Dancing at Midnight (13 page)

that."

"He's right, you know. The roads are very dangerous at night."

"I know," Emma replied with a disappointed expression. "But I wanted to

let you know tonight in case you wanted to

accompany us. Or if you didn't, just to tell you our plans because we're

sure to be gone before you wake up in the morning."

"I think that I will not go with you," Belle said slowly, measuring her

words carefully as she spoke. She had been looking

forward to the fair all evening, and she was loathe to give up her

outing with John. Especially now that they would be alone.

"I don't imagine that Sophie will want a houseful of guests while she's

giving birth. I'll visit once the babe is a bit older."

"All right, then, I'll send your regards." Emma frowned. "Although I'm

not certain if I should leave you alone here. I don't

think it's proper."

"Alone?" Belle asked disbelievingly. "There are over a hundred servants."

"Not quite a hundred," Emma corrected. "And I did promise your mother

I'd be a good chaperone."

"I cannot imagine what brand of insanity must have taken hold of my

mother when she thought that you would be a proper chaperone."

"You do know more about society," Emma hedged. "If you think that there

won't be any sort of uproar—"

"I /know /that there won't. This isn't London, after all. I doubt that

anyone will even hear of my being alone. And if they did,

it wouldn't create much fuss with a hundred servants standing guard over

me."

"All right," Emma agreed finally. "Just don't invite Lord Blackwood

over, please. I'd not want word to get out that you were spending time

together unchaperoned."

Belle snorted. "That's an about-face after your machinations this

afternoon."

"That was different," Emma replied defensively. Still, she had the grace

at least to blush. "And don't tell me that you didn't appreciate my

so-called machinations. I can see the way you look at him."

Belle sighed and snuggled down into her quilts. "I don't deny it."

Emma leaned forward, intensely interested. "Are you in love with him?"

"I don't know. How can one tell?"

Emma thought for a moment before answering. "One just somehow knows. It

creeps up on a person. The poets write of love

at first sight, but I don't think it happens like that."

Belle's smile was wistful. "Only in romantic novels, I suppose."

"Yes." Emma suddenly straightened. "I'd best be getting off to bed. I

want to make an early start tomorrow."

"Have a safe trip," Belle called out.

"We will. Oh, and please offer our apologies to Lord Blackwood tomorrow

as we won't be able to attend the fair with you. Although I imagine

you'll enjoy it better without us."

"I'm sure we will."

Emma made a face. "Just don't invite him back here afterwards. And

whatever you do, don't go over to Bellamy Park alone."

"I don't think that's what it's called."

"What is the name?"

Belle sighed. "I can't remember. Something with a 'B.' "

"Well, whatever it's called, don't go there. Your mother would have my

head."

Belle nodded and blew out the candles as Emma exited the room.

*  *  *

Shortly after noon the next day, John set out toward Westonbirt,

reminding himself for the hundredth time that he was going

to have to put an end to this infatuation with Belle. It was getting so

damned hard to push her away. She seemed to have so

much faith in him that he had almost been able to believe he deserved

the happiness she offered.

But dreams had a funny way of working themselves into everyday life, and

John couldn't shake the image of Belle lying on

that bed in Spain, her body ravaged and used.

He couldn't be with her. He knew this now more than ever. He'd tell her

today. He swore to himself that he would do it, no

matter how painful the task. He'd do it... after the fair. One more

blissful afternoon surely couldn't hurt.

On horseback it took only fifteen minutes to reach Westonbirt. John left

his powerful stallion in the stables, walked up the

front steps, and lifted his hand to knock.

Norwood opened the door before his knuckles even connected with the

wood. "How do you do, my lord," he intoned.

"Lady Arabella is waiting for you in the yellow salon."

"No, I'm not," Belle chirped, popping out of one of the many rooms which

bordered the great hall. "Hello, John. I know

I'm supposed to wait dutifully for you in the salon, but I was too

impatient. You'll never guess what happened."

"I'm sure I won't."

"Alex and Emma had to rush off at the crack of dawn. Alex's sister is

having her baby."

"Congratulations," John said automatically. "Does that mean that our

outing is canceled?"

"Of course not." Hadn't he noticed that she was dressed in her best

riding habit? "I see no reason why the two of us cannot

have a lovely time by ourselves."

John smiled at her artless words but privately thought that he was

treading dangerous waters, indeed. "As you wish, my lady."

The couple rode out in companionable silence, enjoying the brisk breezes

of the autumn weather. The fair was actually located closer to John's

home than to Westonbirt, so they crossed over the border between the two

properties and rode past Bletchford Manor on their way. As they passed

the stately old home, John commented, as he always did, "Damn, but I've

got to come up

with another name for this place."

"I heartily agree," Belle replied. "Brimstone Park conjures up images of

hellfire and the like."

John shot her an odd look. "It isn't called Brimstone Park."

"It isn't? Oh, of course it isn't. I knew that." Belle smiled weakly.

"What is it called again?"

"Bletchford Manor," John replied, wincing as he said the name.

"Good gracious, that's even worse. At least Brimstone Park had some

character to it. And 'bletch' rhymes with 'retch,' which conjures up

images even more unfortunate than hellfire."

"Believe me, I am well aware of all of the unpleasant aspects of the

present name."

"Don't worry, we'll come up with something." Belle patted John

comfortingly on his forearm. "Just give me a little time. I'm

quite clever with words."

They reached the fairgrounds, and Belle's attention was immediately

diverted by a man on stilts a few yards away from them. They were soon

swept up into the rhythm of the fair.

"I've always wondered how they do that." Belle pondered as they stopped

before a brightly dressed juggler.

"I imagine it's just a matter of throwing the balls up in the air with

the right timing."

Belle elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't be such a spoilsport. You take the

magic out of everything. Oh, look at those ribbons!" Letting go of

John's hand, she hurried over to the ribbon-seller and inspected his

wares. By the time John caught up with her,

she already had two ribbons in hand and was deciding between them.

"Which do you prefer, John? This?" She held a pink

ribbon up against her hair. "Or this?" she asked, replacing the pink

ribbon with a red one.

John crossed his arms and pretended to give the matter ample thought

before reaching out and plucking a bright blue one off

the table. "I prefer /this /one. It is the exact color of your eyes."

Belle looked over at him, caught the warm caress of his gaze, and simply

melted. "Then I must have the blue one," she said softly.

They stood there locked into place by each other's stare until the

ribbon-seller destroyed the moment with a loud, "A-hem!" Belle tore her

eyes away from John and reached down into her reticule, but before she

could retrieve any coins, John had paid for the ribbon and placed it in

her hands.

"A present, my lady." He leaned over and kissed her hand.

Belle felt the warmth of his kiss travel up her arm straight to her

soul. "I shall treasure it always."

The romance of the moment was overpowering. "Are you hungry?" John asked

suddenly, desperate to turn the conversation

over to more mundane matters.

"Famished."

John led her over to the food stalls where they bought spinach pies and

strawberry tarts. Plates in hand, they wended their way

to a quiet spot on the outskirts of the fair. John laid his coat down on

the ground, and they sat on it and ravenously attacked their food.

"You owe me a poem," Belle reminded him between bites of her pie.

John sighed. "So I do."

"You haven't even tried, have you?" Belle accused.

"Of course I have. I just haven't finished what I started."

"Then tell me what you have now."

"I don't know," he hedged. "A true poet wouldn't release his work until

he was certain it was finished."

"Pleeeeeeease!" she begged, her face contorting into an expression that

would have been more at home on a five-year-old.

John couldn't hold out against such unrestrained begging. "Oh, all

right. How about this?

"'She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.' "

"Oh, John," Belle sighed deliriously. "That was lovely. It made me feel

so beautiful."

"You /are /beautiful."

"Thank you," Belle said automatically. "But looking beautiful isn't, I

think, as important as feeling beautiful, and that's why your poem

touched me so deeply. It was so romantic. It was—wait a minute." She sat

upright, her brow furrowed in thought.

John suddenly focused all of his attention on the spinach pie in his hands.

"I've heard that before," Belle continued. "I think I've read it. Quite

recently."

"Can't imagine how," John murmured, all the while knowing he was well

and truly sunk.

"Lord Byron wrote that! I cannot believe you tried to pass off Lord

Byron's poetry as your own!"

"You did back me into a bit of a corner."

"I know, but that's no excuse for outright plagiarism. And here I was,

thinking you'd written such beautiful words just for me. Imagine my

disappointment."

"Imagine /my /disappointment," John muttered. "I was certain you

wouldn't have read it yet. It was only published last year."

"I had to get my brother to buy it for me. They don't sell Lord Byron's

work in the ladies' bookshop. Too racy, they say."

"You are too inventive by half," John grumbled, leaning back and resting

on his elbows. "If you had stayed in your ladies'

bookshop where you belong, I wouldn't be in this mess."

"I don't regret one whit of it," Belle said archly. "It seemed quite

silly to me that I wasn't allowed to read what all of society

was whispering about, and only because I'm an unmarried female."

"Get yourself married," he suggested jokingly, "and then you can do

whatever you want."

Belle leaned forward, excitement glittering in her eyes. "Lord

Blackwood, that wouldn't be a proposal now, would it?"

John paled. "Now you've /really /backed me into a corner."

Belle sat back, trying to hide her disappointment. She didn't know what

had possessed her to speak so outrageously, and she certainly had no

idea how she had expected him to react. Still, accusing her of backing

him into a corner was definitely not

what she'd been hoping for. "I still think you should write a poem," she

finally said, hoping her jaunty tone covered the sadness

she wasn't able to keep out of her eyes.

John pretended to give the matter great thought. "How about this one?"

he asked with an impish smile.

"There is nothing more dear to my heart

Than a woman who's covered with strawberry tart."

Belle made a face. "That was dreadful."

"Did you think so? I thought it most romantic, indeed, considering that

you've got strawberry tart on your face."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. Right here." John extended his finger and lightly touched

the corner of her mouth. He lingered for a moment, wanting to trace the

outline of her lips, but he pulled away quite suddenly, almost as if

burned. He was getting too close to temptation. She had only to sit

across from him at a makeshift picnic, and his entire body came alive.

Belle's hand flew up to her face, instinctively touching the spot where

he had just touched her. Funny how her skin still tingled. Stranger

still how the sensation was slowly spreading through the rest of her

body. She looked over at John, who was gazing

at her hungrily, his dark eyes smoldering with unfulfilled desire.

"There—there are so many people about, my lord," she finally stammered.

John could tell she was nervous. She never would have reverted to her

automatic use of the title "my lord" otherwise. He drew back, shuttering

his gaze, aware that it was his unconcealed hunger which was making her

so ill-at-ease. He took several deep breaths, willing himself to cease

this insane desire. His body refused, unwilling to ignore the

ravishingly beautiful woman seated

not three feet away from him.

John cursed under his breath. This was crazy. Utter madness. He was