Dancing at Midnight

  John pretended to give the matter great thought. “How about this one?” he asked with an impish smile.

  “There is nothing more dear to my heart Than a woman who’s covered with strawberry tart.”

  Belle made a face. “That was dreadful.”

  “Did you think so? I thought it most romantic, indeed, considering that you’ve got strawberry tart on your face.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. Right here.” John extended his finger and lightly touched the corner of her mouth. He lingered for a moment, wanting to trace the outline of her lips, but he pulled away quite suddenly, almost as if burned. He was getting too close to temptation. She had only to sit across from him at a makeshift picnic, and his entire body came alive.

  Belle’s hand flew up to her face, instinctively touching the spot where he had just touched her. Funny how her skin still tingled. Stranger still how the sensation was slowly spreading through the rest of her body. She looked over at John, who was gazing at her hungrily, his dark eyes smoldering with unfulfilled desire. “There—there are so many people about, my lord,” she finally stammered.

  John could tell she was nervous. She never would have reverted to her automatic use of the title “my lord” otherwise. He drew back, shuttering his gaze, aware that it was his unconcealed hunger which was making her so ill-at-ease. He took several deep breaths, willing himself to cease this insane desire. His body refused, unwilling to ignore the ravishingly beautiful woman seated not three feet away from him.

  John cursed under his breath. This was crazy. Utter madness. He was romancing a woman with whom he couldn’t hope for a future. He heard his older brother Damien’s voice pounding in his head. “You are not a titled gentleman. You are not a titled gentleman.” John bit back a wry smile. Funny how life turned out. He’d won himself a title, but his soul was black as sin.

  “John?” Belle asked softly. “Is something wrong? You’re so quiet.”

  He looked up and caught the concern in her eyes. “No, just thinking, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  “About you,” he replied starkly.

  “Good thoughts, I hope,” Belle said, nervous at the dark tone of his voice.

  John rose to his feet and offered her his hand. “Come, let’s go for a walk in the woods while the sun is still shining. We’ll lead the horses behind us.”

  Belle rose wordlessly and followed him to where they had left their mounts. They set off slowly on foot, heading back through the trees toward Westonbirt and Bletchford Manor. The horses followed obediently behind, occasionally stopping to investigate one of the many small creatures which darted through the forest.

  After about fifteen minutes of ominous silence, John stopped short. “Belle, we need to talk.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, this—” John fought to find the correct word but came up empty-handed. “This thing that is going on between us—it has to end.”

  A deep, dark pain slowly formed in the pit of Belle’s stomach and began to spread. “Why?” she asked softly.

  He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “It can’t go anywhere. You must realize that.”

  “No,” she said sharply, her pain making her brave and just a little bit shrill. “No, I don’t realize that.”

  “Belle, I haven’t any money, my leg is useless, and I’ve barely got a title.”

  “Why do you say that? Those things don’t matter to me.”

  “Belle, you could have any man in the world.”

  “But I want you.”

  Her impassioned reply hung in the air for a long minute before John was able to say anything. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

  Belle stepped back, nearly blinded by pain and fury. His words rained down on her like physical blows, and she hysterically wondered if she’d ever again know a moment of happiness. “How dare you condescend to me,” she finally bit out.

  “Belle, I don’t think that you’ve given this matter sufficient thought. Your parents would never let you marry the likes of me.”

  “You don’t know my parents. You don’t know what they want for me.”

  “Belle, you are the daughter of an earl.”

  “And as I’ve pointed out before, you are the son of an earl, so I fail to see a problem.”

  “There is a world of difference, and you know it.” He knew he was grasping at straws. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

  “What do you want, John?” she asked wildly. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is about? Because I won’t do it. Is this some kind of perverse search for a compliment? Do you want me to spell out all of the reasons I wanted you? All of the reasons I thought you were so kind and noble and good?”

  John winced at her pointed use of the past tense. “I am trying to be noble right now,” he said stiffly.

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to be a martyr, and I hope you’re enjoying yourself, because I most certainly am not.”

  “Belle, listen to me,” he implored. “I am—I am not the man you think I am.”

  The hoarse agony of his voice shocked Belle into silence, and she stared at him openmouthed.

  “I’ve...done things,” he said stiffly, turning away so that he would not have to look at her face. “I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt...I’ve hurt women.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Her words came out low and fast.

  “Damn it, Belle!” He whirled around and slammed his fist against the trunk of a tree. “What will it take to convince you? What do you need to know? The very blackest secrets of my heart? The deeds that have stained my soul?”

  She took a step back. “I-I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

  “I’ll hurt you, Belle. I’ll hurt you without intending to. I’ll hurt you—Christ, isn’t it enough just that I’ll hurt you?”

  “You won’t hurt me,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve.

  “Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’m a hero, Belle. I’m not—”

  “I don’t think you’re a hero,” she cut in. “I don’t want you to be a hero.”

  “God,” he said with a dark, sarcastic laugh. “That’s the first realistic thing you’ve said all day.”

  She stiffened. “Don’t be cruel, John.”

  “Belle,” he said raggedly. “I have limits. Don’t push me past them.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” she asked irritably.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into her. Dear Lord, she was so close, he could smell her. He could feel the soft strands of her hair that the wind was whipping against his face. “It means,” he said in a low voice, “that it is taking every ounce of my control not to lean forward and kiss you right now.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?” she asked, her voice a quavering whisper. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

  “Because I wouldn’t stop there. I’d trail my lips down the soft length of your throat until I reached those annoying little buttons on your riding habit. And then I’d slowly slip each one apart and spread your jacket open.” Dear God, was he trying to torture himself? “You’re wearing some silky little underthing, aren’t you?”

  Much to her horror, Belle nodded.

  John shuddered as waves of desire rocked through his body. “I love the feel of silk,” he murmured. “And you do, too.”

  “H-how do you know?”

  “I was watching you when you got that blister on your heel. I saw you roll off your stocking.”

  Belle gasped, shocked that he’d been spying on her, yet still strangely aroused by the notion.

  “Do you know what I’d do?” John asked huskily, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  “I’d lean down and kiss you through the silk. I’d take your dusky nipple into my mouth and suck it until it was a hard little bud. And then when that wasn’t enough, I’d slide yo
ur silky little underthing up along your skin until your breasts were free and exposed, and then I’d lean down and do it all over again.”

  Belle didn’t move a muscle, absolutely rooted to the spot by the sensual onslaught of his words. “Then what would you do?” she whispered, acutely aware of the heat of his hands on her shoulders.

  “You want to punish me, don’t you?” John asked harshly, tightening his grip on her. “But since you asked...I’d slowly peel off every article of your clothing until you were gloriously naked in my arms. And then I’d start kissing you, every damned inch, until you were quivering with desire.”

  Somewhere in the back of Belle’s passion-hazed mind, she dimly registered that she was already quivering.

  “And then I’d lay you down and cover your body with my own, pressing you down against the ground. And then I’d enter you oh-so-slowly, savoring each second as I made you mine.” John’s voice broke off, his breath ragged as an image of Belle with her long legs wrapped around him floated through his brain. “What do you say to that?

  Belle ignored his crude question, her body flooded with the sensual images he had planted there. She was on fire, and she wanted him, in every way. It was now or never, she knew that, and she was terrified that she’d lose him completely. “I still wouldn’t stop you,” she whispered.

  Disbelief and desire crashed through John’s body until he rudely pushed her away from him, knowing full well that he’d be unable to resist temptation if he remained touching her one moment longer. “For God’s sake, Belle, do you know what you’re saying? Do you?” He raked his hand through his hair, taking deep breaths as he tried to ignore the painful hardness of his body.

  “Yes, I know what I’m saying,” Belle cried out. “You just won’t listen.”

  “You don’t know who I am. You’ve built up some romantic image of the poor, wounded, war-hero. Wouldn’t it be a lark to be married to a real-life gothic hero? Well, I have news for you, my lady, that’s not me. And after a few months, you’d realize that I’m no hero, and it isn’t much of a lark being married to a lame pauper.”

  Rage unlike anything Belle had ever known poured through her, and she launched herself at him, beating her fists mercilessly against his chest. “You bastard!” she cried out. “You supercilious bastard. How dare you tell me I don’t know my own mind? Do you think me so stupid that I can’t see who you really are? You keep saying you’ve done something bad, but I don’t believe you. I think you’re making it up just to push me away.”

  “Oh, God, Belle,” he said hoarsely. “It’s not that. It’s—”

  “Do you think it matters to me that your leg is injured? Do you think I care that your title is not centuries old? I wouldn’t care if you hadn’t one at all!”

  “Belle,” John said in a placating voice.

  “Stop! Don’t say any more. You’re making me sick! You accuse me of being spoiled, but it is you who are the snob. You’re so obsessed with titles and money and social position that you won’t allow yourself to reach out for the one thing you really want!”

  “Belle, we’ve barely known each other for a week. I fail to see how you could have decided that I was the right man for you.” But even as John spoke the words, he knew he was lying, for he had already reached the same conclusion about her.

  “I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” Belle said harshly, wanting to wound him as he had done to her.

  “I deserved that, I know, but you’ll soon realize that I’ve done the right thing. Maybe not tomorrow, but once you get over your anger, you’ll know.”

  Belle turned her head away, not wanting to let him see her brush away a tear. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and it was several moments before she was able to still her heaving shoulders. “You’re wrong,” she said softly, turning back around to face him with accusing eyes. “You’re wrong. I’ll never realize that you’re doing the right thing because you’re not! You’re destroying my happiness!” She gulped down a lump in her throat. “And yours, too, if you’d only stop to look in your heart.”

  John turned away, unnerved by the unwavering honesty in her eyes. He knew that he could not tell her the real reason he was pushing her away, so he tried to appeal to her innate sense of practicality. “Belle, you’ve been raised with every luxury. I can’t give you all that. I can’t even give you a house in London.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Besides, I have ample funds.”

  John stiffened. “I won’t take your money.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m sure I have a large dowry.”

  He whirled around, his eyes hard and deadly serious. “I won’t have it said that I’m a fortune hunter.”

  “Oh, is that what this is all about? You’re worried about what people will say? Dear God, I thought you were above all that.” Belle turned on her heel and marched back to her mare, who’d been idly munching on some grass. Grabbing the reins, she mounted the horse, harshly brushing away John’s offer of assistance. “Do you know something?” she asked, her tone cruel. “You were absolutely right. You’re not the person I thought you were.” But her voice broke on the last word, and Belle knew that he could see through her false bravado.

  “Goodbye, Belle,” John said flatly, knowing that if he went to her now, he’d never be able to let her go.

  “I’m not going to wait for you, you know,” Belle cried out. “And someday you’ll change your mind and you’ll want me. You’ll want me so badly you’ll ache from it. And not just in your bed. You’ll want me in your home and in your heart and in your soul. And I’ll be gone.”

  “I don’t doubt it for an instant.” John wasn’t sure whether he’d spoken the words or merely thought them, but either way it was clear she hadn’t heard him.

  “Goodbye, John,” Belle said, her voice choked with sobs. “I know that you’re friends with Alex and Emma, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come round Westonbirt until after I’ve left.” Her vision clouded by tears, she whipped her mare around and took off for Westonbirt at breakneck speed.

  John watched her depart, then listened to the sound of her horse’s galloping hooves after he could no longer see her. He stood still for several minutes, his mind refusing to digest all that had taken place. After years of shame and self-loathing, he had finally done the right thing, the honorable thing, but he felt like the villain in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.

  John groaned out loud and then viciously swore as he kicked a rock out of his way. It had been like this his entire life. Just when he thought he had achieved something he wanted, some greater prize was dangled before him—something he knew he could never have. Bletchford Manor had been a dream to him, a dream of respectability and position and honor, a way of showing his family that he could make it on his own, that he didn’t need to inherit a title and an estate to become a gentleman. But in coming to Bletchford Manor he’d met Belle, and it was almost as if the gods were laughing at him, calling out, “See, you’ll never really make it, John. This is what you’ll never have.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he?

  He knew he’d hurt her. The pain in her eyes had been naked and raw. He could still see her face in his mind. And then Belle was joined by Ana, her eyes silently condemning him. “Noooo,” she moaned. “Noooo.” And then the voice of her mother—

  “It might as well have been you.”

  John wrenched his eyes open, trying to banish the women from his mind. He had done the right thing. He could never be the pure soul Belle deserved. A scene from his dream flashed in his mind. He was on top of her. She was screaming.

  He had done the right thing. His desire for her was too intense. She would have broken under the force of his passion.

  A dull, hollow ache formed in his chest, squeezing at his lungs. In one fluid motion, he mounted his stallion and took off at a speed even faster than Belle’s. As he crashed through the forest, the leaves whipped viciously at his face, but John ignored them, accepting the
pain as penance due.

  Chapter 9

  Belle had no memory of her breakneck gallop home. She rode without care to her own safety; all that seemed to matter was getting back to Westonbirt and putting as much distance between herself and John Blackwood as possible.

  But once she arrived home and raced up the stairs she realized that Westonbirt was not far enough. How could she bear to remain with her cousins when the man who had broken her heart was only a short ride away?

  She stormed into her room, pulling off her cloak with a vicious tug, and proceeded to grab three valises from her dressing room. Furiously she began to stuff dresses into them.

  “My lady, my lady, what are you doing?”

  Belle looked up. Her lady’s maid was standing in the doorway, a horrified expression on her face. “I’m packing,” she snapped. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Mary rushed in and tried to grab the valise away. “But my lady, you don’t know how to pack.”

  Belle felt hot tears pricking her eyes. “How difficult can it be?!” she burst out.

  “You need trunks for those gowns, my lady, or you’ll crush them.”

  Belle dropped her bags, feeling suddenly deflated. “Fine. Yes. Of course. You’re right.”

  “My lady?”

  Belle swallowed, trying to keep her emotions inside, if only until she could get to another room. “Just pack everything as you see fit. I’ll leave just as soon as the duke and duchess return.” With that, she rushed from the room, running down the hallway until she reached Emma’s office, where she sequestered herself, sobbing furiously for the rest of the day.

  Emma and Alex didn’t return for a week. Belle didn’t know what she did during that time to keep herself occupied. Mostly she just stared out the window.

  When Emma arrived, she was naturally perplexed at the sight of Belle’s bags, packed and neatly stacked in a small storage room off the main hallway. She immediately sought her cousin out.

  “Belle, what is the meaning of all this? And why are you wearing my dress?”