”

“Are MPs more honorable, as a rule?”

“Of course not. This is government, my dear.” He shook his head, chuckling. “You are like Diogenes with his lantern, roaming the earth in search of an honest man. Admittance to the House of Commons is only marginally more selective than that of the penny theater. Anyone with a few thousand pounds to spare might buy himself a rotten borough, and the fairly elected members are largely chosen out of habit or by default.”

At his description, Bel suffered a pang of disappointment. She had hoped to marry an honorable, principled man with a seat in Parliament. A man for whom she could feel… not passion or love, but perhaps friendship, and a temperate sort of esteem. But what if that man simply didn’t exist? She’d have to settle for one like Whittlesby, she supposed. She caught sight of the cream-puffed, balding lord through the window and stared at him long and hard, taking careful assessment of her emotions.

Nothing. He stirred nothing within her, save a mild flutter that resembled indigestion. Sir Toby continued, “Why, even I could secure a seat in Commons whenever I wished. Lowly,

disastrous, unsuitable sir that I am.”

“I never said those things,” she argued. “I would never say such things, and it pains me to be accused of them. Kindly stop twisting my words.”

He inched closer to her. “Which words am I twisting? I clearly remember hearing ‘disaster,’

and a pursuant discussion of my unsuitability.” He chucked her under the chin, and his thumb lingered on the edge of her jaw. “Don’t worry, I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

“Then why do you tease me so?”

“Because, as I said, you need teasing. You’re taking yourself so seriously. Too seriously. It’s a grave condition, solemnity. Causes ill humor, indigestion. And it’s bad for the complexion. Teasing’s one of two proven remedies.”

“One of two?” Bel sighed. “If you’re so concerned for my complexion, may I implore you to switch to the other?”

His hand framed her jaw. “Very well.”

And then his lips were on hers.

CHAPTER THREE

Oh.

She was being kissed. Kissed, for the first time in her life, in a moonlit colonnade, by a man with the beauty of a Greek god and the morality of a satyr. It was everything right and everything wrong all at once, and Bel didn’t know what to make of it. She was so used to placing actions in one category or the other.

She was too shocked to move, so she just—stood still.

His lips brushed over hers in a series of slow, teasing caresses. Tender, gentle … extending every invitation but making no demands. She caught the unmistakable scent of brandy on his breath—a familiar aroma, but an as yet untested flavor. She never took spirits, and here this man’s lips were giving Bel her first taste of sin. It savored of fire. Not bitter, as she’d always imagined it would taste, but raw and potent. The flavor opened all her senses, awakened her entire body to the light pressure of his mouth against hers, the gentle stirrings of the breeze around them, the spar of whalebone pressing between her br**sts.

She felt everything.

He whispered something against her mouth, something Bel could not hear through the roar of blood pounding in her ears—but she felt it, rushing over her lips. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, tilting her head to meet his. And now he kissed her again, more firmly this time, his lips slightly parted as they covered hers. Once more, the flavor of brandy flooded her senses, intoxicating and dark.

She might have pulled away at any moment. But she didn’t. She remained still, so still as his thumb traced a lazy circle over her pulse. She did not move. She dared not breathe. But inside, her blood danced. A frenzied, pagan dance that resembled a minuet like a tropical hurricane resembled the London fog. Heat whirled in her center and spiraled out to her limbs, pulsing to a furious beat. The rhythm called to her, pulled her consciousness inward with insistent tugs—until she followed it, sinking deep, deep into the heart of herself. Here was passion … desire … wild, untamed emotion.