Dancing At Midnight

Chapter 2

Belle woke up the next morning to the rather unpleasant sound of Emma retching. Turning over in her bed, she opened her eyes to see her cousin crouched over a chamber pot. Belle grimaced at the sight and muttered, "What a lovely way to start off one's day."

"And good morning to you, too," Emma snapped, standing up and walking over to a pitcher of water which had been left out on a nearby table. She poured herself a glass and took a gulp.

Belle sat up and watched her cousin swish the water around in her mouth. "I don't suppose you could take care of this sort of thing in your own room," she finally said.

Emma shot her an annoyed look as she gargled.

"Morning sickness is normal, you know," Belle continued in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't think it would put Alex off if you got sick in your own room."

Emma's expression turned positively peevish as she spit the water out into the chamber pot. "I didn't come here to avoid my husband. Believe me, he's seen me sick plenty of times in the last few weeks." She sighed. "I think I threw up on his foot the other day."

Belle's cheeks pinkened in a sympathy blush for her cousin. "How awful," she murmured.

"I know, but the fact of the matter is I came in here to see if you were awake, and I just got sick along the way." Emma turned a little green and suddenly sat down.

Belle got up hurriedly and pulled on a dressing gown. "Do you want me to get you anything?"

Emma shook her head and took a deep breath, valiantly trying to keep the contents of her stomach down.

"You're not giving me a lot to look forward to about marriage," Belle quipped.

Emma smiled weakly. "It's mostly better than this."

"I certainly hope so."

"I thought I could keep down the tea and plain biscuits I ate for breakfast," Emma said with a sigh. "But I was wrong."

"It's easy to forget that you're expecting," Belle said kindly, hoping to buoy her cousin's spirits. "You're still so slender."

Emma flashed her a grateful smile. "It is very kind of you to say so. I must say, this is a new experience for me, and it is all very strange."

"Are you nervous? You haven't mentioned anything to me."

"Not nervous exactly, more-hmmm, I don't quite know how to describe it. But Alex's sister is due in three weeks, and we are planning to visit her the week after next. I hope to be there for the birth. Sophie has assured me that we are welcome. I am sure I won't feel so nervous once I know what is expected of me," Emma's voice was laced with more hope than certainty.

Belle's experience with birth was limited to a litter of puppies she had seen her brother deliver when she was twelve, but nonetheless, she was not at all certain that Emma would feel more at ease about the procedure after witnessing Sophie having her baby. Belle smiled weakly at her cousin, murmured something unintelligible which was meant to convey her agreement, and then shut her mouth.

After a few moments, Emma's complexion returned to its normal color, and she sighed. "There. I feel much better now. It's amazing how quickly this sickness passes. It's the only thing that makes it bearable."

A maid entered, carrying a tray with morning chocolate and rolls. She set the tray down on the bed, and the two ladies positioned themselves on either side of it.

Belle watched as Emma hesitantly took a sip of her chocolate. "Emma, could I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"And you'll be frank in your answer?"

One corner of Emma's mouth tipped up. "When have you ever known me not to be frank?"

"Am I not likeable?"

Emma managed to grab her napkin just in time to avoid spitting out her chocolate all over Belle's sheets. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think I'm not likeable. I mean, I think most people like me."

"Yes," Emma said slowly. "Most do. Everyone does. I don't think I've ever met anyone who didn'tlike you."

"Just so," Belle agreed. "There are probably a few who don't care about my existence one way or another, but I think it's rather rare for someone to actively dislike me."

"Who dislikes you, Belle?"

"Your new neighbor. John Blackwood."

"Oh, come now. You didn't speak with him for longer than five minutes, did you?"

"No, but-"

"Then he couldn't have taken you into dislike that quickly."

"I don't know. I rather think he did."

"I'm sure you're mistaken."

Belle shook her head, a perplexed expression on her face. "I don't think so."

"Would it be so terrible if he didn't like you?"

"I just don't like the idea of someone not liking me. Does that make me terribly selfish?"

"No, but-"

"I'm generally considered to be a nice person."

"Yes, you are, but-"

Belle squared her shoulders. "This is unacceptable."

Emma choked back laughter. "What do you plan to do?"

"I suppose I have to make him like me."

"I say, Belle, are you interestedin this man?"

"No, of course not," Belle replied, rather quickly. "I just don't understand why he finds me so repugnant."

Emma shook her head, unable to believe this rather bizarre turn of conversation. "Well, you'll be able to work your wiles on him soon. With all of the men in London who have fallen in love with you without the least bit of provocation on your part, I can't imagine you won't find success in getting this Blackwood fellow to fall in like with you." "Hmmm," Belle murmured. She looked up. "When did you say he's coming to dinner?"

Lord Blackwood may not have been born a lord, but he did come from an aristocratic, albeit impoverished, family. But John had the misfortune or being the seventh of seven children, a position which almost guaranteed that none of life's favors would come his way. His parents, the seventh Earl and Countess of Westborough, certainly hadn't intended to neglect their youngest child, but there were, after all, five ahead of him.

Damien was the eldest, and as the heir, he was cosseted and given every advantage that his parents could afford. A year later, Sebastian came along, and since he was so close to Damien in age, he was able to share in most of the perks that come with being the heir to an earldom. The earl and countess were nothing if not pragmatic, and given the childhood mortality rate, they were aware that Sebastian had quite a good chance of becoming the eighth Earl of Westborough. Soon after, Julianna, Christina, and Ariana arrived in rapid succession, and as it was apparent at a very young age that all three would become beauties, much attention was paid to them. Advantageous marriages could do much to fill the family coffers.

A few years later a stillborn boy arrived. No one was particularly happy about the loss, but then again, no one grieved overmuch. Five attractive and reasonably intelligent children seemed an abundance of riches, and truth be told, another baby would have been simply another mouth to feed. The Blackwoods may have been living in a magnificent old house, but it was a trial each month just to pay the bills. And it certainly never occurred to the earl to try toearn a living.

But then tragedy struck, and the earl was killed when his carriage overturned in a rainstorm. At the tender age of ten, Damien found himself with a title. The family scarcely had time to mourn when much to everyone's surprise, Lady Westbor-ough discovered that she was once again with child. And in the spring of 1787, she produced one last baby. The effort was exhausting, and she never quite regained her strength. And so, tired and irritable, not to mention more than a little worried about the family finances, she took one look at her seventh child, sighed, and said, "I suppose we'll just call him John. I'm too tired to think of anything better."

And after that somewhat inauspicious entry into the world, John was-for the lack of a better word-forgotten.

His family had little patience with him, and he spent far more time in the company of tutors than relations. He was sent off to Eton and Oxford, not out of any great concern for his schooling, but rather because that was what good families did for their sons, even the youngest ones who were irrelevant to dynastic lineages.

In 1808, however, when John was in his final year at Oxford, an opportunity arose. England found herself entangled in political and military affairs on the Iberian peninsula, and men of all backgrounds were rushing to join the army. John saw the military as an area where a man might make something of himself, and he presented the idea to his brother. Damien agreed, seeing it as a way to honorably get his brother off his hands, and he bought a commission for John.

Soldiering came easily. He was an excellent rider and quite handy with both swords and firearms. He took some risks that he knew he should have avoided, but amidst the horrors of war, it became apparent that there was no way he could possibly survive the carnage. And if by some stroke of fate he managed to come through the conflict with his body intact, he knew that his soul would not be so lucky.

Four years passed, and still John managed to surprise himself by escaping death. And then he took a bullet in his knee and found himself on a boat back to England. Sweet, green, peaceful England. It somehow didn't seem real to him. Time passed quickly as his leg healed, but truth be told, he remembered very little of his recuperation. He spent much of the time drunk, unable to deal with the thought of being a cripple.

Then, much to his surprise, he was made a baron for his valor, ironic after all those years of his family reminding him that he was not a titled gentleman. That was a turning point for him, and he realized that he now had something substantial to pass on to a future generation. With a renewed sense of purpose, he decided to get his life in order.

Four years after that he was still limping, but at least he was limping on his own land. The end of the war for him had come a little sooner than expected, and he'd taken the price of his commission and begun investing. His choices proved extremely profitable, and after only five years, he'd saved enough money to purchase a small country estate.

He had finally taken it on himself to walk the perimeter of his property the day before when he'd run into Lady Arabella Blydon. He had been thinking about his encounter with her for quite some time. He probably should go over to Westonbirt and apologize to her for his rude behavior. Lord knew she wouldn't come over to Bletchford Manor after the way he'd treated her.

John winced. He was definitely going to have to come up with a new name for the place.

It was a nice house. Comfortable. Gracious but not palatial, and easily served by a small staff, which was fortunate, as he couldn't afford to employ a fleet of servants.

So there he was. He had a home-one that was his alone, not some place that he knew would never be his owing to the existence of five elder siblings. He had a nice income-a trifle depleted now that he'd bought a house, but he was fairly confident of his financial abilities after his earlier successes.

John checked his pocket watch. It was half past two in the afternoon, a good time to examine some of his fields to the west to see about farming. He wanted to make the soon-to-be-renamed Bletchford Manor as profitable as possible. A quick glance out the window told him that there wouldn't be a repeat of the previous day's downpour and he left his study, heading upstairs to fetch his hat.

He didn't get very far before Buxton, the aged butler who'd come with the house, stopped him.

"You have a caller, my lord," he intoned.

Surprised, John halted in his tracks. "Who is it, Buxton?"

"The Duke of Ashbourne, my lord. I took the liberty of showing him the blue salon."

John broke into a smile. "Ashbourne's here. Splendid." He hadn't realized that his old army friend lived so close when he'd bought Bletchford Manor, but it was an added bonus. He turned around and headed back down the stairs before coming to a bewildered halt in the hall. "Hell, Buxton," he groaned. "Which one is the blue salon?"

"Second door on your left, my lord."

John made his way down the hall and opened the door. Just as he thought, there wasn't a single piece of blue furniture in the room. Alex stood by the window, looking out over the fields which bordered his own property.

"Trying to figure out how you can convince me that the apple orchard is on your side of the border?" John joked.

Alex turned around. "Blackwood. It's damned good to see you. And the apple orchard is on my side of the border."

John quirked a brow. "Maybe I've been trying to figure out how to fleece you out of it."

Alex smiled. "How have you been? And why haven't you stopped by to say hello? I didn't even know you'd bought this place until Belle told me yesterday afternoon."

So they called her Belle. It suited her. And she'd been talking about him. John felt absurdly pleased about that even though he rather doubted she'd had anything nice to say. "You seem to forget that one is not supposed to call upon a duke unless the duke has done so first."

"Really, Blackwood, I would think we'd be beyond the trivialities of etiquette at this point. Any man who has saved my life is welcome to call upon me any time he likes."

John flushed slightly, remembering the time he had shot a man who had a knife poised to plunge into Alex's back. "Anyone would have done the same," he said softly.

One corner of Alex's mouth tilted up as he remembered the men who had lunged at John as he took his aim. John had taken a knife wound in his arm for his bravery. "No," Alex said finally. "I don't think that anyone would have done the same." He straightened. "But enough talk of war. I prefer not to dwell upon it myself. How have you been?"

John motioned to a chair, and Alex sat down. "The same as anyone else, I suppose. Would you like a drink?"

Alex nodded, and John brought him a glass of whiskey. "Obviously not quite the same, Lord Blackwood."

"Oh, that. Got made a baron. Baron Blackwood." John shot Alex a jaunty grin. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"A very nice ring."

"And how has your life changed in the last four years?"

"Hadn't changed much at all, I suppose, until the last six months."

"Really?"

"I went and got myself married," Alex said with a sheepish smile.

"Did you now?" John raised his glass of whiskey in a silent toast.

"Her name is Emma. She's Belle's cousin."

John wondered if Alex's wife looked anything like her cousin. If so, he could easily see how she would have caught the duke's attention. "I don't suppose she has also read the entire works of Shakespeare?"

Alex let out a short laugh. "Actually she started to, but I've been keeping her busy lately."

John raised his eyebrows over the double meaning of that comment.

Alex caught his expression immediately. "I've got her managing my estates. She has quite a head for figures, actually. She can add and subtract much faster than I can."

"Brains run in the family, I see."

Alex wondered how John had learned so much about Belle in such a short time but didn't say anything. "Yes, well, that may be the only thing the two of them have in common, besides their uncanny ability to get exactly what they want without your even realizing it."

"Oh?"

"Emma's quite headstrong," Alex said with a sigh. But it was a comfortable, happy sigh.

"And her cousin isn't?" John asked. "She struck me as quite formidable."

"No, no, Belle has quite a strong will, don't get me wrong. But it's not quite the same as Emma. My wife is so stubborn she'll often plunge herself into situations without quite thinking about it first. Belle isn't like that. She's very practical. Very pragmatic. She's got this insatiable curiosity. It's damned difficult to keep a secret around her, but I must say, I quite like her. After seeing some of the hellish situations of my friends, I consider myself quite fortunate in my in-laws."

Alex realized that he was speaking far more openly than he normally would with a friend whom he hadn't seen in years, but he supposed that there was something about war that forges an indestructible bond between men, and it was probably for that reason that he was talking with John as if the last four years had never passed.

Or it also could have been that John was a very good listener. He always had been, Alex remembered. "But enough about my new family," he said suddenly. "You'll meet them soon enough. How are you? You managed to avoid my questions rather neatly."

John chuckled. "Same as ever, I suppose, except now I've got a title."

"And a home."

"And a home. I bought this place by investing and reinvesting the price of my commission."

Alex let out a low whistle. "You must have quite the golden touch in financial matters. We should talk about it someday. I could probably learn a thing or two from you."

"The secret to financial success is not difficult, actually."

"Really? Pray tell, what is it?"

"Common sense."

Alex let out a laugh. "Something I fear I've been lacking these last few months, but I'm afraid that's what love does to a man. Listen, why don't you come over to dine soon? I told my wife about you, and she's very eager to meet you. And of course you already know Belle."

"I'd like that," John said. And in a rare show of emotion, he added, "I think it will be very nice to have some friends in the district. Thank you for stopping by."

Alex looked at his old friend intently, and in a flash he saw just how lonely John really was. But a second later, John shuttered his gaze, and his expression adopted its usual inscrutability. "Very well, then," Alex said courteously. "How about in two days' time? We don't keep town hours out here, so we'll probably dine around seven."

John nodded his head.

"Excellent. We'll see you then." Alex stood up and shook John's hand. "I'm glad our paths crossed again."

"As am I." John escorted Alex out of the house to the stables where his horse was waiting. With a friendly nod, Alex mounted and rode away.

John walked slowly back into the house, smiling to himself as he looked up at his new home. When he reached the hall, however, Buxton intercepted him.

"This arrived for you, my lord, while you were conversing with his grace." He handed John an envelope on a silver tray.

John raised his eyebrows as he unfolded the note.

I am in England.

How strange. John turned the envelope over in his hand. His name was not written on it anywhere. "Buxton?" he called out.

The butler, who had been on his way to the kitchen, turned around and returned to John's side.

"When this arrived, what did the messenger say?"

"Just that he had a note for the master of the house."

"He didn't mention my name specifically?"

"No, my lord, I don't think so. It was a child who delivered it, actually. I don't think he was more than eight or nine."

John gave the paper one last speculative glance and then shrugged. "It's probably for the previous owners." He crumpled it in his hand and tossed it aside. "I certainly have no idea what it's about."

Later that night as John was eating dinner, he thought about Belle. As he nursed a glass of whiskey over the pages of The Winter's Tale, he thought about her. He crawled into bed, and he thought about her.

She was beautiful. That much was irrefutable, but he didn't think that was the reason she pervaded his thoughts. There had been a gleam in those bright blue eyes. A gleam of intelligence, and… compassion. She'd tried to befriend him before he'd gone and completely foiled her attempt. He shook his head, as if to banish her from his thoughts. He knew better than to think about women before bed. Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer for dreamless sleep.

He was in Spain. It was a hot day, but his company was in good spirits; no fighting for the last week.

They had settled into a small town, nearly a month ago. The locals were, for the most part, glad to have them. The soldiers brought money, mostly to the tavern, but everyone felt a little more prosperous when the English were in town.

As usual, John was drunk. Anything to wipe out the screams that rang in his ears and the blood that he always felt on his hands, no matter how often he washed them. Another few drinks, he judged, and he'd be well on his way to oblivion.

"Blackwood."

He looked up and nodded at the man settling across the table from him. "Spencer."

George Spencer picked up the bottle. "Do you mind?"

John shrugged.

Spencer splashed some of the liquid into the glass he'd brought over with him. "Do you have any idea when we're getting out of this hellhole?"

"I prefer this hellhole, as you call it, to the deeper one on the battlefield."

Spencer glanced at a serving girl across the room and licked his lips before turning back to John and saying, "Never would have took you for a coward, Blackwood."

John shot back another glass of whiskey. "Not a coward, Spencer. Just a man."

"Aren't we all." Spencer's attention was still focused on the girl, who couldn't have been more than thirteen. "What do you think of that one, eh?"

]ohn just shrugged again, not feeling especially communicative.

The girl, whose name he had learned during this past month was Ana, came over and set a plate of food in front of him. He thanked her in Spanish. She nodded and smiled, but before she could leave, Spencer had pulled her onto his lap.

"Aren't you a nice piece?" he drawled, his hand creeping up and covering her barely mature breast.

"No," she said in broken English. "I-"

"Leave her alone," John said sharply.

"Christ, Blackwood, she's just a-"

"Leave her alone."

"You're an ass sometimes, did you know that?" Spencer pushed Ana off of his lap, but not before giving her backside a vicious pinch.

John forked a bite of rice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, "She's a child, Spencer."

Spencer flexed his hand. "Not the way I felt it."

John just shook his head, not wanting to have to deal with him. "Just leave her alone."

Spencer stood up abruptly. "I gotta go piss."

John watched him leave and turned back to his supper. He'd not taken more than three bites before Ana's mother appeared at the table.

"Señor Blackwood," she said, speaking in a mix of English and Spanish she knew he understood. "That man-he touch my Ana. It must stop."

John blinked a few times, trying to rid his mind of its alcoholic haze. "Has he been bothering her for long?"

"All week, Señor. All week. She no like it. She frightened. "

John felt disgust roiling the contents of his stomach.

"Don't worry, Señora," he assured her. "I'll make sure he leaves her alone. She'll be safe from my company."

The woman bowed her head. "Thank you, Señor Blackwood. Your word comforts me." She returned to the kitchen where, John presumed, she would spend the rest of the evening cooking.

He went back to work on his meal, downing another glass of whiskey along with it. Closer and closer to oblivion. He craved it these days. Anything to wipe his mind free of the death and the dying.

Spencer returned, wiping his hands on a towel as he entered. "Still eating, Blackwood?" he asked.

"You always did have a penchant for stating the obvious. "

Spencer scowled. "Eat your slop then, if that's what you want. I'm going off in search of entertainment."

John raised a brow as if to say, "Here?"

"This place is ripe, I think." Spencer's eyes gleamed as he swaggered up the stairs and out of sight.

John sighed, glad to be rid of this man who had always been such an annoyance in his company. He'd never liked Spencer, but he was a decent soldier, and England needed all of those she could get her hands on.

He finished his meal and pushed the plate across the table. The food had been tasty, but nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore. Perhaps another glass of whiskey.

Oh, now he was drunk. Really drunk. There were, he supposed, still a few things for which to thank the Lord.

He let his head slump down toward the table. Ana's mother had been quite nervous, hadn't she? Her face, lined with worry and fear, floated through his mind. And Ana, poor child, she couldn't like having these men around. Especially one like Spencer.

He heard a thump come from the floor upstairs. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Spencer. Oh, yes, that's who he was thinking about.

Pain in the ass, he was. Always bothering the locals, caring for nothing but his own amusement.

Another thump.

What was that he'd said-he was going off in search of entertainment. That was rather like him.

Another odd noise-this one sounded like a woman's cry. John looked around. Didn't anyone else hear this? No one seemed to react. Maybe it was because he was closest to the stairs.

This place is ripe, I think.

John rubbed his eyes. Something wasn't right.

He stood, bracing himself against the table to ease the nausea rocking his body. Why did he have this odd sense that something was amiss?

Another thump. Another cry.

He walked slowly toward the stairs. What was wrong? The noise grew louder as he made his way along the second-floor hallway.

And then he heard it again. This time it was clear. "Noooooooooo!" Ana's voice.

John sobered in an instant. He burst through the door, knocking it off one of its hinges. "Oh, God, no," he cried. He could barely see Ana, her slight form completely beneath Spencer, who was pumping relentlessly into her.

But he could hear her weeping. "Noooo, noooo, please, noooo."

John didn't pause to think. Crazed, he pulled Spencer up off the girl and threw him against the wall.

"What the hell-Blackwood?" Spencer's face was as mottled and red as his member.

"You bastard," John breathed, his hand coming to rest on his gun.

"For God's sake, she's just some Spanish whore."

"She is a child, Spencer."

"She's a whore now." Spencer turned around to retrieve his breeches.

John's hand tightened on his gun.

"That's all she ever would have been."

John lifted his gun. "His majesty's soldiers do not rape." He shot Spencer in the ass.

Spencer howled and went down, letting loose a swift stream of expletives. John immediately went to Ana, as if there was something he could possibly do to erase her pain and humiliation.

Her face was blank. Completely devoid of expression…

Until she saw him.

She cringed. She turned away from John in horror. He staggered backward at the force of her terror. He hadn't… It hadn't been him…He'd meant to…

Ana's mother burst into the room. "Mother of God," she cried out. "What is-Oh, my Ana. My Ana." She ran to her daughter, who was now weeping uncontrollably.

John stood in the middle of the room, dazed, in shock, and still drunk with whiskey. "I didn't… " he whispered. "It wasn't me."

There was so much noise. Spencer was screaming and cursing in pain. Ana was crying. Her mother was railing at God. John couldn't seem to move.

Ana's mother turned around, her face full of more hatred than John had ever seen in a single person. "You did this," she hissed, and spit in his face.

"No. It wasn't me. I didn't…"

"You swore you'd protect her." The woman seemed to be trying to restrain herself from attacking him. "It might as well have been you."

John blinked. "No."

It might as well have been you.

It might as well have been you.

It might as well…

John sat up in bed, his body soaked with sweat. Had it really been five years? He laid back down, trying to forget that Ana had killed herself three days later.