Dancing at Midnight (7 page)

John knew he shouldn't look. But as he stood there, watching Belle roll

off her stocking, he could come up with no better alternative. If he

called out to her, he'd only embarrass her. Better she didn't know that

he was there. A true gentleman, he supposed, would have the fortitude to

turn his back, but then again, John found that most men who took the

time to call

themselves gentlemen were fools.

He just couldn't take his eyes off of her. Her innocence only made her

more seductive—more so than the most professional

of performers. Her unintended striptease was all the more sensual

because Belle was lowering her stocking with agonizing slowness not

because she had an audience but because she seemed to love the feel of

the silk sliding along her soft skin.

And then, much too soon for John's tastes, she was done and muttering to

herself again. He smiled. He'd never met anyone

who talked to herself quite so often—especially not in such amusing tones.

She stood and looked herself up and down a few times until her gaze fell

on a bow which adorned her dress. She tied her

stocking around the frippery, firmly securing it to her attire, and then

reached down and picked up her boot. John almost laughed when she

started to mutter again, glaring at her shoe as if it were some small,

offensive creature as she realized that she could have just stuffed her

stocking into the boot for safekeeping.

He heard her sigh, so she must have done so loudly, and then she

shrugged her shoulders and trudged away from him. John quirked a brow at

her movements because she wasn't walking home, she was heading toward

his house. Alone. One would

have thought that the chit would have had the sense to heed his warning.

He thought he'd frightened her the day before. Lord knew he frightened

himself.

He couldn't contain a smile, however, because with one of her boots off,

she was limping almost as much as he did.

John quickly turned and headed back into the woods. After his accident,

he had exercised his bad leg religiously, and as a

result, he could walk quite swiftly—almost as fast as an uninjured man.

The only problem was that overexertion meant that

his leg would later ache as if he'd walked—no hopped—to hell and back.

But he wasn't thinking about these consequences as he sped through the

woods. Foremost on his mind was how to cut through

the forest and intercept Belle closer to Bletchford Manor without her

realizing that he had been spying on her.

He knew that the path curved to the right up ahead, so he cut diagonally

through the woods, cursing every tree stump he no

longer had the agility to leap over. When he finally emerged onto the

path about a half mile closer to his house, his knee

was throbbing, and he was panting from the exertion. He put his hands on

his thighs and leaned down for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

Pain shot up and down his leg, and it was pure agony just to straighten

it. Wincing, he rubbed his knee until

the stabbing sensation receded into a dull ache.

He stood up, and just in time. Belle had just limped around the corner.

John quickly took a step in her direction, wanting to

appear as if he had been strolling down the path all morning.

She didn't see him right away because she was looking down at the ground

for pebbles so that she could avoid them with her unshod foot. They were

only about ten feet away from each other when she heard the sound of his

footsteps. She looked up instantly and saw him approaching. He was

wearing that enigmatic little smile of his, as if he knew something that

she didn't. Actually, she thought, it was more like he knew something

that she never would.

"Oh, hello, Lord Blackwood," she said, curving her lips into a smile

that she hoped matched the mystery of his. She rather

thought she failed; she'd never had a mysterious day in her life, and

besides, she sounded too cheerful by half.

Amidst all of Belle's turbulent thoughts, John nodded.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing on your property again."

John raised an eyebrow, and Belle had no idea whether his gesture meant:

You're an annoying little trespasser, You're an

amusing piece of baggage, or Your actions aren't worth the time it would

take to think about them. So she plodded on.

"I did, of course, realize that this was your property, but I headed

east from Westonbirt when I left this morning. I don't know

why, but I did, and the eastern border is really much closer to the

house than any of the other ones, and so since I like to take fairly

long walks, it's only natural that I'd reach the border, and I didn't

think you'd mind." Belle clamped her mouth shut. She

was babbling. That was unlike her, and she was quite annoyed with

herself for doing it.

"I don't mind," John said simply.

"Oh. Well, that's good, I suppose, because I have no wish to be forcibly

thrown off your property." That sounded really stupid. Belle shut her

mouth again.

"Would it really require force to get you off my property? I had no idea

you liked it so much."

Belle smiled impishly. "You're teasing me."

John gave her another one of those small smiles, the kind that would

have said so much if the rest of his face weren't so inscrutable.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she blurted out.

"I didn't think there was a need. You seem to be holding up both our

ends of the conversation admirably."

Belle frowned. "That was a horrid thing to say." She looked up. His

velvety brown eyes, usually so unreadable, were filled

with amusement. She sighed. "But true. I don't usually talk this much,

you know."

"Really?"

"Really. I think it's because you're so silent that I feel the need to

talk more."

"Ah. So we have shifted the blame to my shoulders?"

Belle glanced flirtatiously at his shoulders, which were a little

broader than she'd remembered. "They do seem a bit more

capable of bearing such a heavy load."

John grinned at her, really grinned, which was something he didn't do

very often. He suddenly felt glad that he'd worn one of

his better coats; he frequently threw on old ones for his early morning

walks. Then he was annoyed with himself for caring.

"Is this a new fashion?" he asked, motioning to the boot in her hand.

"Blister," Belle said, lifting her dress up a few inches. It was risque,

she knew, but she shrugged it off. The two of them had

such bizarre conversations, normal rules of etiquette just didn't seem

to apply.

Much to her surprise, however, he got down on one knee and took her foot

into his hands. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

Belle tugged her foot back nervously. "I don't think that will be

necessary," she said quickly. Seeing her foot was one thing. Actually

touching it was something else altogether.

John held fast. "Don't be a prude, Belle. It could become infected, and

then you'll really be miserable."

She blinked a few times, more than a little surprised at his bold use of

her first name. "How did you know that I'm called Belle?" she finally asked.

"Ashbourne told me," John replied, examining her pale toes. "Where is

this damned thing, anyway?"

"On my heel," Belle answered, dutifully turning around.

John let out a low whistle. "You've got a nasty one there. You ought to

get a more comfortable pair of shoes if you intend

to hike around the countryside."

"I wasn't hiking, I was walking. And I /do /have better shoes. I just

hadn't intended to take a walk this morning until after

I was dressed, and I didn't feel like changing my attire." Belle let out

a frustrated sigh. Why did she feel the need to explain

herself to him?

John stood up, pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, and took Belle's

arm. "There is a pond not too far away from here.

I can get some water to clean the sore."

Belle let go of her skirt. "I don't think that's necessary, /John."/

John warmed at her rather pointed use of his given name and was glad

that he'd gone ahead and used hers without asking first. He decided he

liked this Lady Arabella, even if she was a little too well-connected

for his tastes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much.

She was smart and fun—a little too beautiful for his comfort, but he was

certain that with a little

effort, he could control his attraction to her.

She did, however, have a rather appalling disregard for her own

well-being, as evidenced by her lack of spectacles, her

soon-to-be festering blister, and her penchant for unchaperoned

excursions. She obviously needed someone to lecture a

little sense into her. Since he didn't see anyone else nearby, he

decided he might as well be the one to do it, and he started

walking toward the pond, practically dragging her along behind him.

"Jo-ohn!" she protested.

"Be-elle!" he countered, imitating her complaining tone perfectly.

"I'm fully able to take care of myself," Belle said, quickening her

stride to keep up. For a man with such a pronounced limp,

he could move fast.

"Obviously not, or you'd have spectacles perched on your nose."

Belle halted in her tracks with such force that

John actually stumbled. "I only need them when I read," she ground out.

"It warms my heart to hear you admit it."

"I thought I was beginning to like you, but now I'm certain that I don't."

"You still like me," he said, grinning as he started pulling her again

toward the pond.

Belle's mouth fell open. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I—all right, maybe a little," she allowed. "But I do think you're

acting rather high-handed."

"And I think mat you have a hideous little blister on your heel. So stop

complaining."

"I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were."

Belle shut her mouth, aware that she'd been blabbering away far too

much. With a sigh, she finally gave in and let him lead her

to the pond. When they reached it, she sat down on a grassy patch near

the shore while John walked over to the water and

dipped his handkerchief into it.

"Is that clean?" she called out.

"My handkerchief or the water?"

"Both!"

John walked back to her side and held up the snowy white cloth. "Sparkling."

She sighed at his determination to treat her blister and poked her bare

foot out from under her skirt.

"This isn't going to work," he said.

"Why not?"

"You're going to have to roll over onto your stomach."

"I don't think so," Belle replied, her tone firm.

John tilted his head to one side. "The way I see it," he said

thoughtfully, "we have two options."

He didn't say anything more, so Belle was forced to ask, "We do?"

"Yes. Either you roll over onto your stomach so that I can take care of

your blister, or I can slide on my back and wiggle

under your leg so that I can see your heel. Of course that would

probably require my sticking my head under your skirts,

and while the thought is intriguing—"

"Enough," Belle muttered. She rolled over onto her stomach.

John took the handkerchief and gently dabbed it against the sore,

cleaning away the small amount of dried blood which had

crusted around it. It stung a little when he touched the raw flesh, but

Belle could tell that he was being extraordinarily gentle,

so she didn't say anything. When he pulled a knife out of his pocket,

however, she changed her mind.

"Aaaack!" Unfortunately, the first word to fly out of her mouth was not

terribly coherent.

John looked startled. "Is something wrong?"

"What are you planning to do with that knife?"

He smiled patiently. "I was just going to make a small incision in your

blister so I can drain it. That will allow the dead skin

to dry out."

It sounded like he knew what he was doing, but Belle thought she ought

to ask a few questions anyway since she was,

after all, letting this relatively strange man take a knife to her

person. "Why do you want to dry it out?"

"It will heal better that way. The dead skin will fall off, and the skin

underneath will toughen up." He narrowed his eyes.

"You've never had a blister before, have you?"

"Not like this," Belle admitted. "I don't usually walk so much. I

usually ride."

"What about dancing?"

"What /about /dancing?" she countered.

"I'm sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you're in London. You

must be on your feet all night."

"I always wear comfortable shoes," she replied disdainfully.

John wasn't sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. "Well, don't

worry," he finally said. "I've treated many blisters, most

worse than this."

"In the war?" Belle asked, her voice cautious.

His eyes darkened. "Yes."

"I imagine you've treated far worse injuries than mere blisters," she

said softly.

"I imagine I have."

Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a

painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. "Weren't