“I was just heading west...”
Belle stifled a laugh. “I see.”
“And what brings you this way?”
“I was just heading east.”
“I see.”
“Oh, you must know I was hoping to see you,” she blurted out.
“Now that you’ve seen me,” John said, “what do you plan to do with me?”
“I hadn’t gotten that far in my plans, actually,” Belle admitted. “What would you like to do with me?”
It occurred to John that his thoughts in that direction were not suitable for polite conversation. He remained silent but couldn’t prevent himself from leveling an appreciative gaze at the woman facing him.
Belle interpreted his expression correctly and turned beet red. “Oh, you wretch,” she stammered. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I cannot imagine what you’re talking about,” John said, his face a picture of innocence.
“You know very well, and you’re not going to make me say it, you—Oh, never mind, would you like to come to tea?”
John laughed aloud. “How I love the English. Anything can be cured with a pot of tea.”
Belle offered him a waspish smile. “You’re English too, John, and just for the record, anything can be cured with a pot of tea.”
He smiled wryly. “I wish someone had told that to the doctor who nearly sawed off my leg.”
Belle sobered immediately. What was she supposed to say to that? She looked up at the sky, which was beginning to cloud over. She knew that John was terribly sensitive about his leg, and she should probably avoid talking about it. Still, he had been the one to mention it, and it seemed that the best way to show him that she didn’t care about his injury was to joke about it. “Well then, my lord,” she said, praying that she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. “I shall contrive to spill some tea on your leg this afternoon. If that doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will.”
He seemed to hesitate a moment before saying, “I suppose you need an escort back to Westonbirt. I see you’re out alone again.”
“Someday, John,” she said in exasperated tones, “you will make a superb parent.”
A fat raindrop landed on his nose, and he threw up his arms in mock surrender. “Lead on, my lady.”
Belle turned her mare around, and they headed back to Westonbirt. After a few moments of companionable silence, she turned to him and asked, “Why were you out and about this afternoon? And don’t tell me that you were just heading west.”
“Would you believe I was hoping I’d see you?”
Belle turned to him quickly, scanning his face to see if he was toying with her. His brown eyes were velvety warm, and her heart skipped a beat at his intent gaze. “I might believe you, if you are very nice to me this afternoon,” she teased.
“I shall be especially nice,” John said wickedly, “if that means I’ll get an extra cup of tea.”
“For you, anything!”
They rode on for several minutes until Amber suddenly stopped cold, her ears pricking up nervously.
“Is something wrong?” John inquired.
“It’s probably a rabbit in the woods. Amber has always been very sensitive to movement. It’s strange, actually. She trots along a crowded London street as if she hasn’t a care in the world, but put her on a quiet country lane and she’s suspicious of every little noise.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Neither did I.” Belle tugged gently on the reins. “Come on, girl. It’s going to rain.”
Amber took a few hesitant steps and then stopped again, turning her head sharply to the right.
“I can’t imagine what’s wrong with her,” Belle said sheepishly.
Crack!
Belle heard the explosion of a gunshot from nearby in the woods and then felt the soft rush of air as a bullet whizzed between their bodies.
“Was that—” she started to ask, but she never completed her question because Amber, already skittish, reared up at the loud noise. Belle had to focus all of her attention simply on keeping her seat. She threw her arms around the mare’s neck, murmuring, “Easy girl. Steady, now.” She was so frightened, however, that she wasn’t sure whether her words were meant to soothe the horse or herself.
Just when she was certain that she wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer, she felt John’s steely arms wrap around her waist and pluck her from the saddle. She landed unceremoniously next to him atop Thor.
“Are you all right?” he asked roughly.
Belle nodded. “I think so. I need to catch my breath. I was more startled than anything else.”
John pulled her close to him, unable to believe the depth of his fear when he saw her holding on to Amber’s neck for dear life. The mare was now dancing around in nervous circles, breathing loudly but otherwise settling down.
When Belle felt she had regained some composure, she pulled far enough away from John to look into his face. “I heard a gunshot.”
John nodded grimly. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to shoot at them, but it occurred to him that they shouldn’t remain rooted to the spot like sitting ducks. “If I keep you here with me as we ride back, will Amber follow?”
She nodded, and they were soon galloping back to Westonbirt.
“I think it was an accident,” Belle said once they slowed down.
“The gunshot?”
“Yes. Alex was telling me just the other day that he has been having trouble with poachers. I’m sure it was a stray bullet that spooked Amber.”
“It came a little too close for my comfort.”
“I know, but what else could it have been? Why would anyone want to shoot at us?”
John shrugged his shoulders. He had no enemies.
“I shall have to discuss this with Alex,” Belle continued. “I am certain he will want to see the rules enforced more stringently. Someone could be hurt. We very nearly were.”
John nodded, pulled her closer to him, and urged Thor to go a little faster. A few minutes later they rode into the Westonbirt stables, and just in time, for the raindrops were coming down faster and faster.
“There you are, my lady,” he said as he set her down. “Will you be able to make it to the house without injury?”
“Oh, but aren’t you coming?” Disappointment was clearly written on her features.
He swallowed, and a muscle twitched in his throat. “No, I really cannot. I—”
“But you will be drenched if you try to ride home now. Surely you must come in for some tea, if only to warm you up.”
“Belle, I—”
“Please.”
He stared into those marvelous blue eyes and wondered how anyone found the fortitude to deny her anything. He glanced out the stable doors. “I suppose it is rather wet.”
Belle nodded. “You’ll surely catch the fever if you even attempt to ride home. Come along.” She took his hand, and together they made a mad dash for the house.
By the time they rushed through the front door into the hall, they were both rather damp, and Belle could feel strands of her hair plastered to her face. “I must look a mess,” she said self-consciously. “I ought to go and change.”
“Nonsense,” John said, pushing a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. “You look lovely—all misty-like.”
Belle caught her breath, his touch still tingling on her cheek. “Surely you mean musty-like. I feel like a dishrag.”
“I assure you, Lady Arabella, you do not resemble a dishrag.” He dropped his arm. “Although I cannot imagine when you would ever have seen one.”
Belle stiffened. “I am not the spoiled child you seem to believe me to be.”
John gazed hungrily at the breathtakingly lovely woman standing across from him in the hall. Her hair had partially broken free of its topknot, and golden tendrils, curled by the damp air, kissed the sides of her face. Her long eyelashes glistened with raindrops, framing eyes of an indescribable shade of blue. John took
a deep breath and didn’t allow his eyes to stray below her soft mouth. “Believe me, I don’t think you’re a child,” he said finally.
Belle swallowed nervously, unable to keep her disappointment off her face. Those were not quite the words she’d hoped to hear. “Perhaps we should continue our conversation in the parlor.” She turned and strode across the hall, her back ramrod straight.
John sighed to himself and followed. He always managed to say the wrong thing around her. He wanted to grab her in his arms, tell her that he thought she was simply wonderful—beautiful and smart and kind and everything a man could want in a woman.
If a man deserved a woman, that was. And he knew that he could never marry, never accept the love of a woman. Not after Ana.
When John entered the parlor, Belle was standing at the window, watching the rain sheeting against the glass. He started to shut the door, then thought the better of it, and left it open a few inches. He walked over to her, intending to put his hands on her shoulders, but when he was but a foot away, she suddenly whirled around. “I’m not spoiled,” she said stubbornly. “I haven’t had a difficult life, I know that, but I’m not spoiled.”
“I know you’re not,” John replied softly.
“Spoiled means that one is willful and manipulative,” Belle continued. “And I’m neither of those things.”
He nodded.
“And I don’t know why you must always make such awful comments about my background. Your father is an earl, too. Alex told me.”
“Was an earl,” John corrected, relieved that she thought that he was pushing her away due to feelings of social inferiority. That was certainly a consideration, but it was the least of his worries. “Was an impoverished earl who certainly couldn’t afford to support seven children, the last of whom was, posthumously, me.”
“Seven children?” Belle asked, eyes widening. “Really?”
“One was stillborn,” John admitted.
“You must have had a lovely childhood with so many other children with whom to play.”
“Actually, I didn’t spend very much time with my siblings. They were usually occupied with their own pursuits.”
“Oh.” Belle frowned, not at all pleased with the family portrait he was painting. “Your mother must have been very busy having all those babies.”
John smiled devilishly. “I imagine that my father was as well.”
She blushed.
“Do you think we could start over for the afternoon?” John asked, taking her hand and dropping a feathery light kiss on her knuckles. “I apologize for assuming that you have never seen a dishrag.”
Belle giggled. “That’s the most absurd apology I have ever heard.”
“Do you think so? I thought it was rather eloquent myself, especially with the kiss on your hand.”
“The kiss was marvelous, and the apology was very sweet. It was the part about the dishrag that sounded funny.”
“Forget about the dishrag,” John said, leading her over to a nearby sofa.
“My mind is already completely blank on that measure,” she assured him.
He sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. “I noticed that you have a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry with you.”
Belle looked down at her forgotten book. “Oh, yes. You inspired me, I’m afraid. But what I want to know is when you’re going to get to the task of writing some verse yourself. I know that you’d be brilliant at it.”
John smiled at her praise. “Look what happened when I tried to be poetic this afternoon. I called you ‘misty-like.’ Somehow ‘misty-like’ does not come to mind when I think of great poetry.”
“Don’t be silly. Anyone who loves poetry as much as you do must be able to write it. You need only to apply yourself.”
John looked over at her shining face. She had such confidence in him. The feeling was new to him; his family, after all, had never shown very much interest in any of his activities. He couldn’t bear to tell her that her confidence was misplaced, and he was terrified of how she might react when she discovered what kind of man he really was.
But he didn’t want to think of this. All he wanted to think about was the woman. The woman who smelled like springtime. He wondered how long he could push the realities of his past from his mind. Could he do it for more than a few minutes? Could he gift himself with an entire afternoon of her company?
“Oh dear,” Belle said, breaking into his tortured thoughts, “I forgot to ring for tea.” She stood and crossed the room to pull the bellcord.
John rose when she did, shifting most of his weight onto his good leg. Before Belle even had a chance to sit down again, Norwood entered the room on swift, silent feet. She ordered some tea and biscuits, and Norwood left just as quietly as he had come in, closing the door behind him.
Belle’s eyes followed the butler as he exited the room, and then she turned back and looked over to where John was standing near the sofa. As she gazed at him from across the room, she was certain her heart stopped beating. He looked so handsome and strong in his riding clothes, and she couldn’t help but see the appreciation in his eyes as he gazed back at her. She remembered his words from the day before.
I’m not the man you think I am.
Was that true? Or was it possible that he was not the man he thought he was? It all seemed so obvious to her. It was in the way he had recited poetry and the firm embrace of his arms when he had held her on his horse. He needed someone to show him that he was good and strong. Dare she hope— he needed her?
Nervously, she crossed the room, stopping a foot or so in front of him. “I think that you are a very good man,” she said softly.
John caught his breath as a surging wave of desire rocked through him. “Belle, I’m not. When you rang for tea I was trying to tell you...” Christ, how could he tell her? “I wanted to say...”
“What, John?” Her voice was exquisitely soft. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Belle, I—”
“Was it the kiss?”
It was an erotic nightmare. She was standing there before him, offering herself, and it was getting so damned hard to listen to his conscience and do the right thing. “Oh God, Belle,” he groaned. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do. I remember every moment of our kiss by the pond.”
God help him, John leaned a little closer to her. His hand reached out with no direction from his brain, clasping hers in a warm embrace.
“Oh, John,” she sighed, looking down at his hand as if it had the power to heal the world of all its ills.
Such devotion, such faith, such pure beauty was too much for him. With a groan that hovered somewhere between pleasure and agony, he pulled her roughly against him. His lips found hers in a frantic kiss, and he drank of her like a man who’d gone years without nourishment. He sank his hands into her hair, savoring the silky soft feel of it as his lips traveled the length of her face, worshipping her eyes, her nose, the line of her cheekbones.
And at some point during the kiss, he began to feel himself healing. The blackness in his heart didn’t disappear, but it began to crack and crumble. The weight on his shoulders didn’t lift completely, but it seemed to be lessened somehow.
Could she do that for him? Was she so pure and good that she could erase the stain on his soul? John began to feel giddy, and he clutched her to him more closely, raining light kisses along her hairline.
And then she sighed. “Oh, John, I feel so good.” And he knew that she was content.
“How good?” he murmured, nipping at the corner of her mouth.
“Very, very good,” Belle laughed, returning his kisses fervently.
John’s lips trailed across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled playfully on her lobe. “You have such sweet little ears,” he said huskily. “Like apricots.”
Belle drew back, a surprised smile on her face. “Apricots?”
“I told you I’m not very poetic.”
“I love apricots,” s
he declared loyally.
“Get back over here,” he said in a laugh-tinged growl. He sat down on the sofa and tugged her along with him.
“Oooh, as you wish, my lord.” Belle did her best imitation of a leer.
“What a lusty wench you are.”
“Lusty wench? That’s certainly not very poetic.”
“Oh, hush.” True to his words, John silenced her with another kiss, leaning back against the cushions and pulling Belle on top of him. “Have I told you,” he said between kisses, “that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met?”
“No.”
“Well, you are. And the smartest, and the kindest, and”—John’s hand stole down the length of her body, cupped her buttocks, and squeezed— “you have the cutest derriere I’ve ever seen.”
Belle lurched back in shocked maidenly honor and then collapsed in giggles atop him. “Nobody told me that kissing was so much fun.”
“Of course not. Your parents didn’t want you running around just kissing anybody, after all.”
Belle touched the side of his jaw with her hand, rubbing against the sandy stubble of his whiskers. “No, only you.”
John didn’t think that her parents particularly wanted her kissing him either, but he pushed the thought out of his mind, unwilling to give up the perfection of the moment. “Most people don’t laugh so much while they’re kissing.” He grinned boyishly and tweaked her nose.
Belle tweaked his back. “They don’t? How unfortunate for them.”
John pulled her tightly to him in a crushing embrace, as if he could bond her to him by strength alone. Maybe some of her goodness would seep into him, cleansing his soul, and...He shut his eyes. He was growing fanciful. “You can’t possibly know how perfect I feel right at this moment,” he murmured into her hair.
Belle snuggled closer. “I know exactly how perfect.”
“Unfortunately, your pot of tea is going to arrive any second now, and I don’t think that the servants need to know just how perfect we feel.”
“Oh my God!” Belle gasped, nearly flying across the room. “Do I look all right? Can you tell that I—that we—?”