Scenarios tumbled together in his mind. There was no way to explain it, except to assume
Yorke wasn’t making much effort at reelection. And if that was the case, the unthinkable could happen.
Toby could actually win.
“Toby?” Isabel pulled on his arm. “The bed linens?”
“Right,” he said, gathering his wits and flashing her a carefree smile. “Aubergine satin.”
What was he thinking? He had no chance of victory. Yorke knew that too, that’s why he wasn’t even bothering to make an effort. And really, which was a better use of Toby’s time?
Trolling the farmlands of Surrey for votes, or waging a campaign of sensual persuasion to win the heart of his beautiful wife?
No contest there.
Winning the election would be a mere temporary victory—a stay of execution, until Isabel next put him to the test. No, to ensure their lasting happiness, he had to win her. And he would. He had a new weapon in his arsenal now: Love. He loved her, and that had to count for something. He only hoped it would count for enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Toby, it is indecent.”
“It is merely a well-cut and finely-sewn piece of silk, with no moral code to speak of. And you, my dear wife, are ravishing.”
Isabel tugged at the bodice of her gown, trying to coax it higher. She turned slightly, eyeing the effect in her mirrored reflection. Perhaps she could tuck a fichu under the neckline? Oh, what was the use? A mortifying amount of cleavage would still be on display. It would be like trimming a haunch of mutton with paper frills, and hoping they discouraged the appetite.
“Trust me,” Toby said, his reflected image sidling up behind hers, “the style is not so brazen as you think. It’s practically prudish by French standards.”
“But we are not in France.” And never would they travel there, if Bel had anything to say about it. It wasn’t only the cut of the gown that shocked her. The deep wine-red hue was the color of sin itself, and the crystals sewn into the bodice flashed like little beacons designed to draw prurient attention. But Toby had ordered the gown made thus, and judging by his expression in the mirror, Bel assumed he was well pleased with the result. “I just feel so exposed. But if it pleases you …”
“It does please me, and that is why. Because you are exposed. That’s what the opera is about—
seeing and being seen.”
“I thought the opera was about Don Juan.”
Chuckling, Toby placed his hands on her nearly-bare shoulders. Tracing lazy circles with his thumbs, he leaned over to brush a kiss below her ear. “I love your hair like this, upswept.” His lips trailed down her neck and over her nape. “So tightly coiled and expertly bound.” The words sent excitement rippling down her spine. “It makes me think of the exquisite joy I will have, freeing it later tonight.” His tongue flicked against her ear. As he drew his fingertips down the sensitive flesh of her arms, Bel’s knees dissolved. At this rate, they would never leave the house. She could not say that she would mind. Their planned outing made her uncomfortable, in any number of ways.
“You are beautiful,” he crooned, resting his chin on her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her. Together they stared at their entwined reflections. “We are beautiful together.”
She had to concede they did make a striking couple. People commented on it so often, she was growing accustomed to hearing it.
“I think I’ll make love to you like this,” he whispered. “Right here, in front of the mirror.”
Comments like that, on the other hand, she had not grown accustomed to hearing. At all. Not that they were unpleasant to her ear. She loved hearing how badly he wanted her—loved feeling the evidence of it pulsing against her back. Her cheeks went crimson in the mirror.
“Would you like that?” he asked, his voice an insidious rumble against her nape. “Would you like me to strip you bare and kiss you all over until you watch yourself cry out in ecstasy?”
Just the suggestion had her moist and aching between her legs. She swallowed hard. Her voice came out as a squeak. “Now?”
His smiling brown eyes caught hers in the mirror. “No. Not now. Later. For now, it is enough to know you desire me.” His voice grew rough, and his hands moved down, roving over her silk-sheathed hips. “Isabel. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. All the time. Always. Tonight your beauty may be on display for all London to see, but underneath this gown, you belong to me. All evening long, in your darkest, most secret places, I want you hot and wet and yearning for me. And when we come home, I intend to claim what’s mine. Do you understand?”
She nodded, entranced by the commanding desire in his eyes and aroused beyond all reason. Her nipples peaked, and she turned in his arms, rubbing her breasts against his strong, solid chest to ease the ache. If only he would make love to her now, strip her free of this indecent gown and make her tremble with pleasure.
She pressed her lips to his throat. “Toby.”
“No. Not yet. It’s too soon.” Grasping her by the elbows, he pulled away. His eyes bored into hers. “Isabel. I want you to want me, the way that I want you. And that is not the work of a few minutes. No, to make you truly comprehend, I shall require hours, darling. Hours.”
Hours? He meant to make her wait for hours?
“How—” She knew he would laugh the moment she asked. But she couldn’t help it. “How many hours?”
To his credit, he did not laugh too loudly. He tucked her arm in his and steered her toward the door. “Well, the performance itself is nigh on four. Then we have the carriage rides to and fro, the intermission …” His free hand cupped her bottom as he guided her into the corridor. They nearly collided with a footman, and Bel gasped. Toby quickly donned his usual grin—
that charming expression of equal parts innocence and devilry. “I should say above five hours, Lady Aldridge. Why ever do you ask?”
Five hours. How many had passed? Not even one yet, by Bel’s estimation. And here she was practically a puddle of wax on the floor of their theater box. How would she survive the night?
It was a private box, of course. Perfectly chosen for this war of seduction her husband seemed so intent on waging. Seduction was not even the right word—that would imply he sought her surrender. No, this was a campaign of subtle, sensual teasing with no end in sight. It was not battle, but torture.
It was exquisite.
In the carriage, he’d stared blankly out the small window in an attitude of perfect nonchalance. All the while, his gloved fingers were working their way beneath her voluminous skirts, caressing her calf, her knee, her thigh.
When they joined the crush of opera attendees, he held her close at his side, guiding her through the crowd with an authoritative touch. With an insouciant smile pasted on his face, he kept up a steady stream of suggestive whispers in her ear. To the casual onlooker, it probably looked as though he were relating the latest on-dit, or perhaps discussing the weather. But the only humidity of note was the perspiration collecting between her breasts, not to mention the veritable storm of arousal gathering at the apex of her thighs.
And now they were seated in their box, surrounded by ornate, gilded majesty and cascades of heavy blue velvet, listening to the discordant hum of the orchestra tuning their instruments. Toby pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.
Bel stared at it, entranced by the small bubbles soaring to the glassy, amber surface. “Oh, I couldn’t. You know I don’t—”
“Tonight, you do. This is the opera, my dear. It’s about excess, spectacle, sensation, and opulence. It’s about pleasure. We’ve been working so hard, between the charities and the campaign. You’ve earned the right to enjoy yourself tonight. Have I not earned the right to spoil you?”
She smiled. He was right, they had both been working tirelessly over the past week. Every day, Toby rode out to the hustings in Surrey while Bel went about her charitable endeavors. In the evenings, they reunited just in time for dinner and bed, where a bout of lovemaking—
sometimes tender, sometimes wild—sent them into an exhausted sleep. There was no doubt in Bel’s mind that her husband had been laboring tirelessly to satisfy her, in every way. How could she deny him this one evening of amusement?
She took a small sip of the champagne. The tart-sweet taste exploded on her tongue, fizzing through her whole body.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s so strange.” She sipped again, holding the potent liquid in her mouth. Bubbles teased her nose, and she swallowed, giggling. “But delicious.”
She sipped again and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the world stayed dark. It took her a moment to realize they had dimmed the gaslights to signal the beginning of the performance. Her brain felt misty. The air was cottony around her, warm and soft to the touch.
“May I taste?” Toby asked.
“Yes, of course.” She offered him the glass, but that wasn’t what he wanted. She realized her mistake the instant before his mouth captured hers. As their lips met, some champagne-soaked shred of her conscience trilled in alarm. Here they were kissing in public. In full view, for anyone to see.
It was marvelous.
She leaned into the kiss, caressing his tongue with hers, sipping lightly at his lower lip. She couldn’t get enough of him, and she wanted all London to see. Perhaps it was the champagne, or the rich surroundings, or the arousal he’d so cleverly been stoking all night. But at that moment, Bel wanted the world to know how much her husband desired her, how much she desired him. How beautiful they were together, how young and alive. Then the orchestra struck a chord, and she jumped in her seat. The kiss broke apart. Champagne splattered the exposed tops of her breasts and the bodice of her indecent, extravagant gown—and she didn’t even care. Because the music was beginning, and the music
… it was everything.
The orchestra launched into the overture, and Bel felt certain the power of the music would lift the roof from the opera house. She felt it reverberating in her bones. She breathed it into her lungs. It had colors, and flavors—and that was when Bel realized she must be a bit drunk, to believe she could taste a piece of music. But she sipped her champagne again, wanting to stay drunk forever. Wanting to drown in this sea of glorious sound.
Then the curtain opened to reveal a fantastic garden and costumed performers who shortly began to sing. With voices surely stolen from angels, they sang. And the whole world fell away. Bel forgot even Toby. The champagne went flat in her glass. She was swept into the grandeur of Don Giovanni, and if she had not known it to be impossible, she would have later sworn she did not breathe or blink once during the whole of the first act. As the curtain closed for intermission, Toby’s hand covered hers. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
She clutched his hand. “Oh, Toby. It’s wonderful. I never dreamed …” The amber fog of the gas lamps slowly diffused, and she looked up into his handsome face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” He grinned. “The best is yet to come.”
Oh, no. The unthinkable reality struck with orchestral power. An ominous, thundering chord of truth.
She loved him.
What a fool she’d been. It wasn’t the music that made her feel everything so acutely. It wasn’t the champagne that laid waste to her inhibitions. No, it was this man sitting next to her, who’d wreaked havoc on her senses and stoked her passions since the moment they met. It was Toby, all Toby.
And she loved him.
A dark, sweet melody played in her heart, and her pulse beat a fierce, insistent percussion. She loved him. Loved him, loved him, and it terrified her.
Worry creased his brow. “Are you well? Shall I fetch you another glass of champagne?”
She shook her head. “Perhaps some water.”