Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

Chapter Six

‘Hmm. His lordship does not like me, I fancy.’ Patrick Layne stood to position her chair so that Bel could see the dance floor more easily.

‘Why do you say that?’ She was pleased with herself for not letting her gaze stray after her partner’s retreating back. Miss Layne was chatting to a chaperon on her other side, so no one could overhear their low-voiced exchange.

‘If looks could kill, I would be laid out at your feet,’ he said dramatically, grinning.

‘Why on earth should Lord Dereham take a dislike to you?’ Bel demanded, genuinely puzzled.

‘Need you ask?’ Patrick stooped to pick up the fan that had slipped from her fingers. ‘I was waltzing with you, and now I am sitting with you. All his lordship gets is a country dance and the privilege of returning you to my company.’

‘But…that would mean he was jealous, and he has not the slightest reason to be.’ Bel was aghast that anyone might think such a thing, with its implication that she and Reynard were in some way involved. Which they were not. Not in the slightest. ‘I hardly know him. And in any case, he chose which dances to ask me for, and we have a waltz later.’

She was protesting too much, she saw it in the amused quirk of Mr Layne’s mouth. The truth was that he too was flirting with her, in a rather roundabout manner. It was all very disconcerting; somehow she had not expected such a thing when she had contemplated her return to society. As a widow she had imagined her attractiveness to men would automatically have ceased. Apparently she was mistaken.

She was saved from any more badinage by Miss Layne returning her attention to her brother and declaring that she was faint from hunger and he must give them his escort to the supper room. Bel was not feeling particularly like eating, but their departure did at least remove her from the sight of Lord Dereham’s elegant progression down the floor with a vivacious redhead.

By the time he came to claim her for their waltz Bel was feeling far from happy. ‘What is it, Lady Belinda? Are you cross with me?’

‘Cross? No, goodness gracious, of course not.’ She was so flurried that he might think it that she was in his arms and waltzing before she could be apprehensive about his touch. ‘I very foolishly let myself be persuaded into eating a crab patty I did not really want, I have just had my toes trodden on by a very clumsy young man in the last dance and I am wondering if my ambition to establish myself in London was an awful mistake and I should have stayed in the country where at least I know what I am doing.’

Reynard swept her competently around a corner and Bel found she had settled into his embrace as though they had danced a hundred times before. For a tall and very masculine man he was surprisingly graceful. Bel had never been quite so masterfully partnered before and she was well aware that for the duration of this dance she was going to go precisely where he intended. She realised that, far from feeling overpowered by this, or resentful, she could relax and simply enjoy the dance, confident that he was in control.

‘You are feeling as I do at the moment about London, I think.’ He gathered her a little closer as an unskilled young couple blundered past, laughing immoderately at their own clumsiness. ‘We have been away, living very different lives. Perhaps it will take a little while to get back into the swing of things.’ Somehow he kept her just that little bit closer to his body, although the danger of collision was past.

‘Yes, you may well be right. No doubt that is all it is.’ Comforted, Bel let herself go as he executed a complicated turn. ‘Oh!’ Her skirts swung, tangled for a moment in his long legs, and then they were gliding down the floor again. ‘You are a very good dancer, Ashe.’

The name was out of her mouth before she realised it. ‘I beg your pardon, Reynard, I…’

‘But I asked you to use my first name.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

‘That does not mean I should do so, however.’ Bel fixed her gaze on the top button of his waistcoat, which seemed the safest place to look.

‘I like it when you do. Do not stop.’ His voice was a coaxing rumble close to her ear. Far too close.

‘That is all the more reason for not using it!’ Bel’s vehement retort make him chuckle. ‘Do not laugh at me,’ she added crossly. ‘Just because I try to behave as convention demands, there is no need to mock.’

‘I am not mocking,’ Ashe said seriously. ‘I enjoy being with you, I do not find your modest demeanour at all amusing. But I do relish the serious way you keep reminding yourself to behave. It makes me sense some tendency to mischief beneath that very elegant exterior.’

Bel was not at all sure how to take that, it was a positive layer cake of a remark. There was some flattery, a somewhat backhanded compliment and a strong hint that Ashe would very much enjoy it if she were to give her mischief free rein. With him. It seemed he had seen the new wickedness that lurked within her. She contented herself with a sound which was supposed to be a disdainful humpf! and emerged regrettably like a giggle.

The dance ended and she stepped back out of his arms. Ashe bowed slightly, then, as his eyes met hers, she saw in them quite unmistakable desire. It was gone in an instant, his lashes sweeping it away to reveal nothing more than polite admiration. But it had been there, fierce, thrilling and utterly dangerous, and she had recognised it, even though she had never had a man look at her like that in her life before.

The sudden heat she had glimpsed called up an answering warmth in her. The disturbing pulse she was aware of, fluttering low in her belly whenever she was close to him, became insistent, flurrying her. Just that exchange of glances and they were both aware of his desire and her knowledge of it. In her inexperience it seemed incredible that such a thing was possible.

Then her glance flickered lower and hastily away. Her instincts were palpably correct.

The Dowager Duchess of Malmsbury, an outrageous old harridan, had once announced loudly in her hearing that the fashion for skintight, fine-knit, evening knee breeches was excellent as it allowed one to tell precisely what a young man was thinking. Bel had retreated blushing and had hardly dared look at a man below the waist for weeks after that. Now she knew exactly what her Grace had meant and even more exactly what Ashe was thinking about.

‘Th…thank you. That was a delightful dance.’ She sketched a curtsy and turned to walk off the floor. The sets were already beginning to form for the next dance.

‘Lady Belinda?’

‘Yes?’ She hardly dared turn round. She had fantasised about physical desire. Now she was so acutely aware of it vibrating between them that it terrified her.

‘Might I have one word in private?’

‘Um. Yes…of course.’

Ashe guided her towards the loggia overlooking the lawns. It had been opened up as a cooling promenade for the dancers, away from the heat of the ballroom. There was nothing to worry about, Bel assured herself. With so many young and inexperienced girls in the company, Mrs Steppingley had made sure all the curtains were pulled back and the arcaded walk was well lit. Several couples were already strolling up and down its marble floor amidst potted palms and baskets of orchids.

‘This is most pleasant.’ Bel unfurled her spangled fan, realised she was positively flapping it, and began to wave it languidly to and fro. What is he going to ask me?

‘Indeed, yes.’ Ashe took her free hand and placed it on his forearm. ‘I simply wanted to tell you that I should have returned your key, and I did not want to mention it where we might be overheard. I apologise for not having dealt with it sooner.’

‘My key.’ Bel stared at him blankly. Despite the relative cool of the loggia, she could sense the heat of his body as he walked so close beside her. And surely he could feel the hammering of her pulse where her wrist lay on his forearm? Of course, the key. She made herself say something sensible before he thought her a complete lackwit. ‘You overlooked it, no doubt. An easy thing to do under the circumstances.’

‘No. I did not forget.’ The denial took her completely by surprise. They had reached the end of the arcade and she turned to face him, her back against the balustrade as he stood close in front of her, one arm raised so his hand rested on the column, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the company.

‘I do not understand.’

Ashe nodded. ‘No, neither do I.’ He grimaced. ‘It has been lying on my dressing table in full view ever since that day, being pointedly ignored by my valet. I cannot pretend to have forgotten.’ He moved away from her as though he was uncomfortable with their conversation and went to lean on the balustrade. Bel glanced down at the strong ungloved hands as they curled over the carved stone, then up at his profile as he looked out over the garden: classical, handsome, unreadable. Vulnerable.

She blinked and looked again. Whatever it was she had glimpsed, it had gone, leaving only a sense of aloofness.

‘I will have it sent round tomorrow.’ Ashe turned to face her again, his hands at his back bracing him against the stonework, his long, lean body making an elegant black line against the grey background. ‘In a package so it is not obvious what it is.’

Thank you, that would be very thoughtful of you. The right words formed in her mind, polite and cool and correct. Bel opened her lips to articulate them. ‘Please keep it,’ she said.

What? Ashe almost said the word out loud. He must have misheard her. Keep her door key? ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Belinda. I thought you said—’

‘I said, keep it. The key.’ There was colour flushed across her cheekbones and her eyes were wide, apparently in shocked disbelief at her own words, but Lady Belinda’s voice was quite steady. ‘You may like to drop in one evening on your way home. For a nightcap.’ She might have been inviting him to afternoon tea. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, surprised that he could focus on such tiny details while he was being so amazed.

‘A nightcap?’

‘To drink, I mean.’ Ashe nodded, fascinated. ‘Not to wear,’ she clarified. Belinda’s slender fingers flew up to seal in what sounded like a gasp of horrified laughter at the image she had conjured up. Her wide grey eyes became serious again in a second. ‘My staff will always be in bed by one. There is no need to knock and, er…disturb anyone. Just let yourself in as you did the other night.’

This was not an hallucination. This was proper, respectable Lady Belinda Felsham, the widow of a man of paralysing respectability, suggesting that he come to her home at one in the morning—for a nightcap?

It was not unknown for married ladies or widows to make it clear to gentlemen that they would not be averse to an affaire. It had happened to him in the past on occasion and he was equally skilled at pretending not to understand what was being hinted at, or at taking advantage of the opportunity for some mutual pleasure, depending on how he felt about the lady, and how territorial her husband appeared to be.

But was this sheltered lady really suggesting what he thought she was? Perhaps Belinda genuinely expected him to drop in for a glass of brandy and a chat on his way home from the clubs. She did not appear to sleep very well, if it was her habit to be reading on the hearthrug at two in the morning. And she was most certainly inexperienced with men. It must be his own desire for her that was making him believe she was offering her body, not her company.

‘Lady Belinda.’ He paused to choose his words with care. ‘I should point out that however innocent a late-night drink between two friends might be, it would not be seen in that light by a third party. It would be regarded in the worst possible light. It simply is not done.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Bel regarded him in dismay. ‘I am making such a mull of this. You see, I am not in the habit…that is to say, I am not used to inviting gentlemen to…Oh, dear. I should have asked Ther—I mean, a friend—how it is done.’

‘How what is done?’ Ashe asked bluntly, wondering if there was something wrong with the champagne. He was not accustomed to feeling this light-headed. Not after a mere three glasses of good wine.

‘How one asks a man if he will become your lover.’

‘Ah.’ Ashe took a deep, steadying breath. It occurred to him, distractingly, that the last time he had found it necessary to do so he had been standing up to his ankles in mud, a sword clenched in his fist while the French cavalry had been advancing towards him at a gallop. He was not certain that this was not more terrifying. ‘I was not sure that was what you meant.’

‘That I was asking if you would be my lover?’ She repeated the noun as though trying to become used to it. ‘Of course, if you do not want to…please, do say so.’ It sounded as though she was offering him a plate of macaroons. ‘I mean, I would feel awful if you felt you had to say yes, just to be polite.’

‘Polite? No, politeness is not a consideration, I assure you. Nor, believe me, is desire, or lack of it. I find you highly desirable.’ Ashe strained his ears for the sound of footsteps behind them. He had moved into this position for discretion; now they were discussing matters so sensitive they should be at the bottom of the garden, not in the middle of a popular promenade.

‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him from under her lashes, suddenly shy again.

He found his lips curving into a smile. Belinda was so deliciously serious as she accepted as a compliment what he had intended as a simple statement of fact. She should not have needed telling; he was still chastising himself for his loss of control back there on the dance floor. But the rhythms of the music, the sway of her body in his arms, her trusting surrender to his lead just made him want to sweep her away into a bedchamber and continue to explore those rhythms, that yielding, until they reached the ultimate conclusion.

If only he did not keep getting memory flashes of her lying on that damned bearskin rug, her hair tousled, her feet bare beneath a fluttering silken hem, he would find it easier to control himself. But it seemed he did not need to. It seemed, improbably, that the well-behaved widow of the most boring and conventional man in society wanted to take him to her bed.

‘Ashe?’ She was biting the fullness of her under lip; the idea of his own teeth just there made his loins throb. ‘You are frowning. I should not have asked, should I? I expect men always prefer to do the asking. Only, I did not think that you ever would and I have no idea how to flirt so that you would understand it would be all right.’

He wanted to touch her, lift his hand and touch the smooth curve of her cheek, run the pad of his thumb over the line of the enticing red swell of her mouth, but there were people all around them and preserving her reputation had to be paramount.

Ashe did not answer the anxious questions at once. ‘Let us walk. I do not want to attract attention.’ He turned, offering her his arm again; after a moment’s hesitation she took it. He had thought her almost unnaturally composed, now he could feel the tremor running through her, transmitting itself through silk and broadcloth into him. She was as scared of herself, of what she had just done, as she was of him.

‘It is not a question of preference, of the man wanting to ask,’ he tried to explain, returning to her anxious question. ‘Only, with you, it would never occur to me that the question would meet with anything but a stinging box to my ears. My mild attempts at flirtation so far have not been wildly successful.’

Belinda gave a little gurgle of amusement, but her voice retained its anxiety as she probed. ‘So, before, you thought me too respectable for such things, and now you think me—what? All the words are so horrible. The reality of doing this is not at all the fantasy I had of it.’

‘I think that you owe no one an explanation of your behaviour other than yourself,’ Ashe said, meaning it, trying not to speculate about her fantasies. ‘You are not contemplating betraying your marriage vows, you have no children to shelter, no great public position to protect. You are discreet, you have honoured me with your trust—and believe me, I will not betray it. I have no attachments or commitments that I would be breaking. That makes you a private woman with private needs who is able to satisfy them. Nothing more.’

He would never have dreamed he would be having such a measured, serious, discussion with a would-be lover, but it seemed Belinda needed that reasoning. She was not doing it lightly, this was no whim. It made him reassess his opinion of the late Lord Felsham. Had the man been such a superlative lover that his wife was pining for a man in her bed? And yet, if he had not known better, he would have thought her a virgin, her responses were so innocent. The effect of knowing one man only, he supposed.

‘Then you will?’ she asked, looking up suddenly. ‘Be my lover?’ The intensity in her eyes, even in the shadow of the loggia, shook him. No, she was no natural lightskirt like her frivolous friends, who were separated from their sisters in the muslin company only by wealth and breeding, not by temperament.

‘I would be honoured,’ Ashe said, meaning it. That Layne fellow was strolling towards them, a very young blonde chattering animatedly at his side. Time to draw this to a conclusion before anyone commented on how long they had spent together. ‘Lady Belinda, may I call tomorrow?’ He dropped his voice to a murmur as the other couple came up to them. ‘Soon after one.’

Not tonight, then. The strength of her disappointment shook Bel. She was shocked at herself. What had she wanted? That Ashe sweep her up in his arms and take her to bed immediately? Find a bedchamber here and lock the door? Yes, of course that is what I want!

‘Certainly.’ Bel produced her best social smile. ‘And that time tomorrow would be most convenient. Thank you, my lord.’ With a nod to Patrick Layne and his partner, Ashe was gone, cutting easily through the congestion at the entrance to the loggia.

‘Lady Felsham, may I introduce Miss Steppingley?’ She dragged her attention back and smiled at the blonde girl. She was very young, very pretty, wide-eyed with shy excitement.

Bel shook hands and listened with half an ear to Miss Steppingley’s effusions about how thrilling it was that Mama had held this dance party and was letting her and her cousins attend, even though they were not out until the new Season. She caught Mr Layne’s eye and he grinned at her over Miss Steppingley’s head, obviously amused by the naïve chatter.

‘Shall we go back? I am not sure your mama would wish you to be promenading with a gentleman unchaperoned.’ Bel began to stroll towards the ballroom. If Lady Steppingley knew what her guest had just done, she would be far more shocked by her daughter talking to Bel than she would by her walking alone for a little while with the respectable Mr Layne. I am a scarlet woman, Bel thought. Almost. She shot Mr Layne a look that she hoped indicated that she was not suggesting he was an unsafe companion, and was reassured by a slight nod of his head.

Miss Steppingley soon found a friend to chatter to, leaving Bel alone with him. ‘That was probably very wise of you,’ he said, following the giggling pair with a tolerant eye. ‘She’s far too young and trusting to know the ropes yet. Not at all up to snuff. Very dangerous.’

‘For her to be with you, Mr Layne? Surely not.’

‘For me.’ Patrick Layne grinned. ‘The next thing you know with girls that age, they have decided that a little mild flirtation behind the potted palm indicates lifelong devotion and you’re in Papa’s study explaining your intentions.’

‘And have you ever been in that position?’ Bel looked round the room as though watching the party. Ashe had vanished.

‘No, I am glad to say. I prefer ladies closer to my own age.’ As she guessed he was twenty-six, her age exactly, Bel wondered if this was another of his indirectly flirtatious remarks.

‘There is your sister.’ It was better, she decided, to ignore it. Her brain was spinning too much to worry about Mr Layne’s intentions. ‘I must say goodbye.’

‘Do call.’ The poetess slipped a card into her hand as Bel explained she was about to leave. ‘I would be delighted if you would call and take tea.’

‘Thank you.’ Bel put it carefully into her reticule. This was precisely what she had hoped for in coming to London, to make new friends, to build a pleasant social life for herself. It was not, whatever she had fantasised, to take a lover. But she had—almost.

If Ashe Reynard had not had too much to drink the other evening, this would not be happening, Bel thought, settling back in the corner of her carriage and ignoring how badly her new evening slippers pinched. But Ashe had ended up on his old, familiar doorstep, and they had met, and something inside her could not stop yearning for him.

She had danced with several attractive gentlemen that evening. Patrick Layne was good looking, good company and, she was certain, discreet. But it would never cross her mind, not for a single moment, that she might want an affaire with him.

But with Ashe she had met the man of her fantasies, it was the only explanation. And if she did not follow her instincts now, she would never have the chance, or the courage, again.

Chapter Seven

‘Did you have a pleasant nap, my lady?’ Philpott placed a cup of tea by the bedside and went to draw back the curtains at the window, letting in the late afternoon sunshine.

‘No, not really,’ Bel said vaguely, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. Philpott, studying her with professional frankness, sniffed.

‘You will have bags under your eyes, my lady, if you do not get some sleep. London life does not appear to suit you. You look as though you did not get a wink last night either. You are quite pale.’ She leaned closer, frowning, convincing Bel that she must look such a hag that Ashe would retreat in alarm after one look at her.

‘Yes, there are smudges under your eyes, my lady, even if there are no bags. Yet.’ The dresser turned away, leaving her mistress to digest this ominous lecture, and began to tidy the dressing table. ‘Once a lady reaches a certain age, she has to take extra care,’ she added. ‘In my last position, try what I might, I could not persuade my lady to use Denmark Lotion. And look what happened.’

‘What did happen?’ Bel slid her arms into her wrapper and got up. Perhaps if she got dressed and had a walk before dinner, she could manage a short sleep after it.