Читать книгу A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 9

Nothing had prepared Belle for the splendour that was Carlton House, which faced the south side of Pall Mall; its gardens abutted St James’s Park.

Following her grandmother past the graceful staircase and through the spacious, opulent residence, which was packed with hundreds of people—nobility, politicians, the influential, the wealthy, the elite of London society—admiring the superb collection of works of art hung on the walls of every room, ornate fireplaces, crystal chandeliers—dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals and ablaze with blinding light, marble busts in niches, mirrors and gold leaf—Belle, finding it all magically impressive, absorbed every detail.

The dowager countess smiled at her mixture of fascination and bemusement. ‘Wait until you see the rest of the house—and the table. The food will be delicious—even though it does have so far to travel from the kitchens that it invariably arrives cold. The Prince shows great imagination in planning these parties and one always enjoys his hospitality.’

Belle stopped and closed her eyes, dizzy with the incomprehensible sights of so much dazzling splendour. Quickly recovering, she snapped open her fan and briskly fanned herself. ‘It would be impossible not to. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ the dazzled girl said. ‘How can all these people not be struck blind by all this beauty?’

‘The Prince stresses there is nothing in Europe that can compare with Carlton House. As for being struck blind, why, these people have seen it for so long that it’s lost all meaning to them.’

‘You mean they don’t appreciate it?’

‘Not as much as you evidently do. The Prince would be well pleased.’

Belle said not a word, merely drinking in every sight as though she had never before in her life seen such beauty. The supper table was covered with linen cloths and laden with delicacies far more numerous than Belle could ever have imagined. It glittered and sparkled and gleamed gold and silver on both sides, running the length of the dining room and into the conservatory beyond. The oriental theme the Prince had chosen for the table decorations was exquisite in every minute detail. At equal distances elaborate crystal fountains bubbled musically, the liquid in them not water but wine.

The atmosphere became electrified when the Prince arrived, looking larger than life and extremely grand in a military uniform heavily trimmed with gold braid. His eyes twinkled good-humouredly as he welcomed everyone and there was a great deal of bowing and dipping of curtsies.

While waiting to be seated, Belle looked about her, her eyes drawn to Lord Bingham, who stood across the room conversing with a group of young bucks. She studied him surreptitiously. His blue eyes glinted with a sardonic expression. Broad shouldered, narrow of waist, with a muscular leg, he gave the appearance of an athlete, a man who fenced and hunted. Yet, she thought, with that determined, clefted chin there was a certain air of masculinity, something attractive, almost compelling, about him, and certainly dangerous.

As Lance became tired of standing around, his eyes sought out the detectable Belle Ainsley, which, despite the house being almost full to capacity, wasn’t too difficult. He saw her surrounded by doting swains enthralled by her uncommon beauty, a premise that, curiously, strangely nettled his mood on finding himself observing her audience of aristocratic suitors. She was enjoying herself, laughing and at ease, a natural temptress, he thought, alluring and provocative and with the body of a goddess. He had to fight the insane impulse to disperse her personal entourage of admirers, carry her to a quiet place, take hold of that lithe, warm, breathing form, crush it beneath him and kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips.

Belle was seated next to her grandmother, Lord Bingham several places away from her on the opposite side of the table. She tried hard not to look at him, but found her eyes turned constantly in his direction. At one point he caught her glance and held her eyes with his warmly glowing blue orbs. His lips widened leisurely into a rakish grin as his gaze ranged over her, and he inclined his head to her in the merest mockery of a bow and raised his glass.

Considering the perusals she had been subjected to so far, Belle deemed his perusal far too bold. At least other men had the decency to size her up with discretion, but Lord Bingham made no attempt to hide his penchant for studying and caressing and feeding on every aspect of her person so that she felt she was being devoured.

Hot with embarrassment over being caught staring and the smug manner in which he’d acknowledged her, Belle curled her lips in derision and, lifting her chin in an attitude of haughty displeasure, looked away, aware that if she didn’t stop it and take more interest in the general conversation that was going on around her, her grandmother would notice.

It proved to be an especially fine banquet and, continuing to find herself the recipient of Lord Bingham’s careful perusal and feeling the dire need of its numbing effects, Belle imbibed more wine than she normally would have done. There was no protection from that rogue’s hungering eyes, and at times the warm glow she saw in them made her feel quite naked. She was not at all surprised when she realised her nerves were taut enough to be plucked.

Three hours later when the banquet had ended, Belle strolled through the lantern-lit gardens with her grandmother, who had become overcome with the heat and thought some fresh air might help alleviate her headache, which had become quite intense. She also strove to keep Isabelle in her sights.

People collected in groups to gossip while high-spirited young couples sought privacy among the shrubs. After she had excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room when her grandmother stopped to acknowledge an acquaintance, on returning and finding herself alone for the first time since she had entered Carlton House, Belle followed the sound of music and stood in the ballroom, watching dancers attired in satins and silks swirling around the floor in time to a lilting waltz.

Suddenly she got that unnerving feeling she got when someone was staring at her. The sensation was so strong she could almost feel the eyes on her, and then a deep voice seemed to leap out from behind her, and said, ‘Dance with me.’

Belle turned in astonishment as the officer materialised from the shadows. Belle recognised that mocking smile—it was identical to the one he had given her across the table, when he’d caught her inadvertently staring at him. His voice was deep and throaty, like thick honey. It was a seductive voice that made her think of highly improper things. It seemed to caress each word he uttered, and she knew there couldn’t be many women who could resist a voice like that, not if the man speaking looked like Lord Bingham. But she told herself she needn’t worry, for she was completely immune to that potent masculine allure.

‘That would not be appropriate. I don’t know you.’

Lance laughed at her. ‘Well, my fine lady, you should indeed know me—and if you don’t, I will tell you that I am Lance Bingham, at your service. Now does my name sound familiar?’

‘My grandmother has already told me who you are,’ Belle replied coolly.

‘I thought she might.’

She looked at him directly. ‘Why does she not like you?’

Instead of reacting with offence, he merely chuckled. ‘You should ask your grandmother. You may find what she has to tell you—interesting.’ He grinned, his mouth curving up at one corner. Beneath his heavy, drooping lids his eyes were filled with amusement, and idle speculation. ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’

She cocked a dark, finely arched brow above a baleful glare, which, with the chillingly beautiful smile, could have frozen the heart of the fiercest opponent. Woe to the man this woman unleashed her wrath upon.

‘I’m minding my own business. I suggest you mind yours.’

He grinned. ‘You’re outspoken.’

‘None of your business. Why don’t you just go away?’

‘Hostile, too. I don’t often encounter hostility from young ladies.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘You’re not impressed?’

‘Not a bit.’

Those seductive blue eyes settled on her. ‘Well, Miss Isabelle, I find you quite challenging.’

‘You do?’

‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re quite lovely?’

‘All the time.’

‘And you’ve got lovely hair. You’re got a provocative mouth, too.’

‘Save your breath. I am not interested.’

‘No?’ He arched a brow.

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘You are very convincing. You actually make a woman believe you are speaking the truth—but then you have undoubtedly had a great deal of practice.’

He grinned. ‘True, but I am sincere.’

Belle could feel her cheeks warming as she met those smiling blue eyes. ‘You seem terribly sure of yourself, my lord.’

‘And I can see you’re not easily taken in, but can you not understand what a man like myself experiences in the presence of such a beautiful woman?’

Belle peered at him frostily. ‘And I can see you’re all talk.’

Leaning forwards, Lance ensnared her gaze and carefully probed those dark green eyes as a slow smile curved his lips. ‘You’ve got me all wrong. You’ve awakened emotions within me that I was sure I was incapable of feeling—some of which are appreciative—others I’m simply struggling to restrain.’

‘Then you will just have to curb your emotions, my lord, for I am not interested.’

He cocked a sleek black brow. ‘No?’

‘Conceited, aren’t you? Conceited and arrogant.’

He pretended offence. ‘You do me a terrible injustice. In fact, you make me feel quite downcast and disconsolate. Here I am, complimenting you on your beauty, and you start casting aspersions on my character. You think I’m insufferable?’

‘Quite,’ she agreed heatedly.

‘That’s quite a temper you have,’ he said, shaking his head in teasing, chiding reproof. ‘And here I was thinking that you wanted me to ask you to dance.’

Her eyes flared. ‘Do you actually think I was waiting for you to ask me?’

Her show of outrage bestirred his hearty laughter. Thoroughly incensed, Belle glowered at him until his amusement dwindled to nothing more than a slanted grin. ‘You can’t fault a soldier recently returned from the wars for hoping that such would be the case. You really are quite the most enticing female I’ve met. So, what do you say? Will you dance with me?’

‘No. Like I said, you are insufferable. I don’t think I like you very much.’

‘A little would do. Actually, I’m quite delightful once you get to know me. I do have a reputation, I admit it frankly—but I’ve been dreadfully maligned. You shouldn’t believe all you hear about me.’

Belle gazed at him with a cool hauteur. After a moment he smiled a devilishly engaging smile, offended demeanour gone.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to dance?’

‘Quite sure,’ she retorted.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Sore feet, probably.’

‘It’s a long time since I trod on a lady’s toes, Belle.’

Her heart lurched at his familiar use of her name. ‘Maybe so, but I will not risk it. I did not invite you to ask me to dance.’

He grinned unrepentantly. ‘I know. I took it upon myself. Always was impetuous.’

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? If you will excuse me, I see my grandmother beckoning to me.’

Lance Bingham gave her a mock-polite nod, eyelids drooping, a half-smile playing on his mouth. Lowering his head, he spoke softly into her ear, his warm breath fanning her neck. Mingled with an underlying essence of soap, the pleasantly aromatic bouquet of his cologne drifted into her nostrils and twined amazingly through her senses, and she found the manly fragrance intoxicating.

‘Go if you must, but I will not give up.’

True to his word, Lance Bingham didn’t. His mind never wandering far from the diamonds around her neck, Belle Ainsley’s delectable form fully visible to his hungry eyes was an inducement he was unable to resist.

The Dowager Countess of Harworth had watched him throughout the evening carefully. She had seen him approach Isabelle and noted her rejection. However she was unsettled by it. Countless young women surrounded him all the time, all vying for his attention. Lord Bingham, she noted, treated them with amused tolerance, for his attention was on the only female at Carlton House who seemed immune to his magnetism—her granddaughter.

Having serious cause to doubt that he had never seen such perfection before and tempted to dally with the lady to his heart’s content, half an hour after he had spoken to her, Lance threw caution to the four winds and approached Belle once more.

From where she sat conversing with two elderly ladies who were friends of her grandmother, glancing up, Belle saw his head above the crowd and instinctively knew he was looking for her. When he turned his imperious head his eyes locked on to hers and he smiled, a lazy cocksure smile. When he strode arrogantly towards her, she was not in the least surprised when the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

Belle lifted her eyes to look into his face. He was smiling down at her, the bright blueness of his eyes catching her breath. She was used to male admiration, but this one was the first to rouse her hostility while at the same time stirring her senses and capturing her imagination. Not that she’d let him see it, for that was not her way, but she had never reacted like this before to any man.

‘As you do not appear to be taken for this dance, I wonder if I might—’

Belle raised her chin haughtily. ‘Thank you, but I am not dancing at the moment.’

‘I can see that, which is why I am here. Now, if the ladies will excuse us …’

Bowing in the direction of the open-mouthed ladies, Lance took Belle’s hand, pulled her out of the chair and whisked her into the middle of the swirling dancers where he took her into his arms. Belle was so unused to anyone forcing her to do something against her will that she went with him, automatically falling into the right steps of the waltz before she realised what she was doing.

Her astonishment at his outrageous audacity was short lived and anger took over. For two pins she would walk off the floor and leave him standing, but she was acutely aware that almost everyone was watching them and she could not do that. To do so would be a slight to him, and she could not do such a thing to him in front of all these people. Nor could she shame her grandmother by creating a scene, even though she did not hold a high opinion of Lord Bingham and had told her in no uncertain terms that she must have nothing to do with him. So she made up her mind not to speak to him and leave when the dance ended

They danced in silence for a few moments, a silence in which Lance noted the strange lights dancing in her shining hair, and her slender shoulders gleaming with a soft, creamy lustre. ‘This is pleasant, is it not?’ he said at length, and there was a touch of irony in his mocking tone.

Feeling his arm tighten about her, Belle stiffened and for an incredulous moment she was speechless. Looking into his eyes, she forgot her intention not to engage in conversation with him. ‘I would be obliged if you would not hold me so tightly. I am only dancing with you because you dragged me on to the floor,’ she said with an effort, in the coldest and most condescending manner. ‘Do you usually snatch your partners away from their chaperons so ungallantly?’

He raised one thick, well-defined eyebrow, looking down at her. A faint half-smile played on his lips as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind. ‘Only when I think they might refuse to dance with me—or need rescuing.’

‘I did not need rescuing, as you well know, Lord Bingham,’ she retorted, resenting his effect on her, the masculine assurance of his bearing. But she was conscious of an unwilling excitement, seeing him arrogantly mocking, and recklessly attractive. Here they were, together in the middle of the dance floor, in an atmosphere bristling with tension. ‘I was perfectly happy where I was.’

‘I don’t believe you. Besides, it’s not every day I get to dance with an American girl.’

Belle looked at him condescendingly and gritted out a menacing smile. ‘Lord Bingham, I am curious about your name. You see, I knew some Binghams in Charleston. Scurvy lot they were—thieves and cutthroats. Are you perhaps related, sir?’

The sweetness of her tone did not hide the sneer she intended. He met it with a flicker of amusement showing upon his lips. ‘It’s not impossible. I have distant family scattered all over the place. Who knows? Some of them may quite possibly have settled in the Carolinas. You dance divinely, by the way,’ he murmured, spinning her in an exaggerated whirl that made her catch her breath.

‘Will you please behave yourself?’ She spoke sharply, jerking away from him.

‘I do,’ he murmured, his warm breath fanning her cheek as he pulled her back to him. ‘We are partners. How else should I behave?’

‘Do not hold me so tightly. Be a gentleman—if that is not too difficult for you.’

‘A gentleman?’ he said, flashing his white teeth in a lazy grin, his gaze dipping lingeringly to her soft lips. ‘How can I do that? I am but an ignorant soldier, unschooled in the postures of the court, trained only to fire a gun and fight the enemy.’

‘Do not play the simpleton with me. It won’t work. Why have you singled me out from all the other ladies to dance?’

‘Is it so very strange for a man to want to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room? You are a very beautiful—enough to drive a man to madness.’

‘I really had no idea,’ she apologised sarcastically. ‘Perhaps you would like to prove your words.’

‘Prove? ‘

Calmly Belle met his gaze. How she yearned to erase that smirking grin from his lips. ‘Your madness!’ She sounded flippant and casual. ‘But you need not burden me. A few flecks of foam about your mouth would serve as well to prove the claim.’ She ignored the amusement that shone from his eyes and was sure her remark would have had him laughing out loud had they not been in the middle of a crowded dance floor. ‘Am I the first female you’ve ever met who didn’t want to dance with you?’

‘I confess to being somewhat spoiled by women who seemed to enjoy dancing with me. And you,’ he added, knocking back her momentary sense of triumph, ‘have been too long surrounded by besotted beaux who would willingly kiss the ground on which you walk, begging your permission to be your lord and master.’

‘Heaven forbid! I will never call any man my lord and nor will I allow a man to be my master. When I marry it will be a partnership. I will not be a dutiful little wife expected to behave like an obedient servant.’

Lance glanced down at her with an odd combination of humorous scepticism and certainty. ‘No I don’t suppose you will. You have quite a following of admirers,’ he commented, his eyes skimming over the bachelors who had been among her audience earlier. They were now eyeing him enviously and with keen attention. ‘I must say that I’m relieved you didn’t walk off the floor and leave me standing.’

‘Had I done so, I would have put my own reputation in jeopardy.’

His eyes, sweeping over her face and coming to rest on the sparkling gems around her throat, narrowed. ‘Even so. You should know that if I want something I take it, whatever the consequences.’ He lowered his head as he spun her round, his lips close to her ear. ‘I’ve never seduced a girl from Charleston before.’

Deeply shocked by his remark, Belle had the urge to kick his shin and leave him standing, regardless of the consequences, but instead she controlled her expression and met his look head on. ‘No? Then might I suggest you go there and find one. I am not so easily seduced,’ she retorted, too angry to be humiliated.

‘No?’

‘A very definite no. I wouldn’t let you touch me to save me from drowning.’

He looked down at her with mock disappointment. ‘I am mortified to hear that—but it’s early days. I always enjoy the chase. You will think differently when you get to know me.’

Belle looked at him with withering scorn. ‘Why, of all the conceited, arrogant—what a thoroughly selfish, insufferable individual you are, Lord Bingham. Do you make lewd remarks to all the women you dance with?’

‘And do you treat every gentleman who dances with you with such animosity—or only me?’

‘Lord Bingham, in the first place, you are no gentleman—which I have already pointed out. In the second, I don’t like you. And in the third, you should not be speaking to me at all.’

‘I shouldn’t?’ Her hostility didn’t offend him in the slightest. In fact, it added to his determination to get to know her better.

‘We have not been properly introduced.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘No—not really,’ she confessed honestly, hating the protocol that now ruled her every waking moment, tying her in knots lest she do or say the wrong thing.

‘Good. Neither do I. I would like it if you would call me Lance,’ he said, his gaze settling on her face, ‘since I intend for us to become better acquainted.’

‘Forgive me, but that would go against the basics my grandmother has tried to teach me since coming to this country. I have been taught to show proper respect for gentleman of any standing.’

Lance considered her at length and had to wonder why she refused to be so informal with him after he had invited her to be. ‘I must assume by your answer that you’re averse to the familiarity.’

‘It is what my grandmother would demand of me.’

‘Does that mean you insist on me addressing you in like manner?’

‘Whether you adhere to the strict code of gentlemanly conduct is entirely your affair.’

His eyebrow quirked with some amusement. ‘Come now, Belle—and in case you’re wondering, I know that is what you are called since I have made enquiries—’

‘I wasn’t,’ she cut in crossly.

‘—but your grandmother is stuck in the past,’ he continued. ‘Times are changing—at least I hope they are.’

Belle had never known her name could sound so very different, so warmly evocative when spoken by a man, or that she could feel as if she were dissolving inside when those soft, mellow tones caressed her senses.

‘Can you not agree that if we are to get to know each other on more intimate terms,’ Lance went on, lowering his head so that his mouth was very close to her ear, ‘it should allow us privileges above the usual stilted decorum of strangers?’

His husky voice and the closeness of his mouth so that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek was almost her undoing. She blushed scarlet. There was still so much of the girl in her at war with the young woman, and this man had the knack of bringing it quickly to the surface. Yet for all her annoyance with him, she was aware of everything about him—of the handsome face above the scarlet jacket, tanned and healthy. She was surprised to see, at close quarters, faint lines of weariness about his face as silently, reluctantly, she felt drawn once more towards him. Recollecting herself, she tried to change her thoughts, finding her emotions distasteful.

‘But that is precisely what we are, Lord Bingham, strangers—and I intend for us to remain that way. I am convinced you have plied many light o’ loves with similar persuasive reasoning. I can well imagine that you have become quite adept at swaying besotted young girls from the path their parents have urged them to follow.’

His eyes twinkled down at her. She was right. Apart from Delphine, there had been temporary light o’ loves—and one or two had lasted longer than others—but he had never considered his involvement with them of any consequence. ‘You are very astute, Belle, but if you think you have the measure of me, then you are very much mistaken. I saw you the moment you arrived and I’ve wanted to speak to you all evening.’

‘And now you have,’ she said, staring into those eyes that had ensnared her own. ‘And don’t get any high-minded ideas that you’re any better than the other gentleman I have partnered tonight, because if you do you will be wrong.’

Belle thought he was too much aware of her physically, and that the banter was leading to something. He made her uneasy and yet at the same time he stimulated and excited her. He did seem to have a way about him and she could not fault any woman for falling under his spell, for she found to her amazement that her heart was not so distantly detached as she had imagined it to be. To her amazement his voice and the way he looked at her evoked a strangely pleasurable disturbance in areas far too private for an untried virgin even to consider, much less invite, and she didn’t quite know what to make of them. They seemed almost wanton. But she didn’t intend making it easy for him.

‘Clearly I didn’t make my aversion to conversing with you plain enough,’ she retorted hotly.

He chuckled low. ‘I thought you were merely playing hard to get.’

‘I don’t play those sorts of games,’ she retorted hotly. ‘My pleasure would be to walk off the floor and leave you standing, so be thankful that I’ve let you retain some of your pride. My grandmother will reproach me most severely for dancing with you.’

‘That is for you to deal with, Belle, but heed my warning. I do not run from fierce old ladies, no matter how hard or how loud they huff and puff. Her dislike of me is quite unfounded.’

‘My grandmother has never said that she dislikes you, and she never says anything about anyone without good reason. And, of course, you’re the poor innocent and undeserving of any condemnation.’

His eyes glowed in the warm light as he gave her a lazy smile. ‘I never claimed to be an innocent—in fact, I am far from it.’

‘I would hardly expect you to admit it if you were,’ she retorted crisply.

‘I could show you if you like.’ His eyes seemed to glow, laughing at her, mocking her.

‘Not a chance.’

‘Are you enjoying the Prince’s hospitality?’

She looked at him boldly from beneath her long eyelashes, her lips parted, her tongue visible between the perfect white of her teeth, and a tell-tale flush having turned her cheeks a becoming pink. ‘Very much, and Prince George seems very charming—unlike some of his guests.’

‘Oh? Anyone in particular?’

‘I don’t think I need spell it out, do you? The Prince is awfully good at giving wonderful parties.’

He gave her a penetrating look through narrowed eyes. ‘So, Belle Ainsley, your grandmother has warned you about me?’

Belle leaned back in his arms and looked up at him. His taunting grin made her realise the folly of baiting him. He had all but stated he was no gentleman and did exactly what he chose to do. She felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self-assurance.

‘If she has, it’s because you have a certain reputation. She cannot bear me out of her sight, for in her opinion every male in London has designs on me. Not that she would object to it being the right man, you understand, since she’s forever reminding me that the Season is for young ladies to find husbands.’

‘Which is true. Otherwise what is the point of it all?’

‘Indeed, and I’m afraid that at present I have more suitors than I know what to do with. Grandmother sets great store by propriety and everything must be done according to the rules of courtship.’

‘And you? Did you want to leave America?’

‘No. It was my home, where I wanted to remain, but on my father’s demise my grandmother—who had become my guardian—insisted I come to England.’

‘Well, I for one am very glad she did.’

‘I don’t see why you should be, for since my grandmother seems to have an aversion to you she will see to it that we are never in the same company.’

The brief shake of his head dismissed her remark. ‘If I have a mind to get to know you better, Belle, your grandmother won’t be able to do a thing about it,’ he said in a deep, velvety voice.

Belle saw the look in his eyes, and her heart began to hammer uncontrollably while a warning screamed along her nerves, a warning she knew she should take heed of if she was to retain her sanity. He had set her at odds with his insolent perusal of her earlier, but she had to admit that he was the most exciting man she had met—and the most infuriating.

As the dance progressed, couples dipped and swayed, but Lance Bingham and Belle Ainsley were unaware of them. They made a striking couple. There was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair, he so handsome, she so lovely—so everyone thought, everyone, that is, but the Dowager Countess of Harworth. Sitting with a group of elegant men and women who composed her personal retinue, as she watched her wilful, headstrong granddaughter skim the ballroom floor in the arms of and in perfect unison with the notorious Lord Bingham, her expression was ferociously condemning.

Even the other dancers turned their heads to watch, making way for them as they circled the room. Guests, who had been chatting and laughing and drinking champagne, aware of the enmity that existed between the Ainselys and the Binghams—that there had been much strife and that emotions were still raw—grew watchful and quiet, glancing now and then at the dowager countess, so enormous was her consequence among the ton, to see what she would do.

The countess observed through narrowed eyes that the famous diamonds had created a lot of interest and drew a good deal of comment and envious glances—not least that of Lance Bingham. Already the air was buzzing with whispered conjectures and she knew the word would spread like wildfire that, by singling Isabelle out to dance, Lord Bingham was sending out the message that the age-old feud was over. This thought the countess found most displeasing and was not to be borne. The last thing in the world she wanted was for her granddaughter to capture the interest of this particular aristocrat, but it would appear she had done just that. By breakfast the affair would be being discussed in every household in London.

Belle was whirled around in time to the sweeping music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a million times and more. Lance was a good dancer, light on his feet, keeping in time to the rhythm of the music. Belle could feel the muscles of his broad shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat, and her fingers tingled from the contact.

And then the dance was over and he released her, but he was reluctant to part from her. Belle Ainsley intrigued him. She was the only woman who had dared stand up to him, and flaunting the diamonds that by rights belonged to the Binghams—the sheer injustice of it—was tantamount to a challenge to him.

‘Would you defy your grandmother and dance with me again?’

‘Why? Are you asking?’

‘Would you like me to?’

‘Yes, just to give me the satisfaction of saying no.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Belle.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. One dance with you is quite enough. Please excuse me. I think this brief encounter has gone on long enough.’

She turned from him, about to walk away, but he caught her arm. ‘Wait.’

She spun round. ‘What?’

‘Protocol dictates that I escort you back to your grandmother—or do you forget so easily what you have been taught?’

‘Are you sure you want to? Do you have the courage?’

‘After confronting Napoleon on the battle field, confronting your grandmother is mere child’s play.’

Belle elevated her brows in question. ‘You think so? Would you like to tell her—or shall I?’

‘I wouldn’t bother. Your grandmother might take offence to being compared to the mighty emperor.’

‘I don’t think so. Both are stoic and determined people, and unafraid of the enemy. I think they would get on remarkably well.’ She tossed her head haughtily. ‘I suppose you must return me to my grandmother—it will be interesting to observe the outcome.’

Taking her hand, Lance led her off the dance floor. He sensed that, in her belief she could do whatever she fancied, there was an air of danger about her. Nothing will ever beat her, he thought. He would wager she had teeth and claws. Determined too. What she wants she’ll go after—a girl after his own heart. But she was still young, still impressionable—trembling on the edge of ripe womanhood. Isabelle Ainsley would not be long without a husband. The Regent’s court possessed many handsome beaux, who would be willing to wed the beautiful granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth. She thought she had his measure. He smiled, confident in his own power over the female sex. She was only an apprentice compared to him.

He liked his women to be experienced, experienced in the ways of pleasing his own sexually mature body, and there was no doubt Belle Ainsley would make a perfect bed mate. But she must be shown that it was Lance Bingham who called the tune. However, Lance knew full well that though it was not in his nature to care what people thought of him—especially the Dowager Countess of Harworth—he must, for the time being, do the right thing and return this beautiful baggage with her reputation intact.

Lance bowed to the countess, his smile courteous. ‘Your granddaughter dances divinely, Countess. I hope you will forgive me for stealing her away. I was somewhat precipitate in rushing her on to the floor as I did.’

The dowager countess regarded him with an expression of acid tolerance for which she was known—and feared—by all the ton. A deep shudder passed through her and she felt as if she were being taken back in time, for Lance Bingham, with his lean, noble features, stunning good looks and tall, broad-shouldered frame, was so much like his grandfather. She was shocked by the likeness. He had the same mocking smile that she had always found so confusing. It had promised so much and yet meant so little.

‘Yes, you were. So, Colonel Bingham, you are back from France.’

‘As you see, Countess. I am especially honoured by this opportunity to renew our acquaintance.’

The countess considered it prudent to ignore his remark. ‘You are back for good?’

‘Indeed.’

‘You have been to Ryhill?’

‘I have, but pressing matters of business brought me back to London for the present.’

‘Wellington and Prince George have sung your praises often during your campaigns. From all reports, your regiment was a shining example of a well-disciplined force, which proved itself as valiant in battle as any in the British Army—in particular the battle at Waterloo. You are to be congratulated, Lord Bingham.’

‘No more than any other. Waterloo was a great victory for Wellington. Any officer would have deemed it a privilege to serve under his leadership. You kept up with what was happening?’

‘I read the newspapers,’ the countess replied, her tone stilted.

‘Of course you do.’ Lance’s eyes flicked to Belle. ‘I should be honoured if you would permit me to partner your granddaughter in another dance, Countess.’

‘I imagine you would be. However, I believe her dance card is full. I’m sure you will find some other young lady willing to partner you.’

Her face became alarmingly shuttered and without expression and her eyes darkened until they were almost black. That this impertinent man, whose family had done her so much harm in the past, should have the effrontery to try to ingratiate himself with her granddaughter was insupportable.

Lance nodded, understanding perfectly, but he was quite ready to be summarily dismissed. ‘I’m sure I shall, Countess.’ He looked at Belle and bowed his torso in a courtly gesture. ‘I enjoyed dancing with you, Miss Ainsley. Should one of your partners be unavailable, I am at your service. The night is still young. Who knows? Anything might happen.’ Without another word or so much as a glance at Belle, he bowed and walked away.

Determined to dedicate herself to keeping Lance Bingham away from Isabelle, and having planned to leave for the Ainsleys’ ancestral home in Wiltshire at the end of the Season, the countess considered it might be as well to leave in the next few days. Although even in Wiltshire it couldn’t be guaranteed that Isabelle would be safe from the officer if the wily rascal had a mind to see her.

She was pleased with the way Isabelle had turned out—even if she had enjoyed frustrating all her tutors’ efforts to correct any part of her like some precocious child out to tease her elders. However, her demeanour was much improved. She was at ease and content fraternising with affluent aristocrats with lofty titles and well respected. But there were still times—like tonight and her disagreeable and defiant behaviour over the necklace, and her refusal to send Lance Bingham packing when he’d asked her to dance—when the old Isabelle surfaced to remind her that the spirited, wilful hoyden was still present.

‘If Lord Bingham approaches you again, you will have nothing to do with him, Isabelle. The man believes he can talk his way into, or out of, any situation and I have no wish to see him do you harm. He has charm in abundance, but you will have nothing more to do with him. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Grandmother,’ Belle replied dutifully, knowing that if Lord Bingham had a mind to approach her again, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

As the evening progressed, from a distance Lance watched Belle Ainsley, making no attempt to approach her for the present, though this had nothing to do with her grandmother’s displeasure. No matter how he tried to clear his mind of her, the more difficult it became, for the woman was entangling him in desire and he hadn’t even kissed her yet, never mind possessed her. But he would. Yes, he would. Although Lance considered himself an experienced ladies’ man, with justification he knew when to take a step back. His senses were giving him that message right now.

However, his attention never wavered from the provocative sensuality of her as she danced with more men than she would be able to remember. There was a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating liveliness that drew men to her, and he took pleasure in looking at her, at the vibrancy of her, her laughing face, his gaze shifting now and then to the glittering diamonds resting against her creamy flesh that brought a quiet, secretive smile to his lips.

The festivities were drawing to a close when he saw her standing by a pillar alone. He lazily regarded her, his eyes following her, snapping sharply. Going to stand behind her, he lightly trailed his skilled fingers down the soft nape of her neck, reassured when she did not move away.

Belle recognised the scent of his cologne. She gasped and quivered, a warmth suffusing her cheeks. Though she commanded herself to move, her legs refused to budge. She felt it so strongly, it was as if her whole body was throbbing suddenly and in her head her thoughts were not orderly—just odd, strong responses. And in her breasts—how could a touch, a caress, reach her breasts? Yet it had; it was making them desperate to be touched and it was all she could do not to reach for one of his hands and place it there.

And the sensation moved on, lower, sweetly soft and liquid; small darts of pleasure travelled as if on silken threads to her stomach and inner thighs as the infuriating man continued his rhythmic stroking, with Belle unaware as he did so that he was giving particular attention to the clasp of her necklace. The heat of his hand seemed to scorch her cool flesh and she licked her dry lips. Recollecting herself, she shrugged away from his caress, but not too forcefully.

‘You overstep yourself, sir,’ she murmured, a little breathless.

‘But you enjoy me touching you, Belle, do you not?’ Lance breathed in a tight, strained voice. ‘Would you deny either of us the pleasures of being together?’

Oddly feeling no grudge against him, Belle turned and looked at him surreptitiously. His bold gaze stirred something deep within her, and the sensation was not unpleasant. ‘You go too fast. I hardly know you at all.’

Lance’s eyes gleamed with devilish humour, and his lips drew slowly into a delicate smile. ‘You’re quite right. You must allow us to get to know each other. You could be the light of my life. Have mercy on me.’

Belle lifted her chin. ‘I am hardly the first or the only one. It passes through my thoughts that you are a rake, Lord Bingham, and have probably said those very words to so many women you have lost count.’

‘I cannot deny any of what you say—but then I had not met you. You impress me. You attract me. It is a long time since I said that to a woman.’

Confused by the gentle warmth of his gaze and the directness of his words, Belle was moved by what he said. It was impossible to determine whether he mocked her or told the truth. He was not like any man she had ever met. When she had spoken to hurt him, to insult him, he had taken it in his stride or with humour, with patience, and still he complimented her.

‘You must forgive me if I appear confused. You confuse me.’

The softening in her manner enhanced her beauty, and Lance boldly and appreciatively stared, encouraged by it. He leaned closer so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘At least we have something in common.’

His warm breath stirred shivers along her flesh, and a curious excitement tingled in her breast. She had to fight to keep her world upright. What was the matter with her? Had she consumed too much wine and was now feeling its effect?

‘Is it too hard to imagine that we could become lovers?’ he asked softly. ‘I find you absolutely fascinating, and yet you suddenly seem afraid. Is it me you fear—or something else?’

The endearment spoken in his rich, deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as his finger on the back of her neck. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said, trying to control herself and the situation, ‘and nor do your words sway me. I realise that this is merely a dalliance to you.’

‘Liar.’ A seductive grin swept across his handsome face. ‘Admit it. You are afraid—afraid of the things I make you feel.’

‘Lord Bingham,’ she gasped breathlessly, ‘I am not a woman of easy virtue and certainly do not intend giving myself to you. Now please go away before my grandmother sees us together. You have no idea how angry she can be.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then you should take heed and leave me alone.’

He moved round her to stand in front of her, his eyes hooded and seductive. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’

With trembling effort Belle collected herself, and, as he stared at her, she drew a deep, ragged breach. ‘She says I must have nothing to do with you. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’

He chuckled softly. ‘Is she afraid I will lead you astray? Is that it, Belle?’

She gave him a level look. ‘I believe she does, but that isn’t the only reason, is it? My sixth sense tells me there is some other reason why she dislikes you.’

‘Your sixth sense does you credit.’

‘So I am right.

He looked at her, his eyes amused, a smile curving his full mouth, and when Belle met his gaze she was struck by the sheer male beauty of him. And then she was struck by something else, very strongly indeed—it shocked her with its violence, a great blow of emotion, emotion for him.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was even, but she acknowledged it—it was startling and unexpected and absolutely new. The evening—the privilege of being at Carlton House, the build up to it, of being with so many people, the music, the laughter, the champagne, all far removed from what she knew—had heightened her emotions, made them raw, even a little reckless and dangerous. She knew quite clearly—they both did, for she could see in his eyes that he acknowledged it too—that this was a new and important thing, only just beginning. And yet she knew she must not accept it, not let it happen. That she must fight it.