Dancing at Midnight (36 page)

watch you die. It isn't fair! You can't leave me now. I won't allow it!"

Belle made no response. John tried wheedling.

"Do you know how furious I'll be with you if you die? I'll hate you

forever for leaving me. Do you want that?" He desperately searched

Belle's features, hoping for some sign that she was rallying, but he

found none. All his grief and anger and worry converged inside of him,

and he finally grabbed her brutally and lifted her in his arms, cradling

her as he spoke.

"Belle," he said hoarsely. "There's no hope for me without you." He

paused while a tremor shook his body. "I want to see you smiling, Belle.

Smiling happily, your blue eyes full of sunshine and goodness. Reading a

book, laughing at its contents. I want so much for you to be happy. I'm

sorry I wouldn't accept your love. I will. I promise. If you, in your

infinite goodness and wisdom, have found something in me worthy of love,

well then... well, then, I suppose I'm not quite as bad as I thought.

"Oh, God, Belle," he said with a ragged cry. "Please, please hold on. If

you cannot do it for me then do it for your family. They love you so

much. You wouldn't want to hurt them, would you? And think about all the

books you haven't read yet. I promise

I'll sneak Byron's next one to you if they won't sell it in your

bookstore. There's still so much for you to do, my love. You can't leave

now."

Throughout John's passionate soliloquy Belle remained limp, her

breathing shallow. Finally, in utter desperation, he broke down

and bared his soul. "Belle, /please," /he begged. "Please, please don't

leave me. Belle, /I love you. /I love you, and I couldn't bear

it if you died. God help me, I love you so much." His voice broke off,

and like a man who has suddenly realized the fruitlessness

of his situation, he sighed raggedly and laid her gently back down on

the bed.

Unable to hold back the lone tear that rolled down his cheek, John

tenderly pulled up the blankets and tucked Belle in. Taking a deep

breath, he leaned forward. God, it was torture to be so close to her. He

lightly brushed his lips against her ear, whispering,

"I love you, Belle. Remember that always."

Then he left the room, praying that "always" would last longer than the

next hour.

*  *  *

Belle was lying in bed a few hours later when she felt a comforting

warmth suffuse her body. Funny how her toes had been cold for so long,

even when the rest of her had been going up in flames. But now they felt

warm, even—pink. Belle wondered if toes could feel pink, and then

decided that they must, because that was precisely the word to describe

the way /her /toes were feeling.

In fact, her entire body felt kind of pink. Pink, and cozy, and a little

fuzzy, but mostly she just felt good. For the first time in—she frowned,

realizing that she had no idea how long she'd been ill.

Gingerly, she hoisted herself into a sitting position, surprised at how

weak her muscles were. Blinking her eyes a few times, she took in her

surroundings. She was back home in the room she and John had shared on

their wedding night. How had she

returned? All she remembered was the rain and the wind. Oh, and the

fight. Her awful fight with John.

She sighed, bone tired. She didn't care any longer if he didn't want her

to say that she loved him. She would take him any

way she could have him. All she wanted to do was end this vexing problem

with George Spencer and go back to the country,

back to Bunford Manor.

Bunford Manor? No, that wasn't right.

Drat. She'd never remember the name of that place. She tilted her head

to the side. Sore. She flexed her ringers. Sore. She pointed her toes

and groaned. Her entire body ached.

As she sat there testing out various body parts, the doorknob quietly

turned and John entered the room. He had finally forced himself to take

a fifteen minute break so that he could splash some water on his face

and shove some food down his throat.

Now he was terrified that he'd find Belle had lost her tenuous hold on

life while he was gone.

To his great surprise, when he reached the side of the bed, he saw that

the object of his desperate worry was sitting up,

shrugging her shoulders. Up, down, up, down.

"Hello, John," she said weakly. "What's the name of your house in

Oxfordshire?"

John was so stunned, so completely thrown off balance by her bizarre

question, it took him several moments to reply.

"Bletchford Manor," he finally said.

"That's an /awful /name," Belle replied, making a face. Then she yawned,

for the sentence had taken a lot of energy to get out.

"I've—I've been meaning to change it."

"Yes, well, you should do so soon. It doesn't suit you. Nor me, for that

matter." Belle yawned again and snuggled down into the bed. "If you'll

excuse me, I seem to be extremely tired. I think I'd like to get some

sleep."

John thought wildly of the countless times he had begged her to wake

from her nightmares and found himself nodding. "Yes,"

he said softly. "Yes, you should get some sleep." Dumbstruck, he sank

down into the chair that had been his home throughout

his prayerful vigil at her bedside.

The fever had broken. Strangely, joyously, amazingly, the fever had

broken. She was going to be all right. He was stunned

by the force of emotion which thundered through him. For once, his

prayers had been answered.

Arid then a strange thing happened. An odd, warm feeling began somewhere

in the vicinity of his heart and began to spread.

He had saved her life.

He could feel a weight being lifted from him. It was a physical sensation.

He had saved a life.

A voice resounded in the room. /You are for//given./

He looked quickly over at Belle. She didn't seem to have heard the

voice. How odd. It had seemed prodigiously loud to him.

A female voice. Rather like Ana's.

Ana. John closed his eyes and for the the first time in five years, he

could not picture her face.

Had he finally atoned for his sins? Or, perhaps, was it that his sin had

never been quite as eternally condemning as he thought?

He looked back over at Belle. She had always believed in him. Always.

He was so much stronger with her by his side. And so, perhaps, was she.

Together they had faced the fiercest enemy of all

and won. She would live, and he would never again have to face the

future alone.

John took a deep breath, planted his elbows on his thighs, and let his

face fall forward into his hands. A crazy smile cracked

his face, and he began to laugh. All the stress and anguish of the past

few days worked themselves out in this strange, rocking laughter.

Belle rolled over and opened her eyes at the sound. Although his face

was covered, she could tell that he looked haggard. The

skin on his arms was stretched tight, and the top few buttons of his

shirt were carelessly undone. He slowly lifted his head and looked back

at her, his brown eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't name.

Undaunted, Belle continued her examination. His eyes looked gaunt, and

his chin was covered with several days' growth of beard. And his

normally thick and shiny hair looked

dull. Belle frowned and reached her arm out, covering his hand with her own.

"You look terrible," she said.

It was several moments before John could find his voice to reply. "Oh,

Belle," he said hoarsely. "You look wonderful."

*  *  *

A couple of days later, Belle was feeling much better. She was still a

little weak, but her appetite was back, and she was entertained by a

steady stream of visitors.

John she hadn't seen for over a day. As soon as he was assured she was

no longer in danger he collapsed from exhaustion. Caroline gave Belle

periodic reports on his condition, but so far the reports had not varied

beyond, "He's still sleeping."

Finally, on the third day after her fever broke, her husband entered her

room, a slightly sheepish smile on his face.

"I had despaired of ever seeing you again," she said.

He perched on the side of her bed. "I've been sleeping, I'm afraid."

"Yes, so I've heard." She reached out and touched his jaw. "It's so

lovely to see your face."

He smiled. "You washed your hair."

"What?" She looked down and pinched a curl between her fingers. "Oh,

yes. It was badly needed, I think. John, I—"

"Belle, I—" His words came out at the same time as hers. "You first."

"No, you go ahead."

"I insist."

"Oh, this is silly," Belle said. "We're married, after all. Yet we're so

nervous."

"What are you nervous about?"

"Spencer." The name hung in the air for several seconds before she

continued. "We must get him out of our lives. Did you

tell my parents of our situation?"

"No. I leave that to your discretion."

"I won't tell them. It will only worry them."

"Whatever you say."

"Have you devised a plan?"

"No. When you were ill—" He swallowed convulsively. Just the memory was

enough to terrify him. "When you were ill

I couldn't think of anything but you. And then I slept."

"Well, I've been thinking about him." He looked up.

"I think we should confront him at the Tumbley bash," she said.

"Absolutely not."

"Mother has already insisted that we attend. She wants to use the

occasion to present us to society."

"Belle, it will be so crowded. How am I to keep an eye on you when—"

"The crowds are what will protect us. Alex, Emma, and Dunford will be

able to stay close to our sides without raising suspicion."

"I forbid—"

"Will you at least think about it? We'll face him together. I think

that... together ... we can do anything." She wet her lips, aware that

she'd stumbled over her words.

"All right," he agreed, partly because he wanted to change the subject,

but mostly because the sight of her licking her lips forced

all rational thought from his head.

She reached out and placed her hand on his. "Thank you for taking care

of me."

"Belle," he blurted out. "I love you."

She smiled. "I know. And I love you, too."

He picked up her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it fervently.

"I still cannot believe that you do, but"—when he saw

that she would interrupt, he placed his hand gently over her mouth—"but

it gives me more joy than I ever thought possible.

More joy than I thought there was in this world."

"Oh, John."

"You've helped me to forgive myself. It was when I knew you weren't

going to die, when I realized I had saved your life." He paused, his

expression dazed, as if he still couldn't believe the miracle that had

taken place in that very room. "It was then that

I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I'd paid my debt. A life for a life. I couldn't save Ana, but I

saved you."

"John," she said softly. "Saving my life hasn't made up for what

happened in Spain."

His eyes flew to hers, horrified.

"It doesn't /need /to make up for it. When will you accept that you

weren't responsible? You've been torturing yourself for five years, and

all because of another man's actions."

John stared at her. He stared hard into those bright blue eyes, and for

the first time, her words began to make sense.

She squeezed his hand.

He finally blinked. "Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between. Yes, I

was supposed to protect her, and I failed in that. But I didn't rape

her." He shook his head, and his voice grew stronger. "It wasn't me."

"Your heart is free now."

"No," he whispered. "It's yours."

*

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Chapter 22*

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John yanked viciously at his cravat. "This is stupid, Belle," he hissed.

"Stupid."

belle tiptoed around his valet, who had let out an agonized groan over

the death of his careful handiwork. "How many times

do we have to go through this? I told you there was no way to get out of

going to the Tumbley bash tonight. Mother would

have my head if I didn't show my face before all the /ton /as a properly

married lady."

John dismissed his valet with a curt nod, wanting to keep the

conversation private. "That's exactly it, Belle. You're a married

lady now. You don't have to obey your parents' every order anymore."

"Oh, so now instead of following my parents' orders, I get to follow

yours. Pardon me if I don't jump with glee."

"Don't be sarcastic, Belle. It doesn't suit you. All I'm saying is you

don't have to do what your parents tell you anymore."

"Try telling that to my mother."

"You're a grown woman." John made his way over to a mirror and began to

refold his cravat.

"I have news for you. Parents don't stop being parents when their

children get married. And mothers especially don't stop

being mothers."

John pulled the fabric the wrong way and cursed.

"You should have left it the way Wheatley arranged it. I thought it

looked quite elegant."