Dancing at Midnight Page 6

  “It warms my heart to hear you admit it.”

  “I thought I was beginning to like you, but now I’m certain that I don’t.”

  “You still like me,” he said, grinning as he started pulling her again toward the pond.

  Belle’s mouth fell open. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I—all right, maybe a little,” she allowed. “But I do think you’re acting rather high-handed.”

  “And I think that you have a hideous little blister on your heel. So stop complaining.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Belle shut her mouth, aware that she’d been blabbering away far too much. With a sigh, she finally gave in and let him lead her to the pond. When they reached it, she sat down on a grassy patch near the shore while John walked over to the water and dipped his handkerchief into it.

  “Is that clean?” she called out.

  “My handkerchief or the water?”

  “Both!”

  John walked back to her side and held up the snowy white cloth. “Sparkling.”

  She sighed at his determination to treat her blister and poked her bare foot out from under her skirt.

  “This isn’t going to work,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re going to have to roll over onto your stomach.”

  “I don’t think so,” Belle replied, her tone firm.

  John tilted his head to one side. “The way I see it,” he said thoughtfully, “we have two options.”

  He didn’t say anything more, so Belle was forced to ask, “We do?”

  “Yes. Either you roll over onto your stomach so that I can take care of your blister, or I can slide on my back and wiggle under your leg so that I can see your heel. Of course that would probably require my sticking my head under your skirts, and while the thought is intriguing—”

  “Enough,” Belle muttered. She rolled over onto her stomach.

  John took the handkerchief and gently dabbed it against the sore, cleaning away the small amount of dried blood which had crusted around it. It stung a little when he touched the raw flesh, but Belle could tell that he was being extraordinarily gentle, so she didn’t say anything. When he pulled a knife out of his pocket, however, she changed her mind.

  “Aaaack!” Unfortunately, the first word to fly out of her mouth was not terribly coherent.

  John looked startled. “Is something wrong?”

  “What are you planning to do with that knife?”

  He smiled patiently. “I was just going to make a small incision in your blister so I can drain it. That will allow the dead skin to dry out.”

  It sounded like he knew what he was doing, but Belle thought she ought to ask a few questions anyway since she was, after all, letting this relatively strange man take a knife to her person. “Why do you want to dry it out?”

  “It will heal better that way. The dead skin will fall off, and the skin underneath will toughen up.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never had a blister before, have you?”

  “Not like this,” Belle admitted. “I don’t usually walk so much. I usually ride.”

  “What about dancing?”

  “What about dancing?” she countered.

  “I’m sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you’re in London. You must be on your feet all night.”

  “I always wear comfortable shoes,” she replied disdainfully.

  John wasn’t sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. “Well, don’t worry,” he finally said. “I’ve treated many blisters, most worse than this.”

  “In the war?” Belle asked, her voice cautious.

  His eyes darkened. “Yes.”

  “I imagine you’ve treated far worse injuries than mere blisters,” she said softly.

  “I imagine I have.”

  Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. “Weren’t 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 Weston-birt 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 h
im. 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 dose 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 his 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. All she wanted to be was mad.

  And she was. Furious.

  By the time Belle reached Westonbirt, her tears had dried up, and she was quite happily plotting all sorts of vengeful schemes against John. She didn’t expect to actually carry any of them out, but the mere act of planning them raised her spirits.

  She plodded through the great hall and was nearly to the curved staircase when Emma called out from a nearby parlor, “Is that you, Belle?”

  Belle backtracked to the open doorway, poked her head in, and said hello.

  Emma was sitting on a sofa with ledgers spread out on the table in front of her. She raised her eyebrows at Belle’s disheveled appearance. “Where have you been?”

  “Out for a walk.”

  “With only one shoe?”

  “It’s the latest rage.”

  “Or a very long story.”

  “Not that long but rather unladylike.”

  “Bare feet usually are.”

  Belle rolled her eyes. Emma had been known to wade through knee-deep mud to get to her favorite fishing hole. “Since when have you become the model of taste and decorum?”

  “Since, oh, never mind, just come and sit with me. I’m about to go insane.”

  “Really? Now that sounds interesting.”

  Emma sighed. “Don’t tease me. Alex won’t let me out of this blasted parlor for fear of my health.”

  “You could look on the bright side and view it as a sign of his eternal love and devotion,” Belle suggested.

  “Or I could simply strangle him. If he had his way, I’d be confined to my bed until the baby arrived. As it is, he’s forbidden me to go riding by myself.”