December 1796
“What about this one, Alex? Or maybe this one?” Anabel, Lady Ranstruther, turned first one way then another in front of her full-length, silver-framed mirror, holding up first one gown then another. An enormous, discarded pile already lay over her sea-green brocade draped bed and over the settees and hassocks, and even atop her Pomeranian dog Mugsley, much to the pup’s despair.
Alex, who by all natural rights about be Lady Alex as the daughter of the Duke of Winsome, albeit on the wrong side of the blanket, looked most unsure as she nibbled a bit of Turkish delight. Alex was quite one of the beauties of Town, who would surely claim a duke to wed herself is she cared two jots about such things. Her flaxen hair glowed. Yet she only cared about her Good Works. In fact, today she was clad in what Belle could only consider an unfortunate shade of mouse gray, threadbare pelisse and plain bonnet, a moth-eaten brown fur tippet the only concession to the snow outside on the streets.
Belle turned away from the mirror to study her dear friend. They had met as girls at Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Ladies of Quality, Belle the most popular of the pupils, golden-curled, full of laughter and pranks. Alexandra was quiet, shy, bookish, hard to know. She spent most of her time sitting in the drawing room window seat reading.
And yet Belle was so drawn her, more than any of the other laughing friends who chased around the gardens. It wasn’t just Alex’s beauty—for even at such a young age, she was beautiful, beyond anyone else at Miss Greensley’s. Tall, graceful, slim, self-possessed, even in the wildest of school pranks. They said she took after her rumored French mother. Yet unlike her mother, she was very, very proper at all times.
But she was also sweet. Much sweeter than anyone else Belle knew. And slyly funny, with an infectious little smile. They had been inseparable since their first meeting at school, along with a few other like-minded friends. The Greensley Girls, the twins, Victoria, Faustina, now a notorious courtesan, and even a royal princess.
After that first meeting, much to the astonishment of Miss Greensley and her teachers and pupils, Belle and Alex were fast friends. They roamed the gardens together, sat beside each other in class and chapel, slept in the same dormitory, visited village shops together.
And the friendship went beyond school, beyond Belle’s first Season. They wrote every week. Then, of course, Belle married. Her father could not support her forever. She married Lord Ranstruther, forty years her senior with an odious son older than her, but her father did business with him, and he seemed kind enough. Best of all, he was rich. At least at first. Then he was not so nice at all.
Ah, well, she sighed. At least he was dead these twelve months, and she was out of mourning in time for Christmas. If only Peter, her “son,” would let her alone about her dowry, her lovely new dower house in London. Didn’t she deserve it after all she tolerated?
She rubbed at the scar on her arm, that burn mark, and forced herself to smile at Alex. Alex, darling Alex, had enough to worry about without Belle’s problems on top of it all. And it was not so very bad now! She was free!
“So,” she said again. “What do you think? The blue or the green?”
Alex’s sapphire eyes widened. “They are both vastly pretty, Belle, but they are so—bright.”
Belle laughed. “Darling Alex. My mourning is done! No more black, not even lavender or gray. Perhaps you should wear the green? It would suit you so well.” Even Mugsley, Belle’s pug, barked in agreement.
She held out the gown, a beautiful bright emerald silk and brocade created by the finest modiste in London, and draped it over Alex’s shoulder. It did indeed look beautiful.
Belle glanced in the mirror. She quite paled next to Alex, but she didn’t care at all. Her friend deserved all good things in life—if she would just reach for them. And, after all, Belle wasn’t so bad herself. Her dark brown hair, untouched by silver even at age thirty, was thick and wavy and touched with highlights of auburn, and her heart-shaped face was pale and clear. Her aqua eyes shimmered with new happiness. After those dutiful years with Ranstruther, she deserved a bit of fun. And she would have it, no matter what.
“You should put this gown on and come with me, Alex,” she said, suddenly feeling a tiny bit shy about going alone even if she had planned to for weeks. Ever since that coveted pink card stock arrived, inviting them to join la Sous Rose.
Alex glanced up at her with a worried frown. “Go where exactly?” she asked warily.
“To la Sous Rose. Didn’t you receive the invitation I forwarded, so your father wouldn’t find out?” Belle answered lightly, spinning away to her tulle-draped dressing table. Her maid leaped forward to help her out of her dressing gown and into the blue silk and lace dress. It was quite the most daring thing she had ever owned, created by a secret modiste hidden in quiet Mincing Street. Lace revealed and concealed in equal ways, flowing in graceful panels and draping into elbow-length sleeves dotted with crystals that caught the light and shimmered. She loved it.
Though at first, she had not been completely sure about it. Her husband always made sure she went out in fashionable but very modest gowns, with elbow sleeves and high necks and subdued colors. Not that anyone cared, since she was usually stuck in the countryside where no one could see her. But now she was her own person. She chose her own gowns, she went where she wanted, did what she pleased. Starting now.
Maybe she would even take a lover. She was hardly in her dotage, and she was quite sure from her secret novel-reading that lovemaking had to be more than what Ranstruther did in the dark of their chamber.
She spun around in her new gown, laughing. The blue gown looked like the night itself, shining and shimmering, and the sapphires at her throat and ears glittered.
“Oh, do come, please, Alex darling!” she begged. “You deserve some fun, too. It may be our only chance for a while, with your father’s winter ball coming up. And we’ll be together, safe enough.”
“Oh, Belle…” Alex’s tone was filled with doubt, but also hope. A small smile touched her lips. “What if someone recognizes me?”
“I have wigs, and face paint,” Belle urged. “And it’s a masked ball! We won’t stay long, just a little glimpse. Wouldn’t you like to see Lady X, if she shows up?”
Lady X was the most mysterious woman Town, the owner of the most luxurious club with the most sought after invitations. But no one knew who she was at all. It was quite the on dit.
Alex shifted on her half-boots, clearly wavering. “Well, I—maybe just this once more. For a half-hour anyway. And no dancing or drinking.” She gave a rueful smile. “I also forgot to tell you—I told the duchess I was staying with you for a few days. I can’t even take a bath in my own chamber without my sisters barging in.”
“Of course, Alex dear.” Belle studied herself in the mirror as her maid combed and pinned her own golden hair and adjusted a black wig. Belle reached for her pots of rouge and kohl.
“Patterson, darling, can you help Miss Blessing, too? I doubt she’s ever used rouge. Make sure she is utterly unrecognizable.”
Miss Patterson, who had worked at Covent Garden and had been hired by Belle after she fired the old gorgon of a maid her husband set to spy on her, smiled in satisfaction at the challenge. “Of course, my lady.”
As Patterson helped Alex out of her drab clothes and into the fine green gown, Belle reached for her jewel box to find some emeralds for Alex to wear. As she did, she noticed the two letters propped by the mirror she had tried to ignore. A note from her odious stepson Peter, who was so determined to wring every farthing from her while ogling her all the time. And one fearfully official looking tome from an attorneys’ chamber in Middle Temple or someplace equally awful. It seemed Peter was getting frightfully legal now, the little toad.
She impatiently brushed them into a drawer and locked it, going on with the much more pleasant task of finding jewelry in her box. She was at last going to have a bit of fun. Nothing was going to ruin it. Nothing at all.
It was going to rain, drat it all! Belle glanced up at the sky, so blue when she left Ranstruther Manor, now ominously gray as clouds slid closer. And she had walked farther than she meant to. It was just so nice be away from the manor, that old house so dark and stuffy and dull, to be away from her husband Oliver, Lord Ranstruther, and his querulous, constant demands. Away from Ollie’s son Peter, and the way he constantly watched her with his strangely avid, beady little eyes. Her stepson—when he was older than she was! So hideous.
These rare moments alone, to just breathe some fresh air, read a book, write to her darling friends from Miss Greensley’s—it was heavenly.
But now she would get soaked, which meant more lectures, as if she was a child. She climbed to the top of a small hill, swinging her hat by its ribbons. (No hat, either! Disgraceful, her husband would say). She couldn’t see the manor from there, just fields every which way, a patchwork of gray and dull green bisected by stone walls, the occasional sheep. Just like the countryside—empty and silent and lonely.
But to the other direction she glimpsed the tall chimneys of Beverley Park. The house of their nearest neighbor, William, Lord Deansley. Quite against her will, her heart beat a bit faster at the thought of him. William—Will. So handsome, so full of laughter and fascinating conversation. He wasn’t home very often, of course—what sensible rich, handsome man would be? Yet when he was, when he showed up at a whist party or village assembly or vicarage tea, she felt just like a giddy, giggly schoolgirl again. She felt like the girl she had once been, dreaming with her friends at Miss Greensley’s, filled with romantic hopes.
She felt—yes, as she once had, when all seemed possible, when she was young and silly and pretty, never lonely, always with her dear friends. Until her father lost his fortune, and she had to marry old Ranstruther. She had to forget that girl she once was and all her hopes.
Until she met Will. She well-remembered that assembly, an evening set to be like all such other evenings, the same people, the same conversation, the same lukewarm punch. Then she saw him standing across the room, so tall, so handsome with his waving dark-gold hair, his gilded skin. His head thrown back, laughing, merry, as if he had been dropped from another, brighter, grander world. And when he took her hand to lead her into the dance…
She was in that world, too, for a few minutes.
The first cold droplets of rain landed on her nose, and she ran down the hill toward the gates of Beverley Park. If she dashed across the garden, she could slip onto the boundary of Ranstruther Manor faster than going by the lane. Surely William wasn’t home anyway, he was always off in London or somewhere equally exciting, leading his enviable life of fun. She lifted the muddy hem of her walking dress and ran, past the house, a lovely confection of pale stone and fluted pillars, dodging around Grecian statues and fountains, toward an octagonal summerhouse crowned with a figure of Diana and her bow and arrows. Thunder cracked overhead, and rain poured down harder.
“Lady Ranstruther!” someone shouted, and her stomach gave an excited, terrified lurch at the sound. Surely it wasn’t—it couldn’t be…
She spun around, and saw to her horror it was William. His dark gold hair was almost black in the gray day, plastered to his head, outlining his chiseled features, his silvery-blue, very surprised eyes. His muslin shirt and rough-cut riding coat was plastered to his lean shoulders. He looked more gorgeous than ever. And she surely looked like a drowned rat, right in front of him!
“Lord Deansley,” she gasped. “I…”
“Come on,” he said, and grabbed her hand. His fingers were long, lean, warm, holding her safe. They ran toward the summerhouse, but her thin half-boots slid on the gravel pathway and she cried out as she felt herself falling. William caught her up in his arms, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel the deep echo of his laughter against her, and it made her laugh, too, despite the absurdity of their situation. She was trespassing, they were in the middle of a downpour, he held her tight—just like a dream.
He ran up the shallow stone steps into the summerhouse, the rain drumming at the lead roof. Belle’s hand slid over his shoulder. How had she never noticed how hard and strong he was before, his broad shoulders under the rough wool of his coat, his chest through layers of muslin and brocade all powerful, protective against her. She’d always known he was handsome, of course, with his face like an ancient god, his fascinating silvery eyes—she was a woman, after all, despite her cold life with Ranstruther. But the powerful grace of his body…
Against her better judgment, she traced her palm over his shoulder, touched her fingertips to the damp rough-silk waves of his hair as he eased her to her feet on the stone floor. He certainly was a beautiful man. And as she looked up into his summery eyes, something warm and sweet stirred alight deep inside of her. Something like—life.
“Are you quite all right, Lady Ranstruther?” he asked.
“I—yes, of course, so silly of me! I didn’t expect rain, and I was taking the shorter way home. I had no idea you were at Beverley Park, or I should never have presumed…”
He smiled down at her, sunny, warm, as open as his eyes. Even—could it be admiring? No, no, she reminded herself, she was beyond admiration from men like him. Yet she felt a sudden surge of panic at losing his touch. She didn’t want to let go just yet. She tightened her hand on his shoulder, and for a moment the only sound was their mingled breath, the rain on the roof, the beat of her heart, louder than the thunder.
His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her, and she felt his shoulders stiffen.
“Lady Ranstruther—Annabel,” he said roughly, his eyes darkening.
Throwing all caution to perdition, Belle twined her other arm around him and drew him closer to her.
“I…” she whispered, and it was all she could say. She felt a deep shudder pass through him.
His hands closed hard around her waist and he drew her against him, so close she went up on tiptoe, her soft breasts pressed to his chest.
“Annabel, I can’t—oh, Hades help me,” he groaned hoarsely. And then his mouth was on hers, hot and hungry.
It was nothing at all like her husband’s quick, dry pecks. William kissed her like a man starving, his tongue sliding past her lips to tangle with hers, tasting deeply. She met him eagerly, that flicker of new life inside of her roaring into a consuming flame.
He tasted like mint and rain, of some undefinable, dark something that was only him. She felt dizzy, drunk, as she kissed him back. His hands slid into her hair and he angled her head so his mouth could take hers deeper, and they fit together, their lips and their bodies, as if they were always meant to be that way.
Belle had never imagined anyone could kiss like that, or that a mere kiss could make her want so much. Need so much.
It did make her wonder what else he was good at. Lost in the blurry haze of passion, her hands slid over his shoulders to tug at his loosely-tied cravat. But his fingers suddenly closed over hers, hard and unyielding as he stilled her movements. She moaned, and his head fell back, his lips torn from hers.
“Oh, Belle, no! What am I doing?” he said hoarsely.
It was as if that cold rain poured right over, drowning out that haze of lust. She went very still, staring at her hand wrapped in his. What was she doing? This was William, her neighbor! Her husband’s neighbor. She had never been more shocked at herself.
And yet she couldn’t really be sorry. She had wanted him so very much! When he touched her, she felt alive and young again at last. Alive, happy, free. Even if it was just for a moment, she couldn’t be sorry.
But he looked very sorry indeed. His eyes were so dark, like those rainclouds, in his pale, strained face. His usually laughing, sensual mouth was drawn in a tight line. His hair was tousled over his brow from the touch of her fingers. Instinctively, she reached up to smooth it, but he stepped away from her.
Her hands fell to her side, and she felt achingly hollow inside. The chilly dampness of the rain that she had quite forgotten crept over her again, and she wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and she hardly recognized his voice at all. “I don’t know what came over me. I promise, it won’t happen again. I have such respect for you…”
She almost laughed. Respect! That was the last thing she wanted from him. But she knew he was right. It was all there could be. Her life had ended long ago; he was not for her, nor she for him. She scooped up her dropped hat and ran away as fast as she could. Away from the only happy moment she had enjoyed in so very long—and the last she might ever know.
Belle opened her eyes, shocked to find herself in the shadows of her own carriage and not in a rainswept countryside day, carried up up, up into the sky by the roaring currents of William’s kisses. Sometimes she dreamed of those too-brief moments deep in the night, alone in her bed, yet the memory of William had been haunting her more and more of late. The way his touch felt on her skin, the way he tasted, the glow of his eyes.
It was probably just her new freedom, her new life. Sometimes she felt like a stumbling, confused fawn, despite her age, tottering around a new world, finding out her new place, alone.
Well, she thought with a sigh. Not quite so alone, not with her stepson Peter lurking about too much. She was sure he wanted her townhouse, her dower from the Ranstruther estate. Well, he could just try and take it, she wasn’t letting her home, the only home that had ever been her own, go. She was owed at least that after years of catering to a querulous old husband.
As for William—she had rarely seen him after that rainy day. He was often abroad, or living the merry life in London, gossip of which filtered back to their country village. And probably that was for the best. She would be so embarrassed to face him again, after her wanton behavior in the summerhouse!
The carriage slowed on a turn, and she glanced out the window to see they were almost at the Rose.
La Sous Rose looked like very little from the outside, a respectable-looking pale stone house on a quiet square of other respectable-looking homes, silent as the light flutter of snowflakes from the night sky. The shutters, painted a deep pink just like the double doors, gave the only clue it was slightly different from its black-shuttered neighbors. Lights gleamed from behind the cracks of the shutters, flickering amber candles, and she could hear the faint strains of music.
As her carriage rolled to a halt beneath a columned portico, a scarlet-liveried footman leaped to open her door and help her alight.
“Welcome to la Sous Rose again, madame,” he said. “Everyone else is in the ballroom. Ladies Victoria and Philomena, and Miss Blessing. They are eagerly waiting for you.”
Belle was not at all surprised that he knew her, despite her mask and hooded cloak. The Rose was one of the most exclusive clubs in London, membership by invitation only and requiring ten references. The owner was most mysterious, only showing herself at her own club once or twice a year, always disguised, but she made sure her food and drink were the finest, her musicians the best, her décor the most stylish, and her parties always merry. Belle loved this refuge from the world.
“Thank you,” she said, and hurried up the narrow flight of stone steps, protected from the snow by a carpet runner.
Through those doors it was a different world altogether. A wide foyer, marble-floored, scattered with pink-flowered rugs like summer meadows, were dotted with tall potted palms, groups of chairs and settees upholstered in pink and white striped brocade, perfectly grouped for private conversations. The paintings on the silk-papered walls were of the finest—Rembrandt, Gainsborough, Titian. Tall, gilded stands held silver vases of fragrant roses, cream, pink, red, pure white.
Ahead was a grand staircase, the balustrade carved like more summer vines and flowers, crowds waiting to enter the public rooms above. Enticing music and laughter floated down.
Belle turned left to the ladies’ withdrawing room, to leave her fur-lined cloak with the attendant and make sure her wig was straight, not a glint of blonde hair to give her away (except to her friends, and the Rose’s most perceptive footmen, Smythe, of course!). Just like the outer rooms, it was the last word of luxury, tall windows draped with palest pink satin that matched the settees, gilded dressing tables laid out with silver brushes and tiny baskets of sewing implements, bottles of the finest French perfume, crystal jars of Italian face powder, maids in crisp black dresses waiting to assist.
And it was quiet for the moment, everyone else off dancing, leaving her alone in the flower-scented air, warmed by the pink marble grate in the corner. Belle was very grateful for the moment to compose herself, to forget about Will and all those silly dreams she had when she was young.
She sat down at one of the dressing tables, and examined herself carefully in the mirror. Patterson certainly did know her ladies’ maids business, Belle thought, not a hair was out of place or a dress rumpled. She straightened the curled black wig over her own blonde curls, and tightened the ribbons of her beaded green mask, rubbing in a little more lip rouge and smoothing her emerald and gold dangling earrings.
She fluffed the gold lace edging the bodice of her new deep-green satin and velvet gown. What a relief it was to be out of black! To wear her favorite colors again, green and yellow and pink. To get her jewels out of their boxes again. To live life again! Her husband had been kind enough, but so strict, always wanting her with him. Now she could have her own life.
If not for Peter. She sighed. Oh, Peter. He had never wanted Belle to marry her father; she almost suspected he wanted to wed her himself. And now he seemed to have taken his father’s place in running her life. He even wanted to buy her precious London dower house, the house she had fought and dreamed for so long!
Well, he would not get it. If he would just stop following her about! At least he couldn’t get into la Sous Rose.
“Lady Ranstruther! Annabel! It is you,” a woman cried. “I haven’t seen you at the Rose before.”
Belle glanced in the mirror to see Lady Montsabor, one of her late mother’s best friends, smiling at her. Her gown, yellow, pink, and lime stripes that matched her striped wig, meant it could be no one else.
Belle smiled. “Lady Montsabor! How lovely to see you again.”
“Oh, my dear, call me Louisa, I’ve known you since you were in leading strings.” Louisa sat down at the neighboring dressing table and powdered her considerable bosom. “I take it the worthy old sot Ranstruther has shuffled off this mortal coil?”
Against her will, Belle laughed. “Yes, indeed.”
“And left no children with you, I see. But I hope you are well provided-for, and we will see you often here. Your mother would want me to watch after you!”
Belle sighed. The last thing she needed was anyone “watching over her.” “I am doing quite well, thank you.”
Louisa waved the powder puff around. “I know! You must come to my little Saturday-to-Monday holiday party next week. Nothing too hideously outdoorsy, of course, unless you enjoy shooting, as my inexplicable husband does. Games, food, the best wine, dancing! Do come along.”
“I’m not sure…” Belle murmured. She knew that Will was friends with Louisa’s husband. What if he was there?
“Don’t worry, my dear, just a few friends to help you get into the holiday spirit! I will send you an invitation card tomorrow. Now, shall we find the ballroom?”
Louisa linked arms with Belle and practically dragged her out of the withdrawing room toward the staircase. The air smelled of the piney greenery twined around the balustrade and decorating the railings of the gallery that ran around the top of the staircase, letting the curious see who had just arrived. The crowds on the stairs had thinned, but the ballroom was bursting at the seams of its red-striped damask walls. More red draperies covered the tall walls, keeping out the winter drafts and concealing the terrace that ran outside and was a popular assignation site.
In one corner, an orchestra played for the dancers who were enthusiastically spinning around the parquet floor inlaid with gilded “R”s, to some dance Belle had never seen before, The men and women actually held each other as they spun, amazing!
High overhead with a domed ceiling, painted with a scene of a classical gods’ party, Pan’s pipes, filmy tunics, azure skies, goblets of wine.
Several of the gentlemen not currently dancing eyed her through their quizzing glasses until she felt her cheeks flame under her mask! She had been so young when she wed, just a girl; now she had no idea how to flirt, or who to flirt with.
Louisa leaned close and whispered, “Now there is young Lord Peperham! I have heard tell that he thinks you the most handsome woman in any room, and has been begging me for an introduction. He will be at my little soiree. Why don’t you come, get to know him a bit? He is quite handsome.”
Belle glanced at where Louisa gestured, to a tall man with unpowdered brown hair and dark, night-like eyes. He bowed at her and smiled, his blue taffeta coat shimmering. He was handsome. She could do far, far worse for her first real romance.
And yet—yet that scene with Will in the summerhouse wouldn’t leave her alone!
“I shall think about it,” she said. “You are most kind to invite me last minute.”
“Good, good! Now, there are your friends. I shall leave you to them, and go try my hand at whist.”
She patted Belle’s gloved hand one more time, and hurried off to the game room just beyond the ballroom. Belle stood on the tips of her green velvet shoes until she glimpsed WHO in the corner, gathered around a Renaissance painting of Judith hacking off Holofornes’s head. It seemed appropriate. She snapped open her fan, a new Parisian creation, and went to join them.
It had been so long since they had seen each other, there was much laughter and exclaiming, many compliments over each other’s gowns and coiffures, and especially over Victoria’s new diamond pendant. She always had the finest jewels.
But the most giggles were to be had as they watched a tall, scarecrow-thin young man leap and lunge with Alex across the dance floor. Alex was quite out of breath when she rejoined them.
“Goodness, your partner was energetic.” Belle laughed as she wielded her ivory, gilded carved fan, painted with a charming variation of Paris among the goddesses. “Who was he? And you do look—glowy, Alex dear. Would you like to borrow my fan?”
“The saints only know,” Alex said, shuddering. “I’m dizzy from all that unnecessary enthusiasm. What the devil was that?”
Lady Philomena Staunton, who always knew everything, laughed. “I’ve read about it. It’s called The Waltz. From Vienna. It’s quite scandalous. I daresay, ’tis one dance we aren’t likely to ever see in the royal ballrooms.”
“I should hope not,” Alex said. “I don’t care much for some profligate’s hands on me.”
Belle gasped. “He actually touched you?”
“What? Don’t tell me, it wouldn’t bother you! Just make sure he wears his gloves, or his hands will leave stains on your gown. That one over there is a sweater, I vow.” The hair at Alex’s neck raised, she started to turn.
Belle grabbed her hand. Running for Alex could only mean one thing. “Don’t,” she whispered. “You are not alone. We are all here.”
Lady Thomasina closed in as well. Seconds later, their other friend, Elizabeth also surrounded her.
Victoria who never hurried, was suddenly there, a new emerald comb glowing in her auburn hair. “I vow I just saw the Duke of Winsome walk in.”
Alex stiffened. “Oh, no. I’ll never be allowed out of the house again if he finds me.”
“Don’t worry, darling. We shall not let him near you.” Belle frowned as she studied the crowd. “We just need to find the retiring rooms. We’ll all stay together.”
“It won’t work,” Thomasina said. “Not subtle enough. Not only is six women leaving the vicinity at once conspicuous, but Alex is the tallest one and will draw every eye in the place.”
“She’s right,” Belle said. “Oh, why can’t plans be simple?” She held tight to Alex’s gloved hand.
“Ladies,” a rich voice said. Was that—amusement in his tone? “Are you in need of assistance? Perhaps I may be of help.”
All of them froze at the sound.
The man standing before them was over six feet in height and Belle felt Alex’s fingers trembling.
“You wish to dance?” There was a slightly mocking, cynicism emanating from him. He looked straight at Alex.
Alex slipped away from Belle and dipped a deep curtsy. “I was hoping for an escort up the stairs.” She tuned out the five gasps around her. “To the gaming rooms,” she clarified.
Belle shifted. “I’m not sure that’s wise—” she started. “But...brava, my friend.”
Thomasina, Philomena, Victoria, and Elizabeth’s heads bobbed like pigeons pecking jerkily. Alex had always been the one who’d maintained her coolness in any situation.
“Al—” again Belle started.
“—tout est bien,” Alex continued in French.
Belle’s lips tightened, but she refrained from saying more. Alex deserved some fun.
Alex stepped forward, taking this unwitting hero’s arm in a coquettish hold. “Je te verrai dans une minute,” I’ll see you in a minute, she said in French to her friends.
“Well,” Philomena murmured. “That was, er, interesting.”
“You never know what could happen at the Rose,” Victoria said, toying with her emerald clip. “But you never expect it to happen to Alex. Fascinating. Who do you think that man is? He’s like something in a Minerva Press novel. Let’s get some champagne, and some of that scrummy lobster tart. Dancing is hungry business.”
“Indeed it is,” Belle said, “and I think I might work up an appetite on the dance floor myself. Isn’t that Paul Smith-Wright over there? He’s a good waltzer.” She waved a gloved hand at the young man, and he immediately swung her onto the floor, into the midst of the dancers. He wasn’t who she truly wanted, but he was nice enough, and would do for a turn on the floor.
Then she suddenly froze as Paul spun her around again, and she glimpsed the newest arrival at the ballroom door. A tall, lean figure in plain but perfectly tailored black evening dress, unpowdered dark hair, bowing over their fluttering hostess’s gloved hand. Will—at a ball!
As the crowd around the dance floor saw him, a wave of whispered speculation went up like a hot air balloon; everyone was as surprised, as curious, as Belle herself. Lord Deansley seldom appeared at Society parties now, and never balls Yet here he was, now, tonight. Looking right at her.
She realized that she was also an object of sudden interest, of speculative glances over fans and wine glasses. The new widow. She knew she had to keep smiling, keep her cool-headed wits about her.
“How astonishing,” Paul said tightly. “Who would have thought he could tear himself away from his fireside for an entire evening?”
“He does more than read by the fire, I’m sure! He sometimes fished and went shooting with my husband, and loves to ride.” (And, oh, how beautifully he rode, like a centaur! She loved to ride behind him on the hunt, and admire his fine—seat). Belle watched Will as he made his way through the room, answering greetings, bowing, nodding. He looked solemn, but not uncomfortable.
The dance ended, and Paul led her to the row of gilt chairs along the yellow silk wall before he left to find a fresh glass of champagne. She whipped open her fan, but it was not distraction enough when she turned and found Will standing before her.
He bowed, his expression watchful, wary, though a polite smile touched his lips. That tiny dimple she had once loved, so rarely seen, peeked in his sun-gold cheek. He smelled lovely, of sea-salt soap, lemons, and warmth. Belle waved her hand faster, trying not to think of rainy summerhouses.
“May I have this dance?” he said, his tone something of a challenge.
Belle glanced around uncertainly. Everyone seemed most interested in their little scene, though they pretended not to be; even Paul, starting back toward her with glasses in hand, watched her as if he was in a theater. Her friends had vanished into the gaming rooms. She sighed.
“Yes, very well,” she said. “Why not?” There were so many people around; what could really happen? She had kept her calm under much more trying moments. She rose and took his offered arm, trying to pretend he was merely one of her many admirers, her casual dance partners, but her heart would not be fooled. It pounded and stuttered beneath her silk bodice, until she feared she might faint. And that would be a good gossip.
It was a waltz again. As the lilting music began, she slid her hand onto his, glove over glove, and stepped closer into the circle of his protective arm. She knew at once it was a great mistake. They stood the proper distance apart, surrounded by other couples, but she could know, feel, only him. The familiar thrill of his touch, the intent way he looked down at her, the way their bodies moved together in the circling steps, as they always had.
As they flowed and swayed and turned to the music, Rose was struck by how very easy it all was, as if they had danced together only yesterday. His touch, the way he moved, the way he held her fingers lightly on his palm, the dark glow of his eyes. They moved together so perfectly, so instinctively, their steps entwining, spinning, back, forward.
“You have caused a stir, Will,” she said, staring at his waistcoat, the antique cameo stick-pin in his cravat, rather than looking up into those eyes. Perhaps she was afraid of what she might read there in his gaze. The memories that would drown her. “Attending a ball, imagine that!”
He laughed, rueful and teasing and merry all at once. “I cannot become predictable. That would be too dull.”
They spun again, her train wrapping around them and swirling free. “Predictable” was one thing Belle had never considered Will. “But surely you wouldn’t want gossip?”
He shook his head. “I never hear gossip, you know that. Too dull.”
“I seldom hear it, either. Even in the middle of parties. There are far more interesting things to think about.” Like the way hair curled over his ears, the way his smile was crooked at the corner…
“Very wide, I am sure.” They turned again, a double spin that made her giggle and hold onto him tighter. “Oh, Will! Do slow down a bit, you’re making me quite giddy.”
“We can’t have you feeling faint,” he said teasingly. He spun her a halt near the half-open terrace doors, her pinks skirts swaying, the cool breeze catching at her hair. “Shall we take a stroll, a breath of fresh air?”
Belle glanced out the doors to the beckoning night, the lanterns strung along the marble balustrade. She remembered too well that other terrace, in the summerhouse, when she had been that other Belle. When they kissed, so giddy with the bubbling, joyful knowledge that they would be together always, that the future stretched before them in blue skies and sunshine, love and family. All the old demons would be banished.
How little she had known then, how young and blind. If she had known what was really ahead…
Would she have done anything different? She wasn’t so sure.
She sensed eyes watching them, and she suddenly needed to escape. She nodded, and drew away from Will’s arms to slip outside.
She hurried to the far, shadowed end of the terrace. More lanterns were strung in the winter-garden beyond, making the fallow flowerbeds and lawns shimmer, the leaves tosses in the wind and the snow making shadows on the couples who slipped past, giggling softly. The air smelled fresh for London, the breeze sweeping through, catching on flowers that were twined along the balustrade and arranged in stone vases, sending their scent toward the terrace.
Belle spun around, her brocade train twining at her legs, and found Jamie watching her, very still, very intense. It made her shiver.
“Why did you really come here tonight, Will?” she said.
A frown touched the corner of his lips. “To see you, of course, Belle. And a rare invitation to la Sous Rose shouldn’t be turned down.”
“Why? If you wish to see me, you need only call.” And be spied on by the blasted Peter. Will took a step closer, another step, the soft wool of his sleeve brushing her bare arm. She was surrounded by that salt-soap-sea smell of him.
Belle stared up at him mesmerized.
“Because I—I care about you, Belle,” he said, so simply. So very complicated. “I have for a long time.”
Belle stared at him in the heavy night-silence that fell around them. Even the music from the ballroom seemed hazy, distant, as if she heard it from underwater. Indeed, she felt as if she had tumbled down cold waves, closing over her head. She’d thought she could manage anything that came her way now, that this new Belle was a woman of the world.
She could not. Will cared about her!
“You—what?” she choked out.
His hand rose toward her and dropped again, and he shook his head. He looked as if he, too, could hardly believe what he was saying. “I care about you, and I miss you, Belle. Talking with you, dancing, riding...”
“I also miss you. But you know our time, if we ever had it, is gone.”
“I was a fool, a blind, stumbling fool. But in these months on my own, I’ve learned so much.”
For one mad, whirling moment, she longed to believe him. She had to guard her heart now.
She turned to look out over the garden. A couple kissed in the shadow of a tree, the lantern above them swaying, the silver moon watching it all. “That was gone so long ago.”
“Perhaps it might not be.”
Belle shivered, and she heard a rustle, felt a warmth settle all around her as he laid his evening coat over her bare shoulders. “Will…” she protested.
“You are cold,” he said simply. “It’s just a coat, for a moment.”
Belle swallowed hard, and nodded. She remembered all the time she had done just that very thing, wrapping her in his coat as they sat on their terrace, watching the night, talking about poetry and plays. “We are different people now. We’ve made new lives.”
“And I don’t want to take anything away from you.”
Belle studied him carefully in the half-light, trying to read his thoughts, his feelings. Yet he was still as much a mystery to her as ever. His handsome face could have been carved by a classical master, displayed in a museum. Things had not happened at all as she expected, dreamed. She hadn’t become the person she expected.
He leaned his palms on the stone balustrade next to her, so very close, and gave her that slow, teasing smile she had once admired so very much. The smile that once made her feel such a throbbing tingle down to her very toes.
No longer, of course. His smile had no effect on her now.
Well, not very much. Only for a moment, only until she thought she would giggle and blush like that old Belle who was… just like…
Oh, blast him!
She turned sharply away, staring out into the night.
“That girl was not so long ago,” he said, his arm brushing against hers, his voice low and rough, enticing. “What did she want?”
Belle thought hard, forcing herself to open doors she had slammed and locked so long ago. To walk those deserted corridors. She had now taught herself to live in the real world, the bright, brittle place where that old, shy, tender Belle had no place.
“I suppose she wanted what we all want,” she said slowly. “To be respected for herself.”
But it was not the whole truth. Deep in her most secret heart, she had longed to be loved. Adored. She knew now how silly that was.
“I suppose she wanted a loving marriage,” Belle said. “A real family. And—and…”
And that bright, delicate dream had been horribly shattered.
“Oh, Belle.” He touched her hand, gently. “You have always had that from me. You were—are—like no one else I have ever known. Just because I have been a fool, that can never erase you.”
She felt the horrible prickle of tears at her eyes, and she turned her head to dash at them with the back of her hand. She would not cry, not now! She was done with tears, so long ago. And she definitely couldn’t let Will see her cry.
“What does this Belle want?” he said. “Right now?”
She drew in a ragged breath. “Respect, still, I suppose. Peace. And time.”
“Time?”
“Time to know herself. To think carefully. The old Belle never had that. But this Belle knows that it is essential.” The old Belle had thought she knew so much, knew everything. She’d been young and dreamy.
She looked at him, and she couldn’t help but smile. William, young and slightly baffled, his hair tousled by the wind. “Oh, Will. Of course there has not been time. I’ve barely come to realize—certain things. A few tiny things.”
“What sorts of things?” he asked, his tone deeply interested.
Things like—she was stronger than she once imagined. Her life was worth living in peace. Love should not hurt. And that everything was so very, very confusing.
“Things such as being able to rely on myself, of course,” she said. “Learning to see the world as it is, not as I wish it would be, and making my way through it all. Learning—learning not to feel pain, or cause it, any longer.”
“Belle. Oh, Belle, my dear.” He gently, slowly took her into his arms. She stiffened for an instant, afraid she would cry, would cling to him, but she relaxed into his warm strength for a moment, letting herself be absorbed with him. “I never want to give you an instant of pain.”
Belle ached at his words, the very words she had once longed for so much. She shook her head.
“Give me a bit of that time, Belle, and I will show you,” he whispered.
He lowered his head, slowly, so slowly, as she stared up mesmerized by his silvery eyes, those eyes she knew so well, had once utterly lost everything in…
At last, his lips touched hers. Slow, soft, almost gentle, as he brushed his mouth back and forth over hers, pressing little, questing kisses to her lower lips. Those slow caresses, though, the kisses she had always loved so much from Will, ignited something deep inside of her, some need she had thought she buried. She curled her hands into his coat and pulled him closer.
He groaned deeply, his tongue twined with hers, his arms around her. She could sense, though, that tension of his lean body, that holding back after all that had happened between them.
But Belle feared she did not want him away from her! She craved what they once had, craved him. Even though she was quite sure this was a terrible idea, she couldn’t stop herself.
His lips slid from hers, along her cheek, that tiny, sensitive spot that always made her shiver, as he well knew. She gasped, and sought his lips again.
Barely had their lips touched when something did break through her delightful haze—they were on the club’s terrace!
Belle stumbled back, all her hard-won stillness and peace, that sparkling shell she built so carefully, piece by piece, starting to crack. She couldn’t let it. She wouldn’t let herself be vulnerable again.
“I must go,” she gasped. She handed back his coat, and all the chill of the night, of the whole world, rushed at her again. She dared not stay a moment longer, or the old Belle, the Belle who craved Jamie’s love so very much, might surface again. She spun around and rushed toward the glass doors, toward the lights and music and blessed distraction of the ball.
“Belle!” he called, but she didn’t look back. She had to keep moving forward, ever forward, no matter what.
He was the biggest damnable fool that ever lived.
Will made his way down the terrace steps to the shadowed, lantern-shaded garden, avoiding the people who strolled there. He doubted he could make any sort of light conversation at the moment. His mind was all in pieces.
He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving the waves disordered. He had kissed Belle. Belle! The woman who had haunted his dreams for so many months, the woman he had stupidly lost. The woman he had loved ever since he saw her coming down the country church aisle on her father’s arm, swathed in white silk and tulle like an angel—to marry old Ranstruther.
Yet she had tasted as sweet as ever, as intoxicating as on their one and only kiss at the summerhouse. And something deep inside of him, something he thought died when she left him, had burst back to fiery life. Powerful and primitive and wonderful.
He kicked at a stone in the pathway with a muttered curse. When he touched her, kissed her, he hadn’t been thinking at all—that burning lust he had always felt for Rose completely took over, and he had to taste her. And then—oh, glorious, awful moment—she kissed him back.
What was the right thing to do now? How could he ever hope to win her back? Did he dare even think such a thing was possible? He had to dare. It was the most important chance he had ever had in his life.
“Lord Deansley? Oh, it is you, such luck.”
A voice called merrily behind him, and he pasted on a smile, hoping his lovelorn silliness was not on display, and turned to see Lady Montsabor sailing toward him like a frigate in a gown of white velvet swagged with ivy and flowers and ropes of pearls. She was one of Society’s great hostesses, and he had mostly been able to avoid her bacchanalian parties until now. But she did look determined now.
“How long you have been gone from our shores. Where was it? Capri? Malta?”
Will bowed low. “Egypt, Lady Montsabor.”
“Egypt!” she cried. “How wondrous. I have to say though, I’m glad to have you back just in time for the festive season. In fact, I am having a wee house party to celebrate, you must come. Nothing too grand, just a lovely old-fashioned Christmas.”
Will opened his mouth to refuse, but she smiled and said, “So many interesting people will be there. Like Lady Ranstruther! Poor thing, she does need a wee bit of fun. It will be just like the olden days, carols, plum pudding, bobbing for apples. Mistletoe in every doorway, because one never knows who we might meet underneath, eh? Do come!”
Belle—under the mistletoe. Her eyes wide, her lips parted, just like in the summerhouse. He was much too tempted. “I would be honored, Lady Montsabor, thank you.”
“Louisa, please,” she said, beaming. “I will send you an invitation very soon…”