A Lady of Persuasion
Page 41

“Should Sophia miraculously return and still wish to marry me, her reputation would be intact. Later, when it became clear she wasn’t returning … then I suppose it became a matter of pride. I didn’t want anyone to know why she’d truly jilted me. Hell, even I didn’t know why she’d truly jilted me. Far preferable to let people suppose my dissolute behavior drove her to cry off.”
At last, Isabel found her voice. “But why continue it, even after we became engaged? After we married?”
Toby took a slow draught of whiskey, allowing her time to piece the reasons together. He knew she would. She was a clever girl.
When he lowered his glass, she was frowning down at her hands. See? Hadn’t taken her but seconds.
She said, “Mr. Hollyhurst mentioned a plan, to lose. Was he referring to the election?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been trying to lose?”
Toby felt like telling her it was more that he’d been trying not to win—but that would be mincing words. Anyway, it scarcely mattered, given the morning’s events. “Yes.”
“But the campaigning, the hustings—you’ve been going to Surrey every day.”
Toby shook his head slowly.
“Dear Lord. You haven’t?”
A look of revulsion formed on her face, and it nearly killed him to view it. But he wouldn’t allow himself to turn away.
“If you haven’t been going to Surrey,” she asked, “where have you been spending your days?
Not… Oh, heavens. Not at the Hidden Pearl?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Never there, nor anywhere like it. I went… different places. The park, the club. Much of the time, I was simply here in my study. I half-expected—half-hoped, I think
—you’d one day discover me, and the ruse would be over. But you’re always so occupied with your charitable efforts, your society meetings …” He shrugged. “You never noticed I was here.”
“Of course I didn’t notice you! Why would I go searching the house for my husband, when he’s supposedly off in Surrey? I believed in you. I trusted you. I thought you wanted this, as much as I did. Even before our wedding, from the first night we met, you—”
“Come now, Isabel. Be honest. You know I never truly wanted to run for MP.”
“Yes, but I thought you wanted me!” She brought a hand to her throat, as if astounded by the volume of her own anger. “Even if politics wasn’t your inclination, you knew I sought a husband with influence in Parliament. And before we were married, you promised to run. You promised me, Toby.”
“I promised you many things, darling. The promises came to me easily then, when I had no real intention of keeping them.” Toby took a deep breath and put down his glass. There was no going back now. Half-confessions served no purpose. It was time to lay the truth out before her, and let her do with it what she would.
“When we first became engaged,” he continued in an even tone, “I would have told you anything you wanted to hear—tales, fancies, lies. I simply had to make you mine, by any means.”
“But why?”
“Pride,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And some juvenile form of retribution. I wanted to take you from Gray the way he’d taken Sophia from me.”
“Sophia?” Her hand dropped from her throat to her stomach, and she looked as though she might be sick. “All this time, it was about her? You never wanted me.”
“No, that’s not true.” Toby rushed forward, catching her in his arms. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. “Isabel, I wanted you from the first, before I even learned your name. And once I knew you for the intelligent, principled, passionate woman you are, I fell in love with you, body and soul. By the time we married, I wanted nothing more than to keep you happy. But by then I’d made you so many absurd promises, and you had this naïve, idealized impression of my character. At first, I wanted to earn that good opinion. I wanted to deserve you. And I thought maybe, if I just tried hard enough—”
“At first.” She refused to look at him, staring instead at his lapel. “At first, you wanted to earn my good opinion. But not anymore.”
“Because I can’t.” Toby’s mouth went dry. “I just don’t have it in me. To be truthful, I’m not sure any man would. Your expectations are so high. I knew I’d inevitably disappoint you—if it wasn’t by losing this election, it would be by losing the next, or by failing to gain the level of influence you desired … Sooner or later, I knew you’d learn the truth. I’m not the man you’d wish me to be.”
“But you could be that man. With a bit more time, if you only made the effort. You have so much potential. Such warmth, such compassion, a natural gift for—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Toby released her and raised a hand to his temple. “Don’t tell me what I could be, with just a bit of improvement. I’m not one of your blasted charity projects, I’m your husband. And you’re right, it’s not enough for me anymore, to earn your good opinion. I want your love, whether I deserve it or not.”
She choked back a sob. “You lied to me. The campaign, the opera, Mr. Hollyhurst… and now this.” Fumbling with the pursestring, she opened her reticule and withdrew a scrap of paper.
“Look at this. Just look at it.”
She waved the caricature under his nose. Toby didn’t need to look at it—the horrid image was burned into his memory.
Mimicking his voice, she continued, “‘Let me take you to the opera,’ you said. ‘Let me spoil you,’ you said. ‘If you want to be a lady of influence, you must appear beautiful, desirable, au courant.’ And look at me in this horrid drawing—depraved, disgusting, mad with lust. Who would listen to that woman, I ask you? What kind of influence can I have now?” She balled the paper in her hands and threw it at him. “You’ve made me a public joke. You’ve ruined everything. If you really loved me, how could you do this? You … you liar!”
“Isabel—”
With an open palm, she buffeted his shoulder. “You told me you would never hurt me. You said you would die before you let me come to harm.” She hit him again. “You made me trust you, you …”
She unleashed a series of epithets in Spanish. From the tenor of them, Toby was glad he could not understand their meaning. She punctuated each insult with a blow to his shoulder.
“Isabel, please.”
“Bastardo!” she cried, striking him again.
That one, he understood. And accepted as his due.
“Liar!” she cried again, pulling back her arm.
He caught her wrist before she could land another blow. “Isabel.”
Breathing hard, she stared at her hand with disbelief. The anger in her eyes cooled to shock. Finally she whispered, “I struck you.”
“Yes.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve never struck anyone in my life.”
“I wish I could tell you it didn’t hurt.”
Gentling his grip, he folded both her hands in his and held them tight. Almost the same way they’d stood as they’d recited holy vows. Together they paused there, just breathing. Holding disaster at bay for a few moments more. Her bottom lip trembled. It gutted him, that he didn’t feel he had the right to kiss it.
“I went to my aunt’s card party this morning,” she said quietly, staring at their hands. “The ladies there … they were all laughing at me, whispering about me in the corners. And then Sophia showed me that picture of me, crazed and disheveled. Just like my poor mother. No one listened to her, either. You can’t know how long I’ve worked, how hard I’ve tried to never be that woman. This woman.” Her voice cracked, and Toby’s heart cracked with it. “I wanted their respect, and they all laughed.”
“Darling, I’m sorry. So sorry. But every lady in England could laugh at you, and I would love you still. And I’d gladly endure the derision of the world, if you could feel the same for me.”
It was true. All his life, Toby had been happy to be every man’s friend. But it wasn’t enough anymore, to be that fellow everyone liked. He wanted to be the man one woman loved, beyond reason.
“Isabel, this is who I am. I’m a flawed, self-absorbed aristocrat of middling consequence. I enjoy my life, my friends, and my family. I like to have a good time, and I like to surround myself with nice things. Much as I admire your zeal for charity, I doubt I’ll ever match it. I have no interest in Parliament and accordingly little talent for politics. I am deeply, deeply sorry to have hurt you, but I’ll spend a lifetime making it right if only you’ll give me the opportunity.”
She struggled against his grip. “You would—”
“Isabel, please.” Desperation frayed his voice. “Give me one moment. Afterward, I promise you, you may strike, insult, and berate me as much as you wish. I know I deserve it. But for just this one moment, pretend with me that this morning never happened. Pretend the lies were never spoken. Look at me.”
He waited until she did.
“Look at me,” he repeated slowly, “for just this moment, and see me for the man I truly am. And know that I love you, more than I can express. More than I can comprehend. Can that be enough for you?” His heart climbed into his throat, and he swallowed hard around it. He needed to ask. “Isabel, can I be enough for you?”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Impossible to say whether despair or joy propelled them. Blast those enigmatic female tears.
She said, “You don’t know what you ask of me.”
He slid his hands to her face and cupped it roughly. “Yes, I do. I’m asking you to love me, the way that I love you.” He kissed her lips, needing to taste her. More tears escaped her trembling eyelids. “Completely,” he said, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, her ear. “Unreservedly, passionately, madly …”
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.”