A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(90)

Her body went rigid in his arms, and she made a strange sound in her throat. Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed away. “I’m sorry, Toby. Last night, I thought perhaps I… but now you’ve …” She shook her head and turned away. “I’m sorry.”

And there it was. The verdict he’d been dreading. She didn’t love him. At least, not the way he loved her. Perhaps she loved him in some dutiful, selfless, Christian way. But she did not live and breathe and burn for him, the way he lived and breathed and burned for her. Very well, then. Now he knew.

And look, the world even kept turning.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated weakly.

“Stop apologizing. The fault is entirely mine. I understand.”

Awkward silence blanketed the room.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, clearing his throat and stepping back around the desk. As he walked, his step faltered slightly. He felt off-balance, as though he were learning to walk with a javelin skewering his chest. “I know you’re busy. You must have some kind of meeting or appointment to keep. But before you go, I have something to tell you.” He picked up the urgent message he’d received that morning, fingered the broken wax seal. How odd, to think he’d read it just hours ago.

“Mr. Yorke died last night,” he said. “Or perhaps early this morning. I’m not sure. At any rate, he was here in Town, and he has no close family …” Toby made a fist and propped it on the chair’s back. “Had no close family. My mother and I will accompany his body back to Surrey, for the burial.”

“Oh, Toby.”

She came toward him, and he turned to look out the window. It was a revoltingly sunny day. Isabel stopped a few paces away. “Toby, I’m so sorry. I know how fond you were of him.”

“Do you, really?” He stared hard at the wavy pane of glass. “Because I don’t think I ever truly did, until today. It wasn’t until today that I realized … Yorke was the closest thing to a father I ever had.”

She made a soft, soothing noise and reached for his hand.

He pulled it away, folding his arms over his chest. Of course, now she would comfort him. She could shower him in sweet, generous affection now, when he was down and plainly hurting and as wretched as some leper in a parable. Isabel had no shortage of pity to offer him. It was only the deep, abiding passion that he was denied.

“You’ll have everything you wanted now,” he told her. “I’ll be the MP. You’ll be Lady Aldridge, the influential MP’s wife. This house is yours, to host as many demonstrations and

Society meetings and social functions as you please. Turn it into a home for foundlings, if you wish. I really don’t care. I’ll be in Surrey for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re … you’re just leaving me here?”

Her tone was wounded.

Good. Petty though it might be, he wanted to hurt her. To inflict just a fraction of the pain she’d caused him.

“Did you have some better plan?” Toby walked around her, crossing to the doorway. “Forgive me, but I really must be off to Yorke’s town house. There’s a sort of gathering, and I promised my mother—”

“Oh, your poor mother.” Suddenly she flew across the carpet to stand before him, latching one hand over his arm. “Toby, let me come with you.”

“To Surrey?”

“Well, I meant to the town house.” Her brow wrinkled. “I mean, I do have the demonstration Friday. The invitations have already gone out. I must be here in Town for that, I couldn’t possibly cancel it now.”

“No, of course,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t possibly. I understand you perfectly, Isabel. You’re under no obligation to come with me to Yorke’s house, nor to Surrey …” He gave her what he hoped was a cold, unfeeling look. “I’m certain we’ll see one another soon enough.” He turned to leave.

She dodged around him, blocking the door. “Toby, please. I can see how you’re hurting. I want to help. Let me go with you.”

“No.”

She winced. “But—”

“No,” he repeated firmly, walking past her to exit the room. “You’re not welcome. This is a family matter, not a charity event.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Toby had been an infant when his father died. He had no memory of the man, nor any recollection of his mother in her year of mourning. When she referred to Sir James Aldridge she did so in respectful, dispassionate tones—and always in past tense. By all appearances, the dowager Lady Aldridge maintained a cordial relationship with her late husband’s memory.

“Cordial” had never described her relationship with Mr. Yorke. The two had argued over one thing or another—and yet another—for as long as Toby could remember. They made cutting remarks to one another’s faces and said worse behind each other’s backs. By all appearances, they were equally matched in only one respect—mutual dislike.

And never, until this day, had Toby realized the obvious.

They had been in love.

How had he missed it? Toby prided himself on his keen understanding of women, but as it turned out, he had a blind spot of mother-sized proportions. But then, she’d never been “a woman” to him, because she was his mother and he’d never looked for her vulnerabilities. He hadn’t wanted to see them. She was his only parent, the rock of their family, the strongest person he knew.