“Perhaps in the morning.” Belle led the way back to the door.
“Good night, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night.” Belle shut the door and locked it quickly, leaning back against it with a sigh.
The door to the dressing room swung open. John emerged, his upper body tangling in Belle’s dresses. “Good God, woman, you have a lot of frocks.”
Belle ignored him. “I was so scared.”
“And I felt damned foolish. I’m warning you, I’m not going to put up with this for long.” He viciously thrust his bad leg into his breeches.
“You’re not?” Belle asked weakly.
“Not a chance. I’m a grown man. I’ve fought a bloody war, nearly got my leg shot off, played the market for five years and amassed enough money to purchase a damned house. Do you think I like creeping around in closets?”
Belle didn’t really think that a reply was necessary.
“Well, I don’t, I tell you. I don’t like it at all.” He sat down in a nearby chair so that he could put his good leg into his breeches. Belle surmised that his injured leg wasn’t quite strong enough to hold him up for long.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” he added, working himself up into a fine bout of annoyance. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re mine. Do you understand that? And I don’t like being made to feel like a thief for enjoying what is mine.”
“What are you going to do?”
He grabbed his shirt. “I’m going to marry you right away. And then I’m going to take you back to Bletchford Manor and toss you into bed and keep you there for a week. All without having to worry about Miss Lemon Tree barging in to spoil the mood.”
“You really need to find a new name for your home.”
“Our home,” he corrected, scowling at her attempt to change the subject. “And I’ve been too busy chasing after you to give the matter much thought.”
“I’ll help you.” Belle smiled. He loved her. He might not have said as much, but it was right there in his eyes.
“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to jump back out your window, slide down that tree, return to Damien’s, and get some sleep. Then I’ve got to see about getting a special license.”
“A special license?”
“I’m not putting up with this nonsense any longer than I have to. With any luck we’ll be married by the end of the week.”
“By the end of the week?” Belle echoed. “Are you mad? I can’t get married this week. I can’t even get officially engaged until my parents return.”
John groaned as he picked up his boots and uttered a curse which was completely unfamiliar to Belle. “When are they getting back?” he asked in a very low voice.
“I’m not certain.”
“Would it be possible for you to offer an estimate?”
“No more than a couple of weeks, I would imagine.” Belle forbore to point out that they would have to wait at least another month or two after her parents returned before they could actually marry. Her mother would insist upon a large wedding. Of that she was certain.
John swore again. “If they’re not home within a fortnight Alex can give you away. Or call your brother down from Oxford. I don’t care which.”
“But—”
“No buts. If your parents ask questions, you can simply tell them that we had to get married.”
Belle swallowed and nodded. What else could she do? “I lo...” She lost her courage, and the rest of the sentence remained on her tongue.
He turned around. “Yes?”
“I—nothing. Be careful getting down that tree. It’s rather tall.”
“Three stories, to be precise.”
His wry grin was infectious, and Belle felt the corners of her mouth tugging up as she followed him to the window.
He leaned down and murmured, “A kiss goodbye.” His lips touched hers in one last, passionate caress.
Belle barely had time to kiss him back before he moved away, pulled on his gloves, and disappeared outside. She rushed to the window and looked out, watching him with a smile as he made his way down the tree.
“He could have just gone out the door,” she muttered to herself. “Persephone’s room is in the opposite direction.” Oh well, it was more fun this way, and certainly more romantic. As long as he didn’t break his fool neck on the way down. Belle leaned out the window a little further and sighed with relief when she saw his feet touch the ground. He leaned down to rub his bad knee, and she winced in sympathy.
She watched him until he disappeared from sight, leaning against the windowsill with a dreamy expression on her face. London could be beautiful on ocassion, she mused. Like now, with its deserted streets, and—
A movement caught her eye. Was that a man? It was hard to tell. Briefly she wondered what someone would be doing up and about and on foot this time of night.
She giggled. Maybe all of London’s gentlemen had decided to do some unconventional courting that evening.
Taking a deep breath, she shut the window and made her way back to bed. It was only when she was snuggled up under her mountain of covers that she remembered that he had never found his fulfillment.
She smiled wryly. No wonder he was so cranky.
John made his way back to his brother’s house, his hand on his pistol the entire time. London was getting more and more dangerous these days, and one really couldn’t be too careful. Still, he hadn’t wanted to bring a carriage by Belle’s house. Someone might have seen it, and he didn’t want her subject to any vicious rumors. Besides, it was only a few short blocks to Damien’s home. It seemed that all of the ton was squeezed into one tiny section of London. He doubted that most of them knew that the city continued past the borders of Grosvenor Square.
He was about halfway home when he heard footsteps.
He turned around. Was someone behind him?
Nothing but shadows. He continued on his way. Surely he’d imagined it. He was still paranoid from the war, when every sound could mean death.
He turned the last corner when he heard the footsteps again. And then a bullet whined past his ear. “What the hell?”
Another bullet whizzed by, this one grazing his arm and drawing blood. He whipped out his pistol and spun around. He saw a shadowy figure across the street, furiously reloading a gun. John lost no time in firing, and the villain went down as he took a bullet in the shoulder.
Damn! His aim was off. Gun still in hand, he started after his would-be assassin. The man saw him coming, grabbed his shoulder, and got to his feet. He shot John an apprehensive look, but his face was covered by a half-mask, so John had no way of recognizing him. With one last fleeting glance, the villain rushed off.
As John made his way across the street, he cursed his leg for slowing him down. Never had he been so furious at the fates for maiming him this way. There was no way he’d be able to catch up with his attacker. Accepting defeat, John sighed and turned around. This was trouble.
And he had no right dragging Belle into it.
His hand strayed to his arm as he finally realized that he was bleeding. He could barely feel the pain, however. His fury blocked out all other feeling. Someone was after him, and he didn’t know why. Some lunatic was sending him cryptic notes and wanted him dead.
And whoever it was, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to involve Belle if he realized how much she meant to John. And if he had been following him at all during the past week, he would know that John had spent every free minute in her company.
John swore as he mounted the front steps to Damien’s house. He would not put Belle in danger, even if that meant he had to postpone his marriage plans.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 14
“P ardon me, my lady, a message has arrived for you.”
Belle looked up as a servant entered the room. She’d been sitting in a dreamlike haze, replaying the previous night with John—for about the fiftieth time. She took the letter, carefull
y opened it, and read the contents.
Belle,
I apologize for giving you such short notice, but I will be unable to accompany you and Persephone to the theater this evening.
Sincerely,
John Blackwood
Belle looked down at the note for a minute or so, puzzling over the formal tone. With a shrug, she just decided that some people always wrote formally, so she shouldn’t be upset that he had signed the note “sincerely” rather than “love.” And it didn’t really matter that he had felt the need to include his surname in addition to his given name. She tucked the note away, telling herself not to be so fanciful.
She shrugged. Maybe Dunford would be interested in escorting her and Persephone.
Dunford did want to go to the theater, and he had a fine time escorting Belle and Persephone. However, Belle’s thoughts frequently drifted off toward the man who had sneaked into her bedroom the night before. She wondered what had kept him from joining her that evening, but supposed that he’d explain everything to her the next day.
Except he didn’t come by the next day. Or the one after that.
Belle was more than puzzled. She was damned irritated. She’d been warned about men who used women for their own pleasure and then discarded them, but she just couldn’t bring herself to place John in that category. First of all, she refused to believe that she could have fallen in love with a man who was so fundamentally dishonest, and second of all, it had been she who moaned with pleasure the other night, not him.
After two days of waiting and hoping for a glimpse of him, Belle finally decided to take matters into her own hands and sent him a note of her own, asking him to stop by.
There was no reply.
Belle grumbled in irritation. He knew very well that she could not call on him. He was staying with his brother, and both were bachelors. It was entirely unsuitable for an unmarried lady to call on such a household. Especially here in London. Her mother would have her head if she found out about it, which she very well might, considering that she was due back any day now.
She sent him another message, this one more carefully worded, asking him if she had done anything to displease him, and would he please be kind enough to reply. Belle smiled wryly to herself as she wrote the words. She wasn’t very good at keeping the twinge of sarcasm from her tone.
A few streets away, John groaned as he read her note. She was getting annoyed, that was clear. And how could he blame her? After a fortnight of flowers, chocolate, poetry, and then finally passion, she had a right to expect to see him.
But what else was he to do? He had received another anonymous note the day after his attack which had simply read, “Next time I won’t miss.” John had no doubt that Belle would take it upon herself to see to his protection if she knew that someone was trying to kill him. And as he didn’t see how Belle possibly could protect him, such an endeavor could only lead to her getting hurt.
He sighed with despair and let his head fall into his hands. Now that happiness was finally within his grasp, how could he spend the rest of his life worrying that a bullet was going to catch him unawares? He grimaced. The words “rest of his life” suddenly took on new meaning. If that assassin kept trying, sooner or later he was going to get lucky. John was going to have to come up with a plan.
But in the meantime, he had to keep Belle at a distance—and away from the bullets that were aimed at his back. With an unbearably heavy heart, he picked up a quill and dipped it into an inkpot.
Dear Belle,
I will not be able to see you for some time. I cannot explain why. Please be patient with me. I remain
Yours,
John Blackwood
He knew that he ought to have simply broken things off, but he just couldn’t do it. She was the one thing in his life that had brought him true joy, and he wasn’t about to lose her. Carrying the offending piece of paper as if it might give him a disease, he made his way downstairs and gave it to a servant. Belle would receive it within the hour.
He didn’t even want to think about it.
Belle’s response upon reading his brief letter was to blink. This couldn’t be real.
She blinked again. The words did not disappear.
Something was terribly wrong. He was trying to push her away again. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know why he thought he might be able to succeed, but she couldn’t allow herself to believe that he really didn’t want her.
How could he not, when she wanted him so badly? God couldn’t be so cruel.
Belle quickly pushed those depressing thoughts aside. She had to trust her instincts, and they told her that John did care for her. Very much. As much as she cared for him. He had said to please be patient with him. That seemed to indicate that he was working through whatever problem ailed him. He must be in some kind of trouble, and he didn’t want to involve her. How like him.
She grumbled. When was he going to learn that love meant sharing one’s burdens? She crumpled the paper into a hard little ball and flexed her fist around it. He was going to get his first lesson that afternoon, because she was going to see him, propriety be damned.
And that was another thing. Her mental cursing had grown by epic proportions during the past few days. She was beginning to shock even herself. Belle tossed the note aside and brushed her hands against each other. She took a small pleasure in blaming her foul language on him.
Not bothering to change into a fancier dress, Belle grabbed a warm cloak and stalked off in search of her maid. She found her in her dressing room, examining her gowns for small rips and tears.
“Oh, hello, my lady,” Mary said quickly. “Do you know which gown you wish to wear this evening? It needs to be pressed.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Belle said briskly. “I don’t think I’m going to go out this evening after all. But I do want to take a short walk this afternoon, and I’d like you to accompany me.”
“Right away, my lady.” Mary fetched her coat and followed Belle down the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“Oh, not very far,” Belle said cryptically. Her mouth shut in firm determination, she opened the front door and strode down the steps.
Mary scurried to catch up with her. “I’ve never seen you walk so fast, my lady.”
“I always walk quickly when I’m irritated.”
Mary had no reply for that, so she simply sighed and quickened her pace. After they had walked a few blocks, Belle stopped short. Mary nearly crashed into her.
“Hmmm,” Belle said.
“Hmmm?”
“This is the place.”
“What place?”
“The Earl of Westborough’s home.”
“Earl who?”
“John’s brother.”
“Oh.” Mary had seen John several times during the past few weeks. “Why are we here?”
Belle took a deep breath and lifted her chin stubbornly. “We’ve come to pay a visit.” Without waiting for Mary’s reply, she marched up the steps and slammed the knocker down three times.
“What?” Mary nearly screeched. “You can’t come calling here.”
“I can and I am.” Impatient, Belle slammed the knocker down again.
“But—but—only men live here.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “Really, Mary, You needn’t speak of them as if they’re a separate species. They’re just like you and me.” She blushed. “Well, almost.”
She had just lifted her hand up again to grab the knocker when the butler answered the door. She gave him her calling card and told him that she was there to see Lord Blackwood. Mary was so embarrassed she couldn’t lift her gaze above the level of Belle’s knees.
The butler ushered the two ladies into a small salon just off the main hallway.
“Persephone’s going to throw me into the street,” Mary whispered, shaking her head.
“She will
not, and you work for me, anyway, so she can’t fire you.”
“She won’t be happy about it, though.”
“I don’t see any reason she needs to know about it,” Belle said resolutely. But inside she was quaking. This was highly irregular, and if there was one thing her mother hadn’t raised her to be, it was irregular. Oh, she had called on John alone in the country, but etiquette was looser there.
Just when she thought her nerves had quite reached their limit, the butler returned.
“Lord Blackwood is not receiving, my lady.”
Belle gasped at the insult. John had refused to see her. She swept to her feet and strode out of the room, her carriage held erect by the dignity that had been instilled in her since birth. She didn’t stop until she was halfway down the street, and then, unable to help herself, she looked back.
John was standing in a third-story window, staring down at her.
As soon as he saw her turn, he stepped away and let the curtains fall back into place.
“Hmmm,” Belle said, still looking at the window.
“What?” Mary followed her gaze but didn’t find anything of interest.
“That’s a nice tree in front of the building.”
Mary raised her brows, convinced that her employer had gone daft.
Belle stroked her chin. “It’s uncommonly close to the outer wall.” She smiled. “Come along, Mary, we’ve got work to do.”
“We do?” But Mary’s words went unheard, for Belle was already several steps ahead of her.
When she got home, Belle marched straight up to her room, pulled out some stationery from her desk and penned a note to Emma, who had been much more of a tomboy while growing up than Belle.
Dearest Emma,
How do you climb trees?
Fondly,
Belle
After Belle sent the note off to her cousin, she dealt with her grief and her anger the best way she knew how. She went shopping.
For this outing she took Persephone with her. The older lady never tired of browsing through the elegant London shops. Much more of a selection than anywhere in Yorkshire, she explained. And besides, it was great fun spending Alex’s money.