A Lady of Persuasion

And then … the shadows spoke.



“Bel sent me a note.”



Toby jumped in his seat. “Jesus,” he said, pressing a hand over his racing heart. He leaned forward, blinking to make out his companion’s form. “Sophia? Is that you?”



“Of course it is,” she said.



“Good Lord.” He exhaled loudly. “For a moment there, I thought you were Gray, come to kill me.”



She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Why would Gray want to kill you?”



Well, if that answer wasn’t obvious to her …



Toby cleared his throat. “Just what did Bel’s note say?”



“That Mr. Yorke had died, of course. And that you’d be leaving for Surrey. Gray’s away on business today, but I wanted to come pay my respects.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. “I know he meant a great deal to you, Toby. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”



“Thank you.” He stared at her hand on his sleeve, until she withdrew it. “Why didn’t you come inside?”



“It didn’t seem right,” she said. “I knew your whole family was there, and considering our history … I didn’t want to be a distraction.”



The carriage wheels rattled over cobblestones as they rounded a turn.



“Why did you do it?”



He had to ask. He had to know, no matter how much it hurt to hear it, just what it was that made him so patently undesirable as a husband. And she was the only one who could tell him.



“Why did you run?”



She faded back into the shadows and fell silent.



“Why did you jilt me?” he continued, growing agitated. “Why did you leave without saying a word? Was it something I did? Something I didn’t do? Was the prospect of marriage to me so revolting that you simply had to remove yourself to the other side of the globe?”



“Toby, I—”



He punched the seat cushion. “I said nothing. When you disappeared without so much as an adieu, I said nothing. When you returned from your little honeymoon cruise and all London was toasting Gray … I said nothing, to anyone. I could have ruined you both, made you the center of speculation and scandal. But I didn’t. And still, even now—we’re practically family, and yet you’re barely civil to me. Damn it, you owe me some answers.”



“I do,” she said hurriedly. “I know I do. And I know I owe you far more than that. I’ve simply been so ashamed, so sorry for how I treated you. I didn’t know how to face you again.”



“Well, if you’re so ashamed of your behavior, why did you behave that way in the first place?



Did you have so little regard for my feelings?”



“No, of course not. I cared for you, Toby, a great deal. I … I suppose I cared for you too much to marry you.”



He laughed bitterly. “What a sentiment. Truly, it warms the heart.”



“I cared for you, but we didn’t love one another,” she said. “And I thought we both deserved to find love.”



He snorted. Oh, yes. He had gotten what he deserved all right.



She spoke slowly now. Gently. “I know the way I fled our wedding was wrongheaded and thoughtless, and you can’t know how sorry I am for causing you pain. But would you have me regret it? Would you wish I hadn’t left?”



Now it was Toby’s turn to evade answering. “I think you shouldn’t ask me that today.”



“What’s happened?” she asked. “Did you and Bel have some sort of row?”



He dismissed her question with a shake of his head. There was no way he was going to explain Hollyhurst to her. Instead, he tapped his knuckles against the coach side to signal the driver. It took several smart raps before he caught the man’s attention and could direct him to the Grayson residence. If he’d only had his walking stick, he would have had an easier time of it.



“No real purpose, my eye,” he grumbled.



“What?” Sophia asked.



“Nothing.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “No, there is something. I don’t want to ask it. I don’t want to hear the answer. But I simply have to know.”



“Yes?”



Toby crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. There was no way to say it but to say it. “Why couldn’t you have loved me? What does Gray have that I haven’t?”



“Oh, Toby. Please understand. It wasn’t like that at all.” She crossed the carriage to sit beside him. “This may not be what you want hear, but it’s the truth. My leaving had very little to do with you, and everything to do with me.”



“Good Lord. I can’t believe you’re giving me that line. Have you forgotten to whom you’re speaking?” He adopted a patronizing tone. “‘It’s not you, darling, it’s me.’ I’ve used that excuse a hundred times if I’ve used it once. It’s never the truth.”



“I know …” She wrung her hands in her lap. “I’m trying my best to explain it.”



“Try harder.” Toby didn’t even attempt to mask the bitterness in his voice. He was hurting. No, it wasn’t entirely her fault, or even mostly her fault, but she was the one nearby. Even though he had no hope of saving his marriage to Isabel, for some self-punishing reason he needed to understand why the first one had failed before it had even begun.



“Toby, I knew you admired my good qualities. My genteel accomplishments, my beauty … my considerable dowry.”



“I wasn’t some impoverished fortune-hunter,” he objected. “I didn’t need to marry for money.”



“Can you tell me honestly it wasn’t an inducement?”



Toby sighed. He couldn’t. It wasn’t so much the dowry itself, but simply the suitability of the match. With her fortune and accomplishment and beauty, Sophia had seemed the sort of lady he ought to marry. The sort of lady who ought to want to marry him. She continued, “I never felt like you truly knew me. At first, your praise was flattering. You were so charming, and you said all the things a girl most wants to hear. But after a while, those little compliments made me feel like a fraud. You always treated me as though I were perfect—



and I wasn’t. No one is. I feared I’d be living a lie for the rest of my life—that if you knew my



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.”



Lady Violet cleared her throat and placed a hand to her temple. “I don’t suppose you have a spot of tea to offer? I imagine wine is out of the question. I feel as though I’ve wandered into a Quaker meeting.”