“Because you are holding me indecently close? Because we have just emerged from an illicit interlude on the verandah?”

“Precisely. We are the latest scandal.”

She went rigid in his arms.

“Now don’t distress yourself, darling. Sometimes a little scandal is just what you need. Never underestimate the power of rumor and innuendo. At this moment, we are the object of intense speculation—the infamous rake of the scandal sheets, paired with the newly arrived innocent. They’re all desperate to know what we’re whispering to one another. Tomorrow, they’re asking themselves, what will be the headline? Am I ruining you? Or are you reforming me?”

Chuckling, he fanned his fingers across the small of her back. “What a story that would be for The Prattler. Your name would be on the lips of every gossip in Town.”

Finally, her mouth curved a fraction. “Yes, I can imagine it would be.”

“Do you see? Isabel, you are free to marry where you choose, without regard to fortune or rank. Even if the unthinkable occurred, and you were wed to a lowly blighter like me”—he silenced her protest with a wink—“you would still be a lady. You would attract a great deal of notice. You would have a husband with prospects in Parliament.” Granted, they were prospects Toby had been purposely avoiding for the better part of a decade, but just for the sake of argument… He swept her through a turn. “You would not have married a lord at all, but you would be a lady of influence.”

She gave him a cautious smile that set his world spinning. “Surely you’re not seriously suggesting I marry you?”

“No,” he said, forcing a self-deprecating laugh. “I would never suggest such a thing.”

She couldn’t know how these blithe dismissals kept wounding him. She couldn’t know that bruised male pride was a dangerous beast.

Toby lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “If I paid court to you, Isabel, I would make more than suggestions. I would make promises. I would pledge to value your ideals, never stifle or belittle them. I would vow to display your talents to their best advantage, and to guard you from those who wish you ill.”

The music stopped, and Toby whirled her to a halt.

“If I proposed marriage to you,” he said, “I would kneel at your feet. Pledge to you my undying devotion, a share in my worldly possessions, and the protection of my body. I would promise to cherish you all the days of your life, and make your happiness my own. Because that is what you deserve from a husband. No less.”

“Oh,” she sighed. Her lips fell slightly apart. Shallow breaths lifted her chest. At last. He had her well and truly enchanted now. Toby supposed he ought to release her. He’d proven his point, hadn’t he? He still knew how to dazzle a girl. But something compelled him to go on.

“And if I did offer for you,” he asked, “would it be so very horrible?”

He hardly knew what murky pit of his soul that question had crawled out from, but he knew it wasn’t aimed at this girl. It was meant for Sophia, and Lucy, and every other young lady who’d grown out of loving him and married some other man.

But it was Isabel who must answer for them all. She was here, and she was breathless in his arms, and she had the power to crush or redeem him with a single syllable. Yes, he still knew how to dazzle a girl—he’d practically emerged from the womb with that gift. But deep down, at his core—could he ever find what it took to secure a woman’s love?

Give me a word. One word.

“Would it be so unthinkable?” he asked softly, earnestly.

Before she could speak, someone stepped between them and the nearby candelabra, throwing a shadow over them both.

“Excuse the interruption.” The voice was a smooth baritone. “But I’d thank you to let the lady go.”

Without releasing Isabel, Toby cast a glance toward the speaker. Of course, it was her brother. Sir Benedict Grayson, paragon of valor, miserable dancer, and great hulking brute with murder in his eyes. Worse, behind him stood Jeremy, Lucy, and the woman who’d left him at the altar and fled halfway around the world—Sophia.

Now he needed to hear Isabel’s answer more than ever.

Toby said, “I beg your pardon. This is a private conversation.”

“Not any longer, it isn’t.” Grayson folded massive arms over his chest. “The conversation is over.” Lowering his voice, he growled, “Get your hands off my sister.”

The musicians struck up a new melody, but no one in the room was dancing. All eyes were on their little tableau.

“In a moment,” Toby said smoothly, enjoying the upper hand. He refused to let Grayson cow him. The man might be a dockside laborer in gentleman’s clothing, but Toby was taller. “I’m still waiting on a word from Miss Grayson. I’ve asked her a question, and she hasn’t yet answered.”

He turned back to Isabel, tripping straight into her solemn, remarkable eyes. A strange sense of destiny overcame him. In his gut, Toby knew that the events of the next minute could very well mean the rearrangement of his life, his face, or both. He had a choice. He could release her, from his embrace and his question, surrender a second lady to this thieving bastard, and continue the miserable pastime of searching for his misplaced self-worth at the bottom of brandy decanters.

Or he could hold on to this beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman. Perhaps forever.

Grayson scowled. “Bel, what the devil is he talking about? You don’t have to answer this man anything.” He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. “Do you want me to hit him?”

“No!” she gasped, her gaze flitting around the assembled crowd. “No, nothing of the sort. Sir Toby just asked me—”

“To marry him,” Toby interrupted. Loudly and clearly, with a certainty that surprised even him. An excited murmur swept the crowd.

Leveling a cool gaze at Grayson, he continued, “I’ve asked your sister to marry me. And now I’m waiting …” He glanced over his shoulder. “It would seem we’re all waiting … to hear her reply.”

The excited murmur dissolved into silence. Grayson’s face turned a satisfying shade of ash. And suddenly, Toby was having the time of his life. He’d stolen Isabel straight from the scoundrel’s arms, and he was not going to give her back. Not without a fight. He released Isabel’s waist and took her soft, delicate hand in both of his. “Was it public notice you wanted? All eyes are on you now, my dear,” he said, grinning. “And I must confess, I’ve always wanted to do this.”

She stared at him, mute with shock, as he sank to one knee.

“Miss Isabel Grayson.” His voice echoed off the marble tile. “Would you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“I’m engaged.” Bel joined her brother and sister-in-law at the breakfast table the next morning.

“Can you believe it?”

“No,” Gray said tersely, his face hidden behind a newspaper. “I can’t.”

To be honest, neither could Bel. She’d passed a fitful night, plucking at the lace-edged coverlet and reliving the evening’s events again and again in her mind—each time hoping for a different conclusion. By dawn, she’d nearly convinced herself the entire episode was simply a strange, vivid dream. But judging by her brother’s ill-humor this morning, it would seem to have been real.

“I’m engaged,” she said again. If she said it enough times, she might begin to believe it. Gray cleared his throat. “For God’s sake, Bel, you’re not—” He stopped himself and appeared to consider before beginning again, more softly this time. “Your … engagement” —he ground out the word—“is still a matter of discussion.”

“What your brother means to say, is that it happened so quickly,” Sophia said. “It’s taken us all by surprise.”

It had taken no one by surprise more than Bel. She couldn’t even recall her thoughts at the moment when her traitorous lips had formed the word “yes.” Obviously, there had been no thoughts in her head at all. Only the sight of Sir Toby’s devilish grin, and the warmth of his hands grasping hers, and the sound of a hundred pairs of lungs seizing in anticipation of her very next word.

And—God help her—some emotion akin to enjoyment.

Madness, that’s what her acceptance had been. A moment of sheer insanity. Not that she could let anyone suspect it now. No, the only thing worse than impetuously accepting a proposal at her first ball would be callously breaking it the next day. She would appear fickle, immature, prone to wild vacillations of emotion: everything a lady of influence was not. The decision had been made in a moment of madness, but as Sir Toby himself had pointed out, a marriage to him could still further her goals. So long as, from this point forward, she behaved with restraint and acted as though it were all part of her plan.

“Yes,” Bel replied. “It did happen quickly, and I’m glad of it.” She nibbled at a point of toast.

“But why did we have to leave the ball so early? People wanted to congratulate us.”

“There’s nothing to congratulate, not yet.” Gray attacked a slab of ham with knife and fork. “I haven’t given my consent.”

Bel stared at him. “You don’t mean to withhold it? You promised I might marry whomever I choose.”

“I should know better than to make promises,” her brother grumbled around a bite of ham.

“Picked a devil of a year to start keeping them.”

Sophia mediated with a soothing tone. “Gray wants to speak with Toby before he gives his formal consent. Joss will want to meet him, too. He may not be your guardian, but he is your brother.”

“Where is Joss this morning?” Bel asked.

“He took a tray to the nursery. Little Jacob is cutting teeth and feeling out of sorts.”

“What in God’s name did that man say to you?” Gray asked, snapping open a newspaper. “I can’t imagine what dastardly lies he must have spun, to persuade you to accept him.”

“I’m sure he did not tell me any lies,” Bel replied calmly. “We merely had the opportunity to converse, and arrived at the conclusion that we would be well-matched.”

“Well-matched,” her brother echoed with disbelief. “You say he told you no lies? Well, then I suppose he told you about his history with—”

“Gray,” Sophia whispered in a reproving tone. The two exchanged pointed glances over the paper before Gray folded it and laid it aside. What ever conflict had existed moments ago was evidently resolved now, as evidenced by the affectionate brush of Gray’s fingers over his wife’s wrist. Bel normally found it sweet, the way they conversed in looks and light touches in place of words.

It was less sweet when they were clearly discussing her.

“We need to speak privately,” Sophia whispered to Bel, dismissing the servants with an elegant, self-assured flick of her wrist.

Bel sighed inwardly. She loved her new sister, but living with Sophia meant a daily struggle with envy. She was so beautiful, so graceful. And though Bel rejoiced to see her brother happily wed, in moments of weakness she—just the tiniest bit—resented sharing his attention. But she needn’t share Sir Toby’s attention with Sophia. He was her betrothed; he belonged to Bel alone. The thought sparked a little fire inside her.

Sophia inched her chair closer to Bel’s. “I wasn’t certain how much to say last night, but after talking it over with Gray …” She cast Gray a cautious look, and he nodded in encouragement. Sophia turned back to Bel. “There is something I must tell you. Before I met your brother, I was betrothed to another man. Bel, I was engaged to Toby.”

Bel choked on her toast. “No.”