Dancing at Midnight (5 page)

while she was already pregnant.

"For someone who is usually considered quite bright," she muttered to

herself, "you know pathetically little about the important things."

"Did you say something, my lady?" a footman immediately inquired.

"No, no, I was just talking to myself," she replied, rolling her eyes at

her behavior. If she kept this up, half of Westonbirt would think she

was daft.

She helped herself to a bit of breakfast, glancing through the day-old

newspaper that was sitting out on the table for Alex's perusal. The

newlyweds still hadn't arrived by the time she finished her omelet.

Belle sighed, trying to decide how to occupy herself.

She could raid Alex's library, she supposed, but for once she didn't

feel like reading. The sun was shining brightly, a rare treat during

this exceptionally rainy autumn, and she suddenly wished that she

weren't alone, that Alex or Emma had decided not to sleep in that

morning, that she had someone with whom to share the fine weather. But

there was no one. Except—Belle

shook her head. She couldn't just prance over to Lord Blackwood's house

and say hello.

But then again, why couldn't she?

Well, for one thing, he didn't like her.

Which, she countered, was precisely the reason she ought to pay him a

visit. She wasn't going to be able to rectify the

situation if they never saw each other again.

Belle raised her eyebrows as she pondered the thought. If she brought

along a maid as a chaperone, she wouldn't be so far

outside the bounds of propriety. Well, actually she would, but no one

was about, and Lord Blackwood didn't strike her as overly high in the

instep. Making her decision, she wandered over to the kitchen to see if

Mrs. Goode could spare some scones. They would make a lovely breakfast.

Perhaps Lord Blackwood hadn't yet eaten.

She'd be fine. This wasn't London, after all. Forty gossips would not be

wagging their tongues later that evening at her

scandalous behavior. And she wasn't going to do anything dreadful. She

just wanted to greet their new neighbor properly.

Mostly she just wanted to see what his house looked like, she told

herself. What was it called? Alex had told her the night

before. Bletchwood Place? Blumley Manor? Blasphemous Burg? Belle laughed

to herself. It was something hideous, that's

all she remembered.

She wandered down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Goode was only too happy to

arrange a basket. Belle soon departed, laden

with fresh jams and homemade scones.

She strode purposefully to the stables where she mounted Amber, her

mare. She wasn't quite certain where John's house was located, but she

knew it was to the east. If she stuck to the roads and kept heading

toward the sun, she'd be bound to run into it eventually.

She set off at an easy trot as she headed down the long drive that led

from Westonbirt to the main road. Emma's lady's maid

knew how to ride, and she kept pace alongside her. They turned east on

the main road, and sure enough, after about a quarter

of an hour, they happened upon a drive that looked as if it led to

another house. After a few moments Belle found herself in a wide open

clearing, at the center of which stood an elegant stone house.

It was small by the standards of aristocracy, but it was stylish and

obviously well-built. It suited her. Belle smiled and urged her mare

forward. She didn't see any stables, so she saw to her horse herself,

tying it to a tree. Emma's maid did the same. "Sorry, Amber," Belle

murmured and then took a deep breath and marched up the front steps.

She picked up the giant brass knocker and let it fall with a resounding

thud. After a few moments, a white-haired, elderly man answered the

door. Belle took him to be the butler. "Good morning," she said in

cultured tones. "Is this the home of Lord Blackwood?"

The butler raised an eyebrow. "It is."

Belle offered him her brightest smile. "Excellent. Please inform him

that Lady Arabella Blydon has come to call."

Buxton didn't doubt for a moment that she was a lady, not with her fine

clothes and aristocratic accent. With a regal nod

of his head, he showed her to an airy room decorated in shades of cream

and blue.

Belle was silent as she watched the butler disappear up the stairs. Then

she turned to Emma's maid and said,

"Perhaps you should, ah, go to the kitchens and see if there are any,

ah, other servants about."

The maid's eyes widened slightly at being dismissed, but she nodded and

left the room.

John was still in bed when the butler arrived, having decided to treat

himself to some much-needed rest. Buxton entered

silently, then put his mouth very, very close to his master's ear. "You

have a visitor, my lord," he said loudly.

John swatted the butler with a pillow and reluctantly came awake. "A

what?" he asked groggily.

"A visitor."

"Good Lord, what time is it?"

"Nine o'clock, my lord."

John staggered out of bed and grabbed a robe to cover his naked body.

"Who the hell comes calling at nine in the morning?"

"Lady Arabella Blydon, my lord."

John whirled around in shock. "Who?"

"I believe I said Lady—"

"I know what you said," John snapped, his temper shortened by his rather

unceremonious awakening.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

"I am sure I do not know, my lord, but she did ask for you."

John sighed, wondering when Buxton would realize that every question did

not require a response. He sighed again. He didn't doubt for a moment

that the sly old butler knew very well that John's remarks had been

hypothetical. "I suppose I have to get dressed," he finally said.

"I should think so, my lord. I took the liberty of informing Wheatley

that you would require his services."

John turned around and headed to his dressing room. Like Buxton, the

valet had also come with the house, and John had to

admit that it was not difficult to get used to the luxury. In no time,

he was dressed in form-fitting biscuit-colored breeches,

a crisp white shirt, and navy blue coat. He deliberately ignored his

cravat. If Lady Arabella required a cravat, she shouldn't

have come calling at nine in the morning.

He splashed some water on his face then ran his wet hands through his

unruly hair, trying to tame the sleep-tossed look.

"Damn it all," he muttered. He still looked half-asleep. Hell, who

cared? He went downstairs.

Buxton intercepted him on the landing. "Lady Arabella is waiting for you

in the green salon, my lord."

John took a breath, trying not to let his exasperation show. "And which

one is that, Buxton?"

The butler gave him an amused smile and pointed. "Right over there, my

lord."

John followed Buxton's finger and entered the room, leaving the door

respectably open. Belle was standing near a blue chair,

idly examining a painted vase. She looked utterly charming and damnably

awake in her rose-colored gown.

"This is a surprise," he said.

Belle looked up at the deep sound of his voice. "Oh, hello, Lord

Blackwood." She glanced lightly at his disheveled hair.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"Not at all," he lied.

"I thought that perhaps we didn't get off to a good start when we met."

He didn't say anything.

She took a breath and continued. "Right. Well, I thought I should greet

you to the neighborhood. I brought you something to

break your fast. I hope you like scones."

John flashed her a wide smile. "I /adore /scones. And they're just in

time for breakfast."

Belle frowned at his overly amused tone. She /had /woken him up. "There

is some jam to go with them." She sat down,

wondering what on earth had possessed her to come over here so early.

John rang for some tea and coffee and then seated himself across from

her. He glanced mildly around the room.

"I see you have no escort."

"Oh, no, I did bring a maid, but she went off to visit your servants. I

would have had Emma accompany me, but she wasn't

yet up and about. It's early, you know."

"I know."

Belle swallowed and continued. "It really isn't that important, I don't

think. This isn't London, after all, where one's every movement is fair

game for the gossips. And it's not as if I'm in any danger."

John's eyes raked appreciatively over her decidedly feminine form.

"Aren't you?"

Belle flushed and stiffened in her seat. She looked him straight in the

eye and saw honor lurking behind his sardonic facade.

"No, I don't think I am," she replied resolutely.

"You shouldn't have come here alone."

"I told you, I didn't come here alone. My maid—"

"Your maid is in the kitchen. You are here in this room. Alone. With me."

Belle's mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to

speak. "Well... yes, of course ... but..."

John stared at her, thinking that he'd like nothing better than to lean

over and kiss those soft lips which were opening and closing with such

consternation. He shook his head slightly as if to banish the thought.

/Get a hold of yourself, John, /his inner voice warned. "I apologize,"

he said abruptly. "I certainly did not mean to make you ill at ease. It

is just rather uncommon for a young lady to call upon a bachelor

unescorted."

Belle smiled archly, his apology somehow relieving her tension. "I am

rather uncommon myself."

John didn't doubt it for an instant. He glanced over at her saucy

expression and wondered if she had come calling deliberately

to torture him.

"Besides," Belle continued, "I didn't think you would be such a stickler

for etiquette."

/"I /am not," he pointed out. "Most young ladies, however, are."

A servant brought in tea and coffee, and Belle quickly offered to pour.

She handed him a cup of coffee and set about fixing herself some tea,

chattering all the while.

"Did you grow up in the area?"

"No."

"Well, then, where did you grow up?"

"Shropshire."

"How lovely."

John made a noise that was perilously close to a grunt. Belle raised her

eyebrows and continued. "I am from London."

"How lovely."

Belle pursed her lips at his sarcastic comment. "We have a home in

Sussex, of course, but I tend to think of London as home."

John picked up a scone and liberally spread some strawberry jam onto it.

"How unfortunate for you."

"Don't you like London?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh." And what else was she supposed to say, Belle wondered. A full

minute passed, and she was painfully aware of the speculative and amused

glances that John was shooting her way. "Well," she said finally. "I see

that you were not lying to

me yesterday."

That comment caught John's attention and he looked up questioningly.

"You really are dreadful at making polite conversation."

He let out a bark of laughter. "No one could ever accuse you of being

less than astute, my lady."

Belle let that comment pass, not entirely certain that it had been meant

as a compliment. As she looked over at him she remembered yesterday's

conversation. For a moment, at least, they had enjoyed each other's

company. They had discussed Shakespeare, and yes, even teased each other

a bit.

He'd been different then, almost boyish. That is, until he had put his

guard back up. Belle had a feeling that someone had

hurt this man very badly in the past. That didn't, however, mean that

she would allow him to abuse her in turn.

She sensed something special in him, something fine and shining and

very, very good. And perhaps all he needed was someone

to remind him of that. She saw no reason not to throw caution to the

wind and try to befriend him despite all of the obstacles he was

throwing in her path. Crossing her arms, she said, "You can speak in

that arrogant tone if you want, but it won't wash."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You might as well accept it." Belle stated plainly. "You like me."

Much to John's dismay, his coffee cup clattered loudly in its saucer.

"What did you say?"

"You like me." Belle cocked her head, looking much like a cat who had

just lapped up a very large bowl of cream.

"And how did you reach that conclusion, may I ask?"

"I can just tell."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she also realized that he

wanted her very badly. Could she tell that? Perhaps. He himself was

quite surprised by the force of his reaction to her. Yesterday, she'd

looked lovely sitting under his tree, but today,

to his still slightly sleepy eyes, she was a goddess.

"You needn't look so impressed by my insight," Belle quipped.

A goddess with a very smart mouth.

"You," John said forcefully, "should be whipped."

"I hope you don't intend to search out a crop right now. I've grown

rather fond of my backside." Good Lord, Belle wondered, /when /had she

grown so bold? She glanced over at his furious visage.

John's traitorous mind decided that it would like to get very, very fond