Dancing At Midnight

Chapter 24

A few weeks later John and Belle were curled up in bed at Persephone Park, enjoying their relative peace and quiet immensely. Belle was thumbing through a book, as was her habit before going to sleep, and John was sorting through a stack of business papers.

"You look very fine in your new spectacles," he said with a smile.

"Do you think so? I think they make me look smart."

"You are smart."

"Yes, but these give me a more serious air, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." John put his papers on a nightstand, then leaned over and dropped a wet kiss on one of her lenses.

"Jo-ohn!" She pulled the spectacles off and began to clean them against the quilt.

He plucked them from her hand. "Leave them off."

"But I can't see the book without-"

He took the book from her hands. "You won't need this either." The book slid to the ground, and John covered her body warmly with his. "It's time for bed, don't you think?"

"Maybe."

"Only maybe?" He nipped at her nose.

"I've been thinking."

"I certainly hope so."

"Stop your teasing." She tickled him in the ribs. "I'm serious."

He looked at her lips, thinking he'd like to nip at them, too. "What is on your mind, darling?"

"I still want a poem."

"What?"

"A love poem, from you to me."

John signed. "I gave you the most romantic proposal a woman has ever had. I climbed a tree for you. I got down on one knee. What do you need a poem for?"

"Something that I can hold on to. Something that our great-grandchildren will find long after we're dead, and they'll say, 'Great-grandfather certainly loved great-grandmother.' It's not so silly, I think."

"Will you write me a poem?"

Belle thought about that for a moment. "I'll try, but I'm not as poetic as you are."

"Now, how do you know that? I assure you that my poetry is appalling."

"I never liked poetry before I met you. You have always loved it. I can only deduce that you have a more poetic mind than I do."

John looked down at her. Her face shone with love and devotion in the candlelight, and he knew he could deny her nothing. "If I promise to write you a poem, will you promise to let me kiss you senseless whenever I wish?"

Belle giggled. "You already get to do that."

"But in every room? Can I do it in my study and your sitting room and the green salon and the blue salon and the-"

"Stop! Stop! I implore you," she laughed. "Which room is the green salon?"

"The one with all the blue furniture."

"Then which one is the blue salon?"

John's face fell. "I don't know."

Belle bit back a smile.

"But can I kiss you in it?"

"I suppose, but only if you kiss me now."

John growled with pleasure. "At your service, my lady."

A few days later Belle was spending the afternoon in her sitting room, reading and writing letters. She and John had hoped to ride over to Westonbirt to visit Alex and Emma, but inclement weather had put an end to their plans. Belle was sitting at her desk watching the rain beat down against the window when John walked in, his hands shoved boyishly in his pockets.

"This is a welcome surprise," she said. "I thought you were reading over those investments Alex sent over."

"I missed you."

Belle smiled. "You can bring the papers up and read them here. I promise I won't distract you."

He dropped a kiss on the back of her hand. "Your mere presence distracts me, love. I wouldn't read a word. You promised I could kiss you in every room in the house, remember?"

"Speaking of which, weren't you going to write me a love poem in return?"

John shook his head innocently. "I don't think so."

"I distinctly remember the part about the poem. I may have to limit your kisses to the upstairs rooms."

"You fight dirty, Belle," he accused. "These things take time. Do you think Wordsworth just whipped out poems on demand? I think not. Poets labor over each word. They-"

"Have you written one?"

"Well, I started one, but-"

"Oh, please, please let me hear it!" Belle's eyes lit up in anticipation, and John thought she looked rather like a five-year-old who had just been told she might have an extra piece of candy.

"All right." He sighed.

Belle narrowed her eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, someone wrote that a few centuries before you did. Spenser, I think." With a smile she lifted the book she had been reading. The Collected Poems of Edmund Spenser. "You would have gotten away with it an hour earlier."

John scowled. "I would have written it if he hadn't thought of it first."

Belle waited patiently.

"Oh, have it your way. I'll read you mine. Ahem. She walks in beauty-"

"For goodness' sake, John, you tried that one already!"

"Did I?" he muttered. "I did, didn't I?"

Belle nodded.

He took a deep breath. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree-"

"You're getting desperate, John."

"Oh, for the love of God, Belle, I'll read you mine. But I'm warning you now, it's, well, it's- Oh, you'll see for yourself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a much-folded piece of paper. From where she was sitting, Belle could see that the paper was liberally streaked with cross-outs and heavy editing. John cleared his throat. He looked up at her.

Belle smiled in anticipation and encouragement.

He cleared his throat again.

He looked up at her, his eyes hesitant. "It needs a bit more work, but I think I got most of the rhymes right."

Belle looked up at him, her lower lip trembling with emotion. What his poem lacked in grace, it more than made up for in heart and meaning. That he had labored so long on a task for which he obviously had no aptitude, and just because she'd asked him to-she couldn't help it, she started to sniffle, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, John. You must really, really love me."

John walked to her and nudged her into a standing position before gathering her into his arms. "I do, my love. Believe me, I really, really do."