A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(96)

true nature, any regard you had for me would disappear.” She looked up at him. “Can you understand? I had no shortage of people to admire my best qualities. What I needed was a man who understood me, and loved me even at my worst. Gray is that man.”

“I understand,” he told her. “I understand perfectly.” Some help this conversation had been. She hadn’t shed any light on Isabel’s feelings, just made him even more acutely aware of his own. That was all he wanted, to be loved at his worst. And he’d married a woman who just couldn’t do it.

Bollocks.

The carriage rolled to a halt at the Grayson house. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m anxious to be getting on to Surrey. Will you be offended if I don’t see you in?”

“Not at all.” The carriage door swung open, and Sophia reached for the footman’s hand. At the last moment, she stopped. She said, “I know I don’t have to tell you, Bel is very invested in goodness. If I was anxious about revealing my worst to a husband, I can only imagine her fear. It must be ten times what mine was.”

Silly woman, talking about Isabel as though she had something to fear from him. He loved that woman, body and soul. He’d told her so, time and again. She was the one rejecting him.

“Sophia, my wife has nothing to worry about. Isabel doesn’t have a worst. She’s a selfless, perfect angel.”

“Toby.” Sophia’s blue eyes flashed at him in the dimming twilight. “Do you honestly want to know what drove me to jilt you?”

He nodded mutely.

“Statements like that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

On Friday morning, Bel waited for her guests in the Rose Parlor.

Except, it wasn’t a rose parlor this morning. It was white—all white. In preparation for the chimney-sweeping demonstration, the curtains had been removed and the carpets rolled away. The bric-a-brac had been boxed up, and each painting or stick of furniture had been carefully draped with a muslin dustcover.

In its austerity and simplicity, the space reminded Bel very strongly of her girlhood, and the hours spent in her mother’s bedchamber. That room, too, had been stripped of drapery and ornament, for her mother’s safety. After that horrific incident with the bedcurtains—and then, a year or two later, the hearthrug catching fire … Simple décor had seemed best. Yes, Bel thought, twisting her hands in her lap—this morning, the Rose Parlor bore a striking resemblance to that spare, sunlit bedchamber in Tortola. All it lacked was the madwoman. Or … perhaps it didn’t.

El amor es locura.

Folding over her lap, Bel buried her face in her hands. She did not cry. In the two days since Toby had left, she’d simply exhausted her supply of tears. Still, her shoulders quivered with the echoes of sobs. So many emotions cycled through her, faster and faster with each hour since he’d left—anger, despair, fear, loneliness, heartbreak. One moment, she missed Toby so fiercely she began packing for Surrey; the next, she would remember the artistic stylings of one Mr. Hollyhurst and resolve never to see his patron again.

She didn’t know what to think anymore. Except that she must be going mad. She ought to be grateful, that Toby had gone away. It had saved her the task of removing herself, or even more difficult—creating false distance between them while they lived under the same roof. Because she had to distance herself, for both their sakes. After the way she’d flown at him, cursed him, struck him …

No, she couldn’t allow that scene to ever recur. She had to stay away from him. By leaving, he’d spared her the trouble.

Not that they would stay apart forever, of course. They were married, after all. Eventually, she and Toby would have to cross paths. But by then, their anger with each other would have cooled, and their passion as well. With clear heads and mended hearts, they could begin again

—and have the same kind of cordial marriage so many of their peers enjoyed. The sort of marriage Bel had always intended to have.

She knew Toby would have no difficulty finding physical pleasure in the arms of another; or others—and Bel would not deny him that. She wanted him to be happy, and his warm, personable nature would not lend itself to solitude.

No, that part would be Bel’s. She would put her emotions aside. She would rededicate her heart and mind to charity. She would save miserable waifs from suffocating in chimneys. Love and passion were not for her.

The room gradually filled with ladies, all attired in shades of gray and black, in accordance with the invitation. The women arranged their dark skirts over the muslin-draped furniture, until the entire tableau began to resemble not a snowdrift, but rather a flea’s-eye vantage of a spotted hound.

And here came the flea.

“Lady Violet Morehouse,” the butler intoned. The matron swept into the room, dressed head to toe in a repellent shade of puce.

“Lady Aldridge, my dear.” She curtsied and flashed a smile so brittle and false, it threatened to slide right off her powdered face and shatter on the floor.

Bel yearned to help it along.

“I apologize for not adhering to the dress requirements,” she said, indicating her plumed, blood-red gown. “But while your morning may be beginning, my own evening is just coming to its close. I have not yet been home.”

“No matter,” Bel said, forcing a generous curtsy. “I’m simply delighted that you could find time to join us.”