Dancing at Midnight (8 page)

there doctors and surgeons for that sort of thing?"

There was a noticeable silence, and Belle felt the pressure of his hands

on her foot as the knife punctured her blister before

he finally answered. "Sometimes there aren't doctors or surgeons

available. Sometimes you just have to do what you can,

what makes sense. And then you pray." His voice was flat. "Even if

you've stopped believing in God."

Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She thought about saying something

soothing such as, "I see," but the truth was, she

didn't see. She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of war, and

it seemed shallow to imply that she could.

John dabbed at the blister again with the damp handkerchief. "That ought

to do it." He stood up and held out his hand to her,

but she ignored it, rolling over so that she could sit on the grassy

knoll. He stood there awkwardly until she patted the spot on

the grass next to her. He hesitated, and Belle finally groaned and

slapped her hand down on the ground with considerable force.

"Oh, please*' she said in a semi-irritated voice. "I'm not going to bite."

John sat down.

"Should I put a bandage on this?" Belle asked, twisting around so that

she could examine his handiwork.

"Not unless you're planning to wear another pair of tight shoes. It will

heal faster if you leave it bare."

Belle continued to look at her heel, doing her best to preserve her

modesty while she did so. "I don't suppose too many people wander

through Westonbirt barefoot, but I think I have enough clout to carry it

off, don't you?" She looked up suddenly,

offering him a sunny grin.

John felt as if he'd been hit, the force of her smile was so strong. It

took him several seconds to tear his eyes off her mouth,

and when he did, he moved his gaze up to her eyes, which was a big

mistake, because they were as blue as the sky. Bluer,

in fact, and so obviously perceptive and intelligent. He felt her stare

almost physically, felt it sweeping across his body even

though she never took her eyes off his, not even for an instant. He

shivered.

Belle wet her lips in a nervous gesture. "Why are you looking at me like

that?"

"Like what?" he whispered, barely aware that he'd spoken.

"Like you're ... like you're ..." She stumbled over her words, not quite

certain /how /he was looking at her. Her eyes widened

in shock as it came to her. "Like you're /afraid /of me."

John felt dizzy. /Was /he afraid of her? Did he fear her ability to

upset the precious internal balance he'd only recently been

able to achieve? Perhaps, but he feared no one more than himself. The

things he wanted to do to her...

He closed his eyes against the unbidden vision of Spencer on top of Ana.

No, that wasn't what he wanted with Belle, was it?

He had to get a hold of himself. To push her away. He blinked, suddenly

remembering her question about running through Ashbourne's house

barefoot. "I suppose one can do anything one wants if one is related to

a duke," he finally replied,

somewhat sharply.

Belle drew back, a little hurt by his tone. But two could play at that

game. "Yes, I suppose one can," she said, lifting her

chin up a notch.

John felt like a cad. But he didn't apologize. It was probably better if

she thought him a boor. He had no business getting

involved with her, and it would be so, so easy to let himself do so. He

knew a dead end when he saw one. He'd looked her

up in /Debrett's Peerage /after she had visited the day before. She was

the daughter of an extremely wealthy earl and related

to any number of important and influential members of society. She

deserved someone who had a title that went back further

than a year, someone who could offer her the material comforts to which

she was no doubt accustomed, someone who was whole, whose legs were as

perfect as hers.

Dear Lord, but he'd love to see her legs. He groaned.

"Are you ill?" Belle was looking at him, trying not to appear concerned.

"I'm fine," he said curtly. She even smelled good, a fresh, springtime

scent that seemed to envelop him. He didn't even deserve

to /think /about her, not after committing such an unforgivable crime

against womankind.

"Well, thank you for treating my blister," Belle said suddenly. "It was

very kind of you."

"It was no problem, I assure you."

"For you, perhaps," Belle said, sounding as cheerful as she possibly

could. "I had to lie on my stomach next to a man I met just three days

ago." /Please, please don't say something unkind, /she silently

implored. /Please be as funny and as joking and

as sweetly stern as you were just a few minutes ago./

As if her thoughts traveled through the air and landed on him like a

kiss, he smiled. "You may rest assured that I enjoyed my

view of your backside immensely," he teased, his hesitating smile

quickly developing into a rakish grin. It went against his better

judgment, but he was quite unable to be unkind to her when she was

trying so hard to be friends.

"Oh, you!" Belle groaned, punching him playfully in the shoulder.

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"Hasn't anyone ever admired your backside before?" His hand stole up and

covered hers.

"I assure you, no one was ever crude enough to mention it." Her voice

was breathless. He didn't stroke her, just let his hand rest lightly

over hers, but the warmth of his touch seeped into her, traveled up her

arm, and was moving dangerously close to her heart. .

John leaned forward. "Didn't mean to be crude," he murmured.

"No?" Belle touched her tongue to her lower lip.

"No, just honest." He was close—just a hair's breadth away.

"Really?"

John made a reply, but Belle didn't understand him because his lips were

already brushing gently against hers. She moaned

softly, thinking she'd wanted this forever, silently thanking the gods

and her parents (although not necessarily in that order) for advising

her not to accept any of the men who'd offered for her in the past two

years. This was what she'd waited for, had

barely dared to hope for. This was what Emma and Alex shared. This was

why they were always looking at each other,

smiling constantly, and giggling behind closed doors. This was—

John gently ran his tongue along the soft skin of her inner lip, and

Belle lost all power to think. She only felt, but, oh, how she

felt. Her skin tingled—every inch of it even though he was barely

touching her. Belle sighed, sinking into him, knowing

instinctively that he would know what to do, how to make this wondrous

feeling go on forever. She melted against him, her body searching out

the warmth of his. And then he abruptly pulled away, muttering a sharp

curse, his breathing harsh and uneven.

Belle blinked in confusion, not understanding his actions and feeling

utterly bereft. She gulped down her pain and hugged her

legs to her body, hoping that he'd say something kind or funny, or at

least something that would explain his actions. And if he

didn't, she just hoped that he couldn't see how much she was hurting

from his rejection.

John stood up and turned away from her, planting his hands on his hips.

Staring up at him through her eyelashes, Belle thought

that there was something extremely bleak about his stance. Finally, he

turned around and offered her his hand. She took it and rose to her

feet, softly thanking him as she did so.

John sighed and ran his hand through his thick hair. He'd never meant to

kiss her. He'd certainly wanted to, but that didn't mean he'd had any

right to touch her. And he'd never dreamed how much he'd like it, or how

difficult it would be to stop.

God, he was weak! He was no better than Spencer, mauling an innocent

young lady, and the truth was he wanted more.

So much more ...

He wanted her ear and her shoulder and the underside of her chin. He

wanted to run his tongue along the length of her neck, trailing moist

fire down to the valley between her breasts. He wanted to cup her

backside and squeeze, pull her into him, use

her as a cradle for his desire.

He wanted to possess her. Every inch. Over and over.

Belle watched him silently, but he'd turned slightly away from her, and

she couldn't see into his eyes. When he finally looked

back at her, however, she was shocked by the harsh expression on his

face. She took a step back, her hand unconsciously

coming up to cover the lower part of her face. "Wh-what's wrong?" she

gasped.

"You ought to think twice before you throw yourself at men, my little

aristocrat." His voice was dangerously close to a hiss.

Belle stared at him, dumbfounded, until horror, hurt, and fury

simultaneously rose within her. "You can rest assured," she bit

out icily, "that the next man I 'throw' myself at will not be so lacking

in breeding as to insult me as you have done."

"I am so sorry that my blood is not blue enough for you, my lady. Do not

worry, I will try not to taint you with my presence again."

Belle raised a brow and stared at him disdainfully, her eyes hard. "Yes,

well, we cannot all claim a relationship with a duke." Her voice was

sharp, and her words were cruel. Satisfied with her performance, she

turned on her heel and strode away, carrying herself with as much

dignity as her limping body would allow.

*

*

*

*

*Chapter 5

*

John stood still for many minutes, watching Belle disappear amidst the

trees. He didn't move until she was long gone, thoroughly disgusted with

himself and his behavior toward her. But, he reminded himself, it was no

more than what was necessary. She

was furious with him now, but she'd thank him eventually. Well, maybe

not him, but when she was cozily wed to some marquess, she'd thank

/someone /for saving her from John Blackwood.

He'd finally turned to head home when he realized that Belle had marched

off without her boot. He leaned down and picked it

up. Damn, now he'd have to go to return it, and he had no idea how he

could face her again.

John sighed, tossing her flimsy boot from hand to hand as he began nis

slow trudge home. He'd have to come up with some excuse for having her

boot in the first place. Alex was a good friend, but he would want to

know why John had his cousin's footwear in his possession. He supposed

he could go by Westonbirt that evening—

John swore under his breath. He'd /have /to go by Westonbirt that

evening. He'd already accepted Alex's invitation for dinner.

His curses grew more fluent as he pictured the agony ahead. He'd have to

look at Belle all night, and of course she would be ravishing in her

expensive evening attire. And then just when he couldn't bear to look at

her for one minute longer, she'd

probably say something utterly charming and intelligent, which would

make him want her even more.

And it was so, so dangerous to want her.

*  *  *

Belle's progress home wasn't much swifter than John's. She wasn't used

to walking about without shoes, and it seemed that

her right foot managed to find every sharp pebble and protruding tree

root in the narrow path. And there was also the little problem of her

left shoe, which had a slight heel on it, and left her feeling rather

lopsided and forced her to limp.

And every limp reminded her of John Blackwood. Horrid John Blackwood.

Belle started muttering every inappropriate word her brother had ever

accidentally said in front of her. Her tirade lasted only

a few seconds, for Ned was usually quite careful about holding his

tongue around his sister. Fresh out of curses, Belle started

in with, "Wretched, wretched man," but that just didn't seem to do the

trick.

"Damn!" she burst out as her foot landed on an especially sharp pebble.

The mishap proved to be her undoing, and she felt

a hot tear spill down her face as she squeezed her eyes shut against the

pain.

"You are not going to cry over a little pebble," she scolded herself.

"And you are certainly not going to cry over that awful man."

But she was crying, and she couldn't stop herself. She just couldn't

understand how a man could be so charming one minute

and so insulting the next. He liked her—she could tell that he did. It

was all there in the way he'd teased her and cared for her foot. And

while he hadn't been completely forthcoming when she'd asked him about

the war, he also hadn't completely ignored her. He wouldn't have opened

up to her at all if he hadn't liked her just a little.

Belle leaned down, picked up the offending pebble, and viciously tossed

it into the trees. It was time to stop crying, time to

think this problem through in a rational manner and figure out why his

entire personality had changed so suddenly.

No, she decided, for the first time in her life she didn't want to be

calm and rational. She didn't care about being practical and pragmatic.