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

The words set her trembling anew. How did the man keep passing so close to her, so indecently near, without drawing attention?

Bel looked to her brother, whose forehead was wrinkled with concentration. As Gray danced, his lips moved ever so slightly. One, two, three … He was too absorbed in the pattern to notice a thing.

Perhaps she ought to flee. Would it draw a great deal of attention, if she simply turned on her

heel and ran? She sighed. Of course it would. And as much as she hoped to draw society’s attention, she didn’t want to attract it that way. If she wanted to change the world, or even some small corner of it, these people must respect her and follow her example. Her comportment must be above reproach.

No, she could not flee. She must stay. She must follow the pattern of the dance. She must move toward this unnervingly handsome man and allow him to take her hand once again.

“Give me a word.” His hand slid up to clasp her arm just below the elbow. Just above her glove. His thumb stroked her bare flesh, and Bel quivered with exquisite fear. “One word.”

Together they halted in the center of the dance. His eyes held her captive, warm copper alloyed with insistent steel. His voice was low, for only her ears. “Forgive me, but there is something between us. Some force I can no better explain than resist. I am faint with it, feverish. Give me a word. Tell me you feel it, too.”

Bel made a feeble attempt to retract her arm, but his grip tightened, his thumb pressing against the racing pulse in the hollow of her elbow. She couldn’t think what to do. There were no more thoughts in her head, only riotous, mad sensation pounding in her blood.

“Do you? I beg of you, speak the truth.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. She was a good girl. A good, good girl.

She did not lie.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Then you belong with me.”

Toby slid one arm around his lady’s waist, grasped her other hand in his, and danced her right off the parquet, twirling her toward the row of glass-paned doors that opened onto the terrace. They were almost to the door when that oaf Grayson finally looked up from his feet and noticed his partner had gone missing. He scanned his immediate circle in vain. The dancers around him stopped, their bemusement certain to become amusement soon enough. With a laugh, Toby swept his temptress and her yards of green silk straight out into the night. Now there was a story the ton would remember, when the names Sir Toby Aldridge and Sir Benedict Grayson bumped against one another in conversation. Grayson might have eloped with Toby’s intended bride, but now Toby had stolen an admirer straight from Grayson’s own arms.

He could not call it complete revenge, but he could call it a solid beginning. And now, he could turn his attention to the gorgeous creature he held in his arms. Could it possibly have been just minutes he’d been yearning for this embrace? It felt like years. A lifetime. Or here, in this Greek-styled colonnade, he could imagine it an eternity. It was as though an enchantment had been cast around them, binding them together with some primeval, pagan magic.

“Remarkable,” he whispered.

She froze in his arms, though she made no attempt to pull away. The rush of cool night air surrounding them only emphasized the heat building between their bodies.

“What, precisely, is remarkable?” Her voice was melodic, and flavored with some foreign spice.

“You,” he answered honestly. “Do you realize, your hair is actually a shade darker than the night sky?” He wound a jet-black tendril around his finger, enjoying the way her lower lip quivered in invitation. Oh yes, he was in fine form tonight. “And softer than moonlight. How is that possible?”

“It’s not,” she said. “Dear heavens. You do this often, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Sweep ladies onto secluded terraces and pay them nonsensical compliments.”

“Er … perhaps,” he said, chastened.

“Perhaps,” she echoed. Her look went from one of skepticism to one of dismay.

“Don’t fret, darling. With you, I actually mean them.” Toby gave her his most disarming grin—

that lopsided, mischievous boyish smile he’d honed on a mother and three older sisters, then polished to a seductive gleam. It was a grin that said, I know I’m impossible, but it’s useless to resist. We both know you can’t help but love me.

Except—evidently, this lady could. Her look of dismay became one of despair. She swallowed, then released a flurry of words. “Please tell me you are a lord.”

Toby’s involuntary burst of laughter increased the distance between them. “A lord?”

“Duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baron …” Her eyes were grave and pleading. “Please tell me you hold one of those titles.”