Unfortunate indeed. This Grayson brother was not more congenial than the first. He was less. It was plain to see there was a plank-sized chip on Joss’s shoulder, balanced by the weight of general ill humor on the other. A right surly fellow, if ever Toby had met one. Just bloody perfect.
“You’re really going to allow this?” Joss spoke to Gray, making a dismissive gesture in Toby’s direction. “After one evening, you’re going to let Bel marry this ass?”
“I’m going to let her remain engaged to this ass,” Gray corrected. “For now. We’ll see if she still feels the same, come September.”
“September?” Toby echoed. “It’s barely April. Six weeks is ample time for an engagement. We’ll be married in May.”
“August.”
“June.”
“July, or not at all,” Gray said. “That’s my final concession.”
We’ll see about that.
Catching Toby’s frown, Joss raised an eyebrow. “By all means, press your case further. ‘Not at all’ is my preference.”
Toby kept his indignant retort to himself. What a family. A dandified footpad playing patriarch, seconded by his disagreeable bastard brother. But no matter. Their mutual loathing would only sweeten Toby’s triumph. To win Isabel, he could stomach far worse.
And of course, just as he’d formed the thought, along came worse.
“Papa, Papa!”
A tawny-skinned urchin with close-cropped hair barreled into the room, heading straight for the brothers but colliding instead with Toby’s leg. The child went sprawling to the carpet, first scuffing the shine on Toby’s boot, then attacking the offending boot in retaliation, to the point of sinking his teeth into the fine-grained leather.
“Ah!” Toby struggled for balance, attempting to shake the little demon off his leg. His efforts only resulted in encouraging the boy to cling more tightly, lashing his arms and legs around Toby’s ankle until he seemed a more permanent part of the boot than the tassel. The imp even had the nerve to laugh.
God only knew which brother’s indiscretion this boy represented. Neither man rushed to claim him, presumably too amused by Toby’s predicament to help.
“Jacob, no!” Isabel flew into the room, coming to land at Toby’s feet in a flutter of pale-blue muslin and lace. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, attempting to disentangle the child from Toby’s leg. “I told the nursemaid I’d take him down to the garden, but then he dashed away from me, and I couldn’t—”
“It’s all right,” Toby said, placing a light touch on her shoulder. “I’ve ten young nieces and nephews. Really, it’s all right.” She ceased struggling with the boy and looked up at him. And the grasping child, the insolent brothers, the world around them—simply ceased to exist. Moonlight did not begin to do her beauty justice, Toby realized. Isabel Grayson was made for the morning sun. Gentle, warm light that was in no rush, that had the entire day ahead of itself, that labored patiently to illuminate each glossy strand of her hair, each golden contour of her features, the petal-soft texture of her lips. And when coupled with the radiance that emanated from within—there was no other word for it.
She glowed.
“Sir Toby,” she said, her expression aggrieved. “My nephew … I beg your pardon.”
“Please, don’t distress yourself.” He hooked a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet. She really needed to stand. Once he’d finished his appraisal of her beauty above the neck, it was all too easy to let his gaze descend to where her lace-trimmed neckline gaped, offering a view of lush, full breasts and the dark, enticing valley between them. Toby ceased seeing features and began seeing … possibilities.
Yes, she truly needed to stand.
“Jacob.” The deep command from Joss had the instantaneous effect of loosening the child’s grip. A moment later, circulation resumed in Toby’s toes.
“Your son?” Toby asked Joss.
Joss nodded in confirmation.
“Delightful child. And did his mother travel with you to London?”
“No, my wife remained on Tortola,” Joss said. “In the churchyard.”
Right. A surly, illegitimate widower. The man’s ill humor began to make sense.
“Come to Auntie Bel, darling.” Rescuing them all from the awkwardness of the moment, Isabel scooped the child into her arms, jutting out one hip to make a seat for him, all the while tickling the squirming bundle of mischief. She had the look of an early Renaissance Madonna: dark, radiant, rounded and soft, serene in the face of squalling infants, and beautiful to an unearthly degree.
A strange compulsion gripped Toby. Sank teeth into him. Before him stood this living portrait of divine domesticity, and in some deep corner of his being, he longed to be a part of it. He’d never experienced a need so sudden, so visceral, so strong. He couldn’t even put a name to the sensation. It wasn’t desire, lust, infatuation, attraction … it most certainly wasn’t love. But it still distilled to those three simple words:
I want that.
A wife. A child. All the pleasant activities a man enjoyed with his wife in the getting of a child. Months of anticipating the arrival of said child—wondering if the shade of his hair would be black like his mother’s or light brown like Toby’s or some shade in the spectrum between. New boots fashioned in cured leather, resistant to the impressions of milk teeth. Marriage. Family. A smiling Isabel.
I want that.
And I’m going to have it.
Isabel blushed. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion. We’ll leave you to your conversation,” she said, dipping in a little curtsy.
“No,” Toby blurted out, snapping himself from his reverie. “That is, don’t go. After all, it’s you I’ve come to see. I thought perhaps you’d like to go driving.” When she looked nonplussed, he added, “It’s something betrothed couples do.”
“Oh.” She gave him a shy smile. “Then I’d like that.”
Toby looked to Gray and Joss. “I believe we’ve finished our business here, gentlemen?” They
offered begrudging nods. “Oh,” Toby continued, speaking to Isabel, “there was one thing. We were discussing the wedding date. I suggest July. Never mind the unbearable heat in July. The only reason to be married in June is to make a public splash, to have all of Society watching. In July, many of the good families will already be leaving for the countryside, and the guest list will be smaller. Your brother need not incur so much expense. This is my reasoning … but naturally, Isabel, your own preference is paramount.”
“Why, if the decision is mine, I think I should prefer to be married in June.” Allowing young Jacob to slide to the floor, she turned to her brother. “I’m certain Dolly is not concerned with the expense.”
Toby shot Gray a cold smile. “Well, Dolly, are you concerned for the expense?”
“No, of course not. But—”
Toby captured Isabel’s hand and tucked it into his arm. “Then I gladly make the concession. June it is.”
CHAPTER FIVE
An hour later, Bel feared she would not live out the day, much less survive to see June.
“Well, then.” Sir Toby nestled closer on the phaeton seat. “This is a lovely morning.”
Bel managed a slight nod in agreement. It was all the motion she dared venture. With one hand latched to the seat iron, the other gripping her bonnet, and both feet braced against the footboard, she had no free appendage with which to gesture. And as for speaking … speaking was out of the question. She kept her jaw clenched, lest her teeth rattle loose from her skull as Sir Toby urged the horses faster over the cobblestones. When they rounded the bend at a perilous tilt, she did manage a little sound. Unfortunately, it was less of a word and more of a scream.
“What’s the matter?” Turning to face her, he took the reins in one hand and stretched the other arm along the seat behind her. “Are you well?”
The phaeton bounced over a small rut, tossing Bel off-balance. Before she could catch herself, she had fallen against his side. His arm enfolded her shoulders, drawing her tight against his chest.
Whistling through his teeth, he slowed the horses and pulled the carriage to the side of the street. “Isabel, darling, are you ill?”
“N-no …” Bel fought to recover her breath. The carriage had come to a halt, but her world remained in motion. She was dizzy—not only from that terrifying drive, but now from the sensation of his strong body wrapped so protectively around hers. “I’m not ill, it’s only … I’m unaccustomed to driving like this, that’s all. We don’t have such fast carriages and fine teams on Tortola. It’s a small island.” She sat up a bit, placing her hand between them on the seat as a buffer.
“What a dolt I am. I should have realized. And look, you’ve gone all pale.” He removed his hat and began fanning her with it. “Shall I take you back home?”
“No. No, please don’t. Truly, I am perfectly well now.” Bel readjusted her bonnet.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m very certain.” The concern in Toby’s amber-flecked eyes pleased her. Sophia had been right. He would make a kind, solicitous husband. “I don’t mean to complain. It’s a lovely phaeton.” She ran a hand over the tufted, butter-soft leather.
At his soft command, the horses resumed a sedate walk. “We needn’t continue driving at all,”
he said. “Why don’t we leave the phaeton with a groom and have a stroll about the shops?”
“The shops? I suppose we could, but I don’t have need of anything. Do you?”
He laughed. “Why, that’s the very time to visit the shops—when you don’t need anything. To be truthful, however, I have been thinking of buying a new walking stick. I’ve had my eye on a fine ivory-topped one at Brauchts’.”
“A walking stick? Do you have some injury, then?” Bel surreptitiously eyed his legs. They looked fit enough to her, his well-formed thighs and calves sheathed in tailored wool. She flushed and quickly averted her eyes. Yes, his legs looked well indeed. “Or perhaps you suffer from the gout?”
“The gout?” He laughed again, louder this time. “No, I have not lived such an immoderate life as to develop the gout at the age of nine-and-twenty. Nor have I suffered any injury, save that small one to my pride just now.”
“Oh. Then why do you need a walking stick, if you are not infirm?”
“Why, no particular reason. They come in handy from time to time—for gesturing toward sights of interest, rapping on doors, signaling the coachman …” He shrugged. “And they look fine. It’s the fashion.”
“I see,” she said, frowning. “So this is the way you wish to spend our morning? Shopping for this … this embellished stick, which a perfectly healthy gentleman carries around, for no real purpose other than to indicate his wealth?”
His expression sobered. “Well, that and gesturing,” he said slowly. “Don’t forget gesturing. And rapping on doors. There’s that, too.”
Bel had no response. Actually, she would have liked to respond that arms and hands generally worked well for her in those regards, but she had no wish to upset him further.
“Right, well.” He gave her a tight smile. “We’ll do the shops another day, then. Are you fond of art? Shall I take you to an exhibition?”
Bel perked up. Her appreciation for art had increased under Sophia’s influence, as her sister-inlaw was an accomplished painter. “Thank you, I would like that very much.”
“Excellent.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I’ll arrange a real treat for you. I’ve a friend who can get us a private showing of the Parthenon marbles.”