Dancing At Midnight

Chapter 8

Belle lay propped up in bed, thumbing through the collection of Wordsworth's poetry she had never gotten around to reading that afternoon. She found herself squinting slightly more than normal, so she leaned over to her bedside table and lit another candle. As soon as she had herself settled again, a knock sounded on the door. "Come in."

Emma burst into the room, her violet eyes flushed with excitement. "Sophie's having her baby!" she exclaimed. "Three weeks early! A messenger just arrived with her husband's note." "That's wonderful," Belle breathed. "Isn't it?" "Oh, yes! It's not good for a baby to be early, but three weeks isn't much, and Oliver wrote that Sophie might have miscounted anyway." 'Will you and Alex leave in the morning?" "First thing. I wanted to leave right away, but Alex would have none of that."

"He's right, you know. The roads are very dangerous at night."

"I know," Emma replied with a disappointed expression. "But I wanted to let you know tonight in case you wanted to accompany us. Or if you didn't, just to tell you our plans because we're sure to be gone before you wake up in the morning."

"I think that I will not go with you," Belle said slowly, measuring her words carefully as she spoke. She had been looking forward to the fair all evening, and she was- loathe to give up her outing with John. Especially now that they would be alone. "I don't imagine that Sophie will want a houseful of guests while she's giving birth. I'll visit once the babe is a bit older."

"All right, then, I'll send your regards." Emma frowned. "Although I'm not certain if I should leave you alone here. I don't think it's proper."

"Alone?" Belle asked disbelievingly. "There are over a hundred servants."

"Not quite a hundred," Emma corrected. "And I did promise your mother I'd be a good chaper-one."

"I cannot imagine what brand of insanity must have taken hold of my mother when she thought that you would be a proper chaperone."

"You do know more about society," Emma hedged. "If you think that there won't be any sort of uproar-"

"I know that there won't. This isn't London, after all. I doubt that anyone will even hear of my being alone. And if they did, it wouldn't create much fuss with a hundred servants standing guard over me."

"All right," Emma agreed finally. "Just don't invite Lord Blackwood over, please. I'd not want word to get out that you were spending time together unchaperoned."

Belle snorted. "That's an about-face after your machinations this afternoon."

"That was different," Emma replied defensively. Still, she had the grace at least to blush. "And don't tell me that you didn't appreciate my so-called machinations. I can see the way you look at him."

Belle sighed and snuggled down into her quilts. "I don't deny it."

Emma leaned forward, intensely interested. "Are you in love with him?"

"I don't know. How can one tell?"

Emma thought for a moment before answering. "One just somehow knows. It creeps up on a person. The poets write of love at first sight, but I don't think it happens like that."

Belle's smile was wistful. "Only in romantic novels, I suppose."

"Yes." Emma suddenly straightened. "I'd best be getting off to bed. I want to make an early start tomorrow."

"Have a safe trip," Belle called out.

"We will. Oh, and please offer our apologies to Lord Blackwood tomorrow as we won't be able to attend the fair with you. Although I imagine you'll enjoy it better without us."

"I'm sure we will."

Emma made a face. "Just don't invite him back here afterwards. And whatever you do, don't go over to Bellamy Park alone."

"I don't think that's what it's called."

"What is the name?"

Belle sighed. "I can't remember. Something with a 'B.'"

"Well, whatever it's called, don't go there. Your mother would have my head."

Belle nodded and blew out the candles as Emma exited the room.

Shortly after noon the next day, John set out toward Westonbirt, reminding himself for the hundredth time that he was going to have to put an end to this infatuation with Belle. It was getting so damned hard to push her away. She seemed to have so much faith in him that he had almost been able to believe he deserved the happiness she offered.

But dreams had a funny way of working themselves into everyday life, and John couldn't shake the image of Belle lying on that bed in Spain, her body ravaged and used.

He couldn't be with her. He knew this now more than ever. He'd tell her today. He swore to himself that he would do it, no matter how painful the task. He'd do it… after the fair. One more blissful afternoon surely couldn't hurt.

On horseback it took only fifteen minutes to reach Westonbirt. John left his powerful stallion in the stables, walked up the front steps, and lifted his hand to knock.

Norwood opened the door before his knuckles even connected with the wood. "How do you do, my lord," he intoned. "Lady Arabella is waiting for you in the yellow salon."

"No, I'm not," Belle chirped, popping out of one of the many rooms which bordered the great hall. "Hello, John. I know I'm supposed to wait dutifully for you in the salon, but I was too impatient. You'll never guess what happened."

"I'm sure I won't."

"Alex and Emma had to rush off at the crack of dawn. Alex's sister is having her baby."

"Congratulations," John said automatically. "Does that mean that our outing is canceled?"

"Of course not." Hadn't he noticed that she was dressed in her best riding habit? "I see no reason why the two of us cannot have a lovely time by ourselves."

John smiled at her artless words but privately thought that he was treading dangerous waters, indeed. "As you wish, my lady."

The couple rode out in companionable silence, enjoying the brisk breezes of the autumn weather. The fair was actually located closer to John's home than to Westonbirt, so they crossed over the border between the two properties and rode past Bletchford Manor on their way. As they passed the stately old home, John commented, as he always did, "Damn, but I've got to come up with another name for this place."

"I heartily agree," Belle replied. "Brimstone Park conjures up images of hellfire and the like."

John shot her an odd look. "It isn't called Brimstone Park."

"It isn't? Oh, of course it isn't. I knew that." Belle smiled weakly. "What is it called again?"

"Bletchford Manor," John replied, wincing as he said the name.

"Good gracious, thaf s even worse. At least Brimstone Park had some character to it. And 'bletch' rhymes with 'retch,' which conjures up images even more unfortunate than hellfire."

"Believe me, I am well aware of all of the unpleasant aspects of the present name."

"Don't worry, we'll come up with something." Belle patted John comfortingly on his forearm. "Just give me a little time. I'm quite clever with words."

They reached the fairgrounds, and Belle's attention was immediately diverted by a man on stilts a few yards away from them. They were soon swept up into the rhythm of the fair.

"I've always wondered how they do that," Belle pondered as they stopped before a brightly dressed juggler.

"I imagine it's just a matter of throwing the balls up in the air with the right timing."

Belle elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't be such a spoilsport. You take the magic out of everything. Oh, look at those ribbons!" Letting go of John's hand, she hurried over to the ribbon-seller and inspected his wares. By the time John caught up with her, she already had two ribbons in hand and was deciding between them. "Which do you prefer, John? This?" She held a pink ribbon up against her hair. "Or this?" she asked, replacing the pink ribbon with a red one.

John crossed his arms and pretended to give the matter ample thought before reaching out and plucking a bright blue one off the table. "I prefer this one. It is the exact color of your eyes."

Belle looked over at him, caught the warm caress of his gaze, and simply melted. "Then I must have the blue one," she said softly.

They stood there locked into place by each other's stare until the ribbon-seller destroyed the moment with a loud, "A-hem!" Belle tore her eyes away from John and reached down into her reticule, but before she could retrieve any coins, John had paid for the ribbon and placed it in her hands.

"A present, my lady." He leaned over and kissed her hand.

Belle felt the warmth of his kiss travel up her arm straight to her soul. "I shall treasure it always."

The romance of the moment was overpowering. "Are you hungry?" John asked suddenly, desperate to turn the conversation over to more mundane matters.

"Famished."

John led her over to the food stalls where they bought spinach pies and strawberry tarts. Plates in hand, they wended their way to a quiet spot on the outskirts of the fair. John laid his coat down on the ground, and they sat on it and ravenously attacked their food.

"You owe me a poem," Belle reminded him between bites of her pie.

John sighed. "So I do."

"You haven't even tried, have you?" Belle accused.

"Of course I have. I just haven't finished what I started."

"Then tell me what you have now."

"I don't know," he hedged. "A true poet wouldn't release his work until he was certain it was finished."

"Pleeeeeeease!" she begged, her face contorting into an expression that would have been more at home on a five-year-old.

John couldn't hold out against such unrestrained begging. "Oh, all right. How about this?

'She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all thaf s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.' "

"Oh, John," Belle sighed deliriously. "That was lovely. It made me feel so beautiful."

"You are beautiful."

"Thank you," Belle said automatically. "But looking beautiful isn't, I think, as important as feeling beautiful, and that's why your poem touched me so deeply. It was so romantic. It was-wait a minute." She sat upright, her brow furrowed in thought.

John suddenly focused all of his attention on the spinach pie in his hands.

"I've heard that before," Belle continued. "I think I've read it. Quite recently."

"Can't imagine how," John murmured, all the while knowing he was well and truly sunk.

"Lord Byron wrote that! I cannot believe you tried to pass off Lord Byron's poetry as your own!"

"You did back me into a bit of a corner."

"I know, but that's no excuse for outright plagiarism. And here I was, thinking you'd written such beautiful words just for me. Imagine my disappointment."

"Imagine my disappointment," John muttered. "I was certain you wouldn't have read it yet. It was only published last year."

"I had to get my brother to buy it for me. They don't sell Lord Byron's work in the ladies' bookshop. Too racy, they say."

"You are too inventive by half," John grumbled, leaning back and resting on his elbows. "If you had stayed in your ladies' bookshop where you belong, I wouldn't be in this mess."

"I don't regret one whit of it," Belle said archly. "It seemed quite silly to me that I wasn't allowed to read what all of society was whispering about, and only because I'm an unmarried female."

"Get yourself married," he suggested jokingly, "and then you can do whatever you want."

Belle leaned forward, excitement glittering in her eyes. "Lord Blackwood, that wouldn't be a proposal now, would it?"

John paled. "Now you've reallybacked me into a corner."

Belle sat back, trying to hide her disappointment. She didn't know what had possessed her to speak so outrageously, and she certainly had no idea how she had expected him to react. Still, accusing her of backing him into a corner was definitely not what she'd been hoping for. "I still think you should write a poem," she finally said, hoping her jaunty tone covered the sadness she wasn't able to keep out of her eyes.

John pretended to give the matter great thought. "How about this one?" he asked with an impish smile.

"There is nothing more dear to my heart

Than a woman who's covered with strawberry tart."

Belle made a face. "That was dreadful."

"Did you think so? I thought it most romantic, indeed, considering that you've got strawberry tart on your face."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. Right here." John extended his finger and lightly touched the corner of her mouth. He lingered for a moment, wanting to trace the outline of her lips, but he pulled away quite suddenly, almost as if burned. He was getting too close to temptation. She had only to sit across from him at a makeshift picnic, and his entire body came alive.

Belle's hand flew up to her face, instinctively touching the spot where he had just touched her. Funny how her skin still tingled. Stranger still how the sensation was slowly spreading through the rest of her body. She looked over at John, who was gazing at her hungrily, his dark eyes smoldering with unfulfilled desire. "There-there are so many people about, my lord," she finally stammered.

John could tell she was nervous. She never would have reverted to her automatic use of the title "my lord" otherwise. He drew back, shuttering his gaze, aware that it was his unconcealed hunger which was making her so ill-at-ease. He took several deep breaths, willing himself to cease this insane desire. His body refused, unwilling to ignore the ravishingly beautiful woman seated not three feet away from him.

John cursed under his breath. This was crazy. Utter madness. He was romancing a woman with whom he couldn't hope for a future. He heard his older brother Damien's voice pounding in his head. "You are not a titled gentleman: You are not a titled gentleman." John bit back a wry smile. Funny how life turned out. He'd won himself a title, but his soul was black as sin.

"John?" Belle asked softly. "Is something wrong? You're so quiet."

He looked up and caught the concern in her eyes. "No, just thinking, that's all."

"About what?"

"About you," he replied starkly.

"Good thoughts, I hope," Belle said, nervous at the dark tone of his voice.

John rose to his feet and offered her his hand. "Come, let's go for a walk in the woods while the sun is still shining. We'll lead the horses behind us."

Belle rose wordlessly and followed him to where they had left their mounts. They set off slowly on foot, heading back through the trees toward Westonbirt and Bletchford Manor. The horses followed obediently behind, occasionally stopping to investigate one of the many small creatures which darted through the forest.

After about fifteen minutes of ominous silence, John stopped short. "Belle, we need to talk."

"We do?"

"Yes, this-" John fought to find the correct word but came up empty-handed. "This thing that is going on between us-it has to end."

A deep, dark pain slowly formed in the pit of Belle's stomach and began to spread. "Why?" she asked softly.

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "It can't go anywhere. You must realize that."

"No," she said sharply, her pain making her brave and just a little bit shrill. "No, I don't realize that."

"Belle, I haven't any money, my leg is useless, and I've barely got a title."

"Why do you say that? Those things don't matter to me."

"Belle, you could have any man in the world."

"But I want you."

Her impassioned reply hung in the air for a long minute before John was able to say anything. "I'm doing this for your own good."

Belle stepped back, nearly blinded by pain and fury. His words rained down on her like physical blows, and she hysterically wondered if she'd ever again know a moment of happiness. "How dare you condescend to me," she finally bit out.

"Belle, I don't think that you've given this matter sufficient thought. Your parents would never let you marry the likes of me."

"You don't know my parents. You don't know what they want for me."

"Belle, you are the daughter of an earl."

"And as I've pointed out before, you are the son of an earl, so I fail to see a problem."

"There is a world of difference, and you know it." He knew he was grasping at straws. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

"What do you want, John?" she asked wildly. "Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is about? Because I won't do it. Is this some kind of perverse search for a compliment? Do you want me to spell out all of the reasons I wanted you? All of the reasons I thought you were so kind and noble and good?"

John winced at her pointed use of the past tense. "I am trying to be noble right now," he said stiffly.

"No, you're not. You're trying to be a martyr, and I hope you're enjoying yourself, because I most certainly am not."

"Belle, listen to me," he implored. "I am-I am not the man you think I am."

The hoarse agony of his voice shocked Belle into silence, and she stared at him openmouthed.

"I've… done things," he said stiffly, turning away so that he would not have to look at her face. "I've hurt people. I've hurt… I've hurt women."

"1 don't believe you." Her words came out low and fast.

"Damn it, Belle!" He whirled around and slammed his fist against the trunk of a tree. "What will it take to convince you? What do you need to know? The very blackest secrets of my heart? The deeds that have stained my soul?"

She took a step back. "I-I don't know what you're saying. I don't think you know what you're saying."

"I'll hurt you, Belle. I'll hurt you without intending to. I'll hurt you-Christ, isn't it enough just that I'll hurt you?"

"You won't hurt me," she said softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking I'm a hero, Belle. I'm not-"

"I don't think you're a hero," she cut in. "I don't want you to be a hero."

"God," he said with a dark, sarcastic laugh. "That's the first realistic thing you've said all day."

She stiffened. "Don't be cruel, John."

"Belle," he said raggedly. "I have limits. Don't push me past them."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" she asked irritably.

He grabbed her by the shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into her. Dear Lord, she was so close, he could smell her. He could feel the soft strands of her hair that the wind was whipping against his face. "It means," he said in a low voice, "that it is taking every ounce of my control not to lean forward and kiss you right now."

"Then why don't you do it?" she asked, her voice a quavering whisper. "I wouldn't stop you."

"Because I wouldn't stop there. I'd trail my lips down the soft length of your throat until I reached those annoying little buttons on your riding habit. And then I'd slowly slip each one apart and spread your jacket open." Dear God, was he tryingto torture himself? "You're wearing some silky little underthing, aren't you?"

Much to her horror, Belle nodded.

John shuddered as waves of desire rocked through his body. "I love the feel of silk," he murmured. "And you do, too."

"H-how do you know?"

"I was watching you when you got that blister on your heel. I saw you roll off your stocking."

Belle gasped, shocked that he'd been spying on her, yet still strangely aroused by the notion.

"Do you know what I'd do?" John asked huskily, his eyes never leaving hers.

Mutely, she shook her head.

"I'd lean down and kiss you through the silk. I'd take your dusky nipple into my mouth and suck it until it was a hard little bud. And then when that wasn't enough, I'd slide your silky little underthing up along your skin until your breasts were free and exposed, and then I'd lean down and do it all over again."

Belle didn't move a muscle, absolutely rooted to the spot by the sensual onslaught of his words. "Then what would you do?" she whispered, acutely aware of the heat of his hands on her shoulders.

"You want to punish me, don't you?" John asked harshly, tightening his grip on her. "But since you asked… I'd slowly peel off every article of your clothing until you were gloriously naked in my arms. And then I'd start kissing you, every damned inch, until you were quivering with desire."

Somewhere in the back of Belle's passion-hazed mind, she dimly registered that she was already quivering.

"And then I'd lay you down and cover your body with my own, pressing you down against the ground. And then I'd enter you oh-so-slowly, savoring each second as I made you mine." John's voice broke off, his breath ragged as an image of Belle with her long legs wrapped around him floated through his brain. "What do you say to that?

Belle ignored his crude question, her body flooded with the sensual images he had planted there. She was on fire, and she wanted him, in every way. It was now or never, she knew that, and she was terrified that she'd lose him completely. "I still wouldn't stop you," she whispered.

Disbelief and desire crashed through John's body until he rudely pushed her away from him, knowing full well that he'd be unable to resist temptation if he remained touching her one moment longer. "For God's sake, Belle, do you know what you're saying? Do you?" He raked his hand through his hair, taking deep breaths as he tried to ignore the painful hardness of his body.

"Yes, I know what I'm saying," Belle cried out. "You just won't listen."

"You don't know who I am. You've built up some romantic image of the poor, wounded, war-hero. Wouldn't it be a lark to be married to a real-life gothic hero? Well, I have news for you, my lady, that's not me. And after a few months, you'd realize that I'm no hero, and it isn't much of a lark being married to a lame pauper."

Rage unlike anything Belle had ever known poured through her, and she launched herself at him, beating her fists mercilessly against his chest. "You bastard!" she cried out. "You supercilious bastard. How dare you tell me I don't know my own mind? Do you think me so stupid that I can't see who you really are? You keep saying you've done something bad, but I don't believe you. I think you're making it up just to push me away."

"Oh, God, Belle," he said hoarsely. "It's not that. It's-"

"Do you think it matters to me that your leg is injured? Do you think I care that your title is not centuries old? I wouldn't care if you hadn't one at all!"

"Belle," John said in a placating voice.

"Stop! Don't say any more. You're making me sick! You accuse me of being spoiled, but it is you who are the snob. You're so obsessed with titles and money and social position that you won't allow yourself to reach out for the one thing you really want!"

"Belle, we've barely known each other for a week. I fail to see how you could have decided that I was the right man for you." But even as John spoke the words, he knew he was lying, for he had already reached the same conclusion about her.

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself," Belle said harshly, wanting to wound him as he had done to her.

"I deserved that, I know, but you'll soon realize that I've done the right thing. Maybe not tomorrow, but once you get over your anger, you'll know."

Belle turned her head away, not wanting to let him see her brush away a tear. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and it was several moments before she was able to still her heaving shoulders. "You're wrong," she said softly, turning back around to face him with accusing eyes. "You're wrong. I'll never realize that you're doing the right thing because you're not! You're destroying my happiness!" She gulped down a lump in her throat. "And yours, too, if you'd only stop to look in your heart."

John turned away, unnerved by the unwavering honesty in her eyes. He knew that he could not tell her the real reason he was pushing her away, so he tried to appeal to her innate sense of practicality. "Belle, you've been raised with every luxury. I can't give you all that. I can't even give you a house in London." "It doesn't matter. Besides, I have ample funds." John stiffened. "I won't take your money." "Don't be silly. I'm sure I have a large dowry." He whirled around, his eyes hard and deadly serious. "I won't have it said that I'm a fortune hunter."

"Oh, is that what this is all about? You're worried about what people will say? Dear God, I thought you were above all that." Belle turned on her heel and marched back to her mare, who'd been idly munching on some grass. Grabbing the reins, she mounted the horse, harshly brushing away John's offer of assistance. "Do you know something?" she asked, her tone cruel. "You were absolutely right. You're not the person I thought you were." But her voice broke on the last word, and Belle knew that he could see through her false bravado.

"Goodbye, Belle," John said flatly, knowing that if he went to her now, he'd never be able to let her go.

"I'm not going to wait for you, you know," Belle cried out. "And someday you'll change your mind and you'll want me. You'll want me so badly you'll ache from it. And not just in your bed. You'll want me in your home and in your heart and in your soul. And I'll be gone."

"I don't doubt it for an instant." John wasn't sure whether he'd spoken the words or merely thought them, but either way it was clear she hadn't heard him.

"Goodbye, John," Belle said, her voice choked with sobs. "I know that you're friends with Alex and Emma, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't come round Westonbirt until after I've left." Her vision clouded by tears, she whipped her mare around and took off for Westonbirt at breakneck speed.

John watched her depart, then listened to the sound of her horse's galloping hooves after he could no longer see her. He stood still for several minutes, his mind refusing to digest all that had taken place. After years of shame and self-loathing, he had finally done the right thing, the honorable thing, but he felt like the villain in one of Mrs. Rad-cliffe's novels.

John groaned out loud and then viciously swore as he kicked a rock out of his way. It had been like this his entire life. Just when he thought he had achieved something he wanted, some greater prize was dangled before him-something he knew he could never have. Bletchford Manor had been a dream to him, a dream of respectability and position and honor, a way of showing his family that he could make it on his own, that he didn't need to inherit a title and an estate to become a gentleman. But in coming to Bletchford Manor he'd met Belle, and it was almost as if the gods were laughing at him, calling out, "See, you'll never really make it, John. This is what you'll never have."

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had done the right thing, hadn't he?

He knew he'd hurt her. The pain in her eyes had been naked and raw. He could still see her face in his mind. And then Belle was joined by Ana, her eyes silently condemning him. "Noooo," she moaned. "Noooo." And then the voice of her mother-

"It might as well have been you."

John wrenched his eyes open, trying to banish the women from his mind. He had done the right thing. He could never be the pure soul Belle deserved. A scene from his dream flashed in his mind. He was on top of her. She was screaming.

He had done the right thing. His desire for her was too intense. She would have broken under the force of his passion.

A dull, hollow ache formed in his chest, squeezing at his lungs. In one fluid motion, he mounted his stallion and took off at a speed even faster than Belle's. As he crashed through the forest, the leaves whipped viciously at his face, but John ignored them, accepting the pain as penance due.