Dancing at Midnight

The door opened. “Look who I bumped into in the hall,” Emma said, holding onto Alex’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting him back until much later this evening.”

  “Her carefully-laid plans foiled by an attentive husband,” John murmured as he stood.

  Belle stifled a laugh and said, “How lovely to see you, Alex.”

  “I was only out inspecting the fields,” he replied, a perplexed frown crossing his features.

  “Nonetheless, it is brilliant to have you back,” Emma said unconvincingly.

  “Did you locate that tea?” John asked.

  “The tea? Oh, yes, the tea. Well, no, I didn’t actually.”

  “A-hem.”

  Emma jumped at the sound of Norwood clearing his throat directly behind her.

  “Your tea, your grace?”

  “Oh. Thank you, Norwood. Over there on the table, I think.”

  “Tea actually sounds quite appealing after riding about in that rain all afternoon,” Alex said pleasantly. “Although it does seem to be letting up.”

  Belle wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard Emma groan.

  Emma fixed a cup for Alex, and after he had taken a healthy gulp, he said, “There’s to be a fair tomorrow near the village. I saw people setting it up while I was out.”

  “Oh really?” Emma responded with delight. “I adore fairs. Shall we go?”

  “I’m not sure,” Alex said with a frown. “I don’t like the idea of your getting jostled about by crowds.”

  That remark was greeted by a mutinous glare on Emma’s part. “Oh, don’t be a stodge,” she retorted. “You can’t keep me locked up forever.”

  “All right. But you must promise to be careful.” Alex turned to John and Belle, who were watching the interchange from the sofa with amused expressions. “Won’t the two of you join us?”

  A refusal automatically rose to John’s lips, but before he could speak an image of Belle in his arms danced through his mind. They were waltzing...Her eyes were glowing with happiness. His heart was filled with tenderness and his body with desire. Maybe he could have a bit of joy in his life. Maybe five years of hell was payment enough for his sins.

  He turned to Belle. She cocked her head and smiled, raising her brows in invitation. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll stop by after lunch, and we’ll depart together from here.”

  “Splendid.” Alex took another gulp of tea and glanced out the window where the skies were darkening ominously. “I don’t mean to be rude, Blackwood, but if I were you, I’d head home now while the rain is light. It looks like it is going to pour again soon.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing myself.” John stood and bowed to the ladies.

  Belle was, of course, sorry to see him leave, but the humorous sight of Emma, slumped dejectedly in her chair after her husband unwittingly ruined all of her careful orchestrations, more than made up for her disappointment.

  When John arrived home that afternoon there was another note waiting for him.

  I am in Oxfordshire.

  John shook his head. He’d have to find some way of contacting the previous owners of Bletch-ford Manor. They had seemed a trifle batty to him—just the sort to have friends who would write such odd notes.

  It never occurred to him that the note might be in any way connected to the gunshot in the woods.

  John poured himself a glass of brandy before climbing the stairs to his bedroom that evening. He started to take a sip, but then set it down on his nightstand. He felt warm enough without it.

  Was this happiness? The feeling had been absent from his life for so long he wasn’t sure how to recognize it.

  He crawled into bed, content. He never expected to dream.

  He was in Spain. It was a hot day, but his company was in good spirits; no fighting for the last week.

  He was sitting at a table in the tavern, an empty plate of food in front of him.

  What was that strange thumping sound coming from upstairs?

  He poured himself another drink.

  Thump.

  This place is ripe, I think. John rubbed his eyes. Who had said that?

  Another thump. Another cry.

  John walked slowly toward the stairs. What was wrong? The noise grew louder as he made his way along the second-floor hallway.

  And then he heard it again. This time it was clear. “Noooooooooo!” Ana’s voice.

  He burst through the door. “Oh, God, no,” he cried. He could barely see Ana, her slight form completely beneath Spencer, who was pumping relentlessly into her.

  But he could hear her weeping. “Noooo, noooo, please, noooo.”

  John didn’t pause to think. Crazed, he pulled Spencer up off the girl and threw him against the wall.

  He looked back down at Ana. Her hair—what had happened? It had turned blond.

  It was Belle. Her clothes were torn, her body ravaged and bruised.

  “Oh, God, not this!” The cry seemed to well up from John’s very soul.

  He turned back to the man slumped against the wall, his hand tightening on his gun. “Look at me, Spencer,” he demanded.

  The man lifted his head, but he was no longer Spencer. John found himself looking into his own face.

  “Oh, God, no,” he gasped, stumbling back against the bed. “Not me. I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

  The other John laughed. It was a sick, maniacal sound.

  “No, I wouldn’t. 1 couldn’t. Oh, Belle.” He looked down at the bed, but she was gone.

  “No! Belle!”

  John was awakened by the sound of his screams. Gasping for air, he clutched his arms to his stomach. He rolled back and forth, his body racked by silent sobs.

  Chapter 8

  Belle lay propped up in bed, thumbing through the collection of Wordsworth’s poetry she had never gotten around to reading that afternoon. She found herself squinting slightly more than normal, so she leaned over to her bedside table and lit another candle. As soon as she had herself settled again, a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Emma burst into the room, her violet eyes flushed with excitement. “Sophie’s having her baby!” she exclaimed. “Three weeks early! A messenger just arrived with her husband’s note.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Belle breathed. “Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes! It’s not good for a baby to be early, but three weeks isn’t much, and Oliver wrote that Sophie might have miscounted anyway.”

  “Will you and Alex leave in the morning?”

  “First thing. I wanted to leave right away, but Alex would have none of 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 them-selves 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 Bletch-ford 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 m
ade 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.