A Wayward Woman

by Helen Dickson

  Belle saw the look in his eyes, and her heart began to hammer uncontrollably while a warning screamed along her nerves, a warning she knew she should take heed of if she was to retain her sanity. He had set her at odds with his insolent perusal of her earlier, but she had to admit that he was the most exciting man she had met—and the most infuriating.

  As the dance progressed, couples dipped and swayed, but Lance Bingham and Belle Ainsley were unaware of them. They made a striking couple. There was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair, he so handsome, she so lovely—so everyone thought, everyone, that is, but the Dowager Countess of Harworth. Sitting with a group of elegant men and women who composed her personal retinue, as she watched her wilful, headstrong granddaughter skim the ballroom floor in the arms of and in perfect unison with the notorious Lord Bingham, her expression was ferociously condemning.

  Even the other dancers turned their heads to watch, making way for them as they circled the room. Guests, who had been chatting and laughing and drinking champagne, aware of the enmity that existed between the Ainselys and the Binghams—that there had been much strife and that emotions were still raw—grew watchful and quiet, glancing now and then at the dowager countess, so enormous was her consequence among the ton, to see what she would do.

  The countess observed through narrowed eyes that the famous diamonds had created a lot of interest and drew a good deal of comment and envious glances—not least that of Lance Bingham. Already the air was buzzing with whispered conjectures and she knew the word would spread like wildfire that, by singling Isabelle out to dance, Lord Bingham was sending out the message that the age-old feud was over. This thought the countess found most displeasing and was not to be borne. The last thing in the world she wanted was for her granddaughter to capture the interest of this particular aristocrat, but it would appear she had done just that. By breakfast the affair would be being discussed in every household in London.

  Belle was whirled around in time to the sweeping music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a million times and more. Lance was a good dancer, light on his feet, keeping in time to the rhythm of the music. Belle could feel the muscles of his broad shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat, and her fingers tingled from the contact.

  And then the dance was over and he released her, but he was reluctant to part from her. Belle Ainsley intrigued him. She was the only woman who had dared stand up to him, and flaunting the diamonds that by rights belonged to the Binghams—the sheer injustice of it—was tantamount to a challenge to him.

  ‘Would you defy your grandmother and dance with me again?’

  ‘Why? Are you asking?’

  ‘Would you like me to?’

  ‘Yes, just to give me the satisfaction of saying no.’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Belle.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. One dance with you is quite enough. Please excuse me. I think this brief encounter has gone on long enough.’

  She turned from him, about to walk away, but he caught her arm. ‘Wait.’

  She spun round. ‘What?’

  ‘Protocol dictates that I escort you back to your grandmother—or do you forget so easily what you have been taught?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to? Do you have the courage?’

  ‘After confronting Napoleon on the battle field, confronting your grandmother is mere child’s play.’

  Belle elevated her brows in question. ‘You think so? Would you like to tell her—or shall I?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. Your grandmother might take offence to being compared to the mighty emperor.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Both are stoic and determined people, and unafraid of the enemy. I think they would get on remarkably well.’ She tossed her head haughtily. ‘I suppose you must return me to my grandmother—it will be interesting to observe the outcome.’

  Taking her hand, Lance led her off the dance floor. He sensed that, in her belief she could do whatever she fancied, there was an air of danger about her. Nothing will ever beat her, he thought. He would wager she had teeth and claws. Determined too. What she wants she’ll go after—a girl after his own heart. But she was still young, still impressionable—trembling on the edge of ripe womanhood. Isabelle Ainsley would not be long without a husband. The Regent’s court possessed many handsome beaux, who would be willing to wed the beautiful granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth. She thought she had his measure. He smiled, confident in his own power over the female sex. She was only an apprentice compared to him.

  He liked his women to be experienced, experienced in the ways of pleasing his own sexually mature body, and there was no doubt Belle Ainsley would make a perfect bed mate. But she must be shown that it was Lance Bingham who called the tune. However, Lance knew full well that though it was not in his nature to care what people thought of him—especially the Dowager Countess of Harworth—he must, for the time being, do the right thing and return this beautiful baggage with her reputation intact.

  Lance bowed to the countess, his smile courteous. ‘Your granddaughter dances divinely, Countess. I hope you will forgive me for stealing her away. I was somewhat precipitate in rushing her on to the floor as I did.’

  The dowager countess regarded him with an expression of acid tolerance for which she was known—and feared—by all the ton. A deep shudder passed through her and she felt as if she were being taken back in time, for Lance Bingham, with his lean, noble features, stunning good looks and tall, broad-shouldered frame, was so much like his grandfather. She was shocked by the likeness. He had the same mocking smile that she had always found so confusing. It had promised so much and yet meant so little.

  ‘Yes, you were. So, Colonel Bingham, you are back from France.’

  ‘As you see, Countess. I am especially honoured by this opportunity to renew our acquaintance.’

  The countess considered it prudent to ignore his remark. ‘You are back for good?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You have been to Ryhill?’

  ‘I have, but pressing matters of business brought me back to London for the present.’

  ‘Wellington and Prince George have sung your praises often during your campaigns. From all reports, your regiment was a shining example of a well-disciplined force, which proved itself as valiant in battle as any in the British Army—in particular the battle at Waterloo. You are to be congratulated, Lord Bingham.’

  ‘No more than any other. Waterloo was a great victory for Wellington. Any officer would have deemed it a privilege to serve under his leadership. You kept up with what was happening?’

  ‘I read the newspapers,’ the countess replied, her tone stilted.

  ‘Of course you do.’ Lance’s eyes flicked to Belle. ‘I should be honoured if you would permit me to partner your granddaughter in another dance, Countess.’

  ‘I imagine you would be. However, I believe her dance card is full. I’m sure you will find some other young lady willing to partner you.’

  Her face became alarmingly shuttered and without expression and her eyes darkened until they were almost black. That this impertinent man, whose family had done her so much harm in the past, should have the effrontery to try to ingratiate himself with her granddaughter was insupportable.

  Lance nodded, understanding perfectly, but he was quite ready to be summarily dismissed. ‘I’m sure I shall, Countess.’ He looked at Belle and bowed his torso in a courtly gesture. ‘I enjoyed dancing with you, Miss Ainsley. Should one of your partners be unavailable, I am at your service. The night is still young. Who knows? Anything might happen.’ Without another word or so much as a glance at Belle, he bowed and walked away.

  Determined to dedicate herself to keeping Lance Bingham away from Isabelle, and having planned to leave for the Ainsleys’ ancestral home in Wiltshire at the end of the Season, the countess considered it might be as well to leave in the next few
days. Although even in Wiltshire it couldn’t be guaranteed that Isabelle would be safe from the officer if the wily rascal had a mind to see her.

  She was pleased with the way Isabelle had turned out—even if she had enjoyed frustrating all her tutors’ efforts to correct any part of her like some precocious child out to tease her elders. However, her demeanour was much improved. She was at ease and content fraternising with affluent aristocrats with lofty titles and well respected. But there were still times—like tonight and her disagreeable and defiant behaviour over the necklace, and her refusal to send Lance Bingham packing when he’d asked her to dance—when the old Isabelle surfaced to remind her that the spirited, wilful hoyden was still present.

  ‘If Lord Bingham approaches you again, you will have nothing to do with him, Isabelle. The man believes he can talk his way into, or out of, any situation and I have no wish to see him do you harm. He has charm in abundance, but you will have nothing more to do with him. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ Belle replied dutifully, knowing that if Lord Bingham had a mind to approach her again, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  As the evening progressed, from a distance Lance watched Belle Ainsley, making no attempt to approach her for the present, though this had nothing to do with her grandmother’s displeasure. No matter how he tried to clear his mind of her, the more difficult it became, for the woman was entangling him in desire and he hadn’t even kissed her yet, never mind possessed her. But he would. Yes, he would. Although Lance considered himself an experienced ladies’ man, with justification he knew when to take a step back. His senses were giving him that message right now.

  However, his attention never wavered from the provocative sensuality of her as she danced with more men than she would be able to remember. There was a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating liveliness that drew men to her, and he took pleasure in looking at her, at the vibrancy of her, her laughing face, his gaze shifting now and then to the glittering diamonds resting against her creamy flesh that brought a quiet, secretive smile to his lips.

  The festivities were drawing to a close when he saw her standing by a pillar alone. He lazily regarded her, his eyes following her, snapping sharply. Going to stand behind her, he lightly trailed his skilled fingers down the soft nape of her neck, reassured when she did not move away.

  Belle recognised the scent of his cologne. She gasped and quivered, a warmth suffusing her cheeks. Though she commanded herself to move, her legs refused to budge. She felt it so strongly, it was as if her whole body was throbbing suddenly and in her head her thoughts were not orderly—just odd, strong responses. And in her breasts—how could a touch, a caress, reach her breasts? Yet it had; it was making them desperate to be touched and it was all she could do not to reach for one of his hands and place it there.

  And the sensation moved on, lower, sweetly soft and liquid; small darts of pleasure travelled as if on silken threads to her stomach and inner thighs as the infuriating man continued his rhythmic stroking, with Belle unaware as he did so that he was giving particular attention to the clasp of her necklace. The heat of his hand seemed to scorch her cool flesh and she licked her dry lips. Recollecting herself, she shrugged away from his caress, but not too forcefully.

  ‘You overstep yourself, sir,’ she murmured, a little breathless.

  ‘But you enjoy me touching you, Belle, do you not?’ Lance breathed in a tight, strained voice. ‘Would you deny either of us the pleasures of being together?’

  Oddly feeling no grudge against him, Belle turned and looked at him surreptitiously. His bold gaze stirred something deep within her, and the sensation was not unpleasant. ‘You go too fast. I hardly know you at all.’

  Lance’s eyes gleamed with devilish humour, and his lips drew slowly into a delicate smile. ‘You’re quite right. You must allow us to get to know each other. You could be the light of my life. Have mercy on me.’

  Belle lifted her chin. ‘I am hardly the first or the only one. It passes through my thoughts that you are a rake, Lord Bingham, and have probably said those very words to so many women you have lost count.’

  ‘I cannot deny any of what you say—but then I had not met you. You impress me. You attract me. It is a long time since I said that to a woman.’

  Confused by the gentle warmth of his gaze and the directness of his words, Belle was moved by what he said. It was impossible to determine whether he mocked her or told the truth. He was not like any man she had ever met. When she had spoken to hurt him, to insult him, he had taken it in his stride or with humour, with patience, and still he complimented her.

  ‘You must forgive me if I appear confused. You confuse me.’

  The softening in her manner enhanced her beauty, and Lance boldly and appreciatively stared, encouraged by it. He leaned closer so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘At least we have something in common.’

  His warm breath stirred shivers along her flesh, and a curious excitement tingled in her breast. She had to fight to keep her world upright. What was the matter with her? Had she consumed too much wine and was now feeling its effect?

  ‘Is it too hard to imagine that we could become lovers?’ he asked softly. ‘I find you absolutely fascinating, and yet you suddenly seem afraid. Is it me you fear—or something else?’

  The endearment spoken in his rich, deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as his finger on the back of her neck. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said, trying to control herself and the situation, ‘and nor do your words sway me. I realise that this is merely a dalliance to you.’

  ‘Liar.’ A seductive grin swept across his handsome face. ‘Admit it. You are afraid—afraid of the things I make you feel.’

  ‘Lord Bingham,’ she gasped breathlessly, ‘I am not a woman of easy virtue and certainly do not intend giving myself to you. Now please go away before my grandmother sees us together. You have no idea how angry she can be.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then you should take heed and leave me alone.’

  He moved round her to stand in front of her, his eyes hooded and seductive. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’

  With trembling effort Belle collected herself, and, as he stared at her, she drew a deep, ragged breach. ‘She says I must have nothing to do with you. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’

  He chuckled softly. ‘Is she afraid I will lead you astray? Is that it, Belle?’

  She gave him a level look. ‘I believe she does, but that isn’t the only reason, is it? My sixth sense tells me there is some other reason why she dislikes you.’

  ‘Your sixth sense does you credit.’

  ‘So I am right.

  He looked at her, his eyes amused, a smile curving his full mouth, and when Belle met his gaze she was struck by the sheer male beauty of him. And then she was struck by something else, very strongly indeed—it shocked her with its violence, a great blow of emotion, emotion for him.

  She wasn’t quite sure what it was even, but she acknowledged it—it was startling and unexpected and absolutely new. The evening—the privilege of being at Carlton House, the build up to it, of being with so many people, the music, the laughter, the champagne, all far removed from what she knew—had heightened her emotions, made them raw, even a little reckless and dangerous. She knew quite clearly—they both did, for she could see in his eyes that he acknowledged it too—that this was a new and important thing, only just beginning. And yet she knew she must not accept it, not let it happen. That she must fight it.

  Chapter Three

  When their coach finally arrived at the front of Carlton House, Belle was glad to climb in. Her feet ached and she was tired and couldn’t wait to get into her bed. She was travelling alone in the protection of the grooms, for her grandmother’s headache had become much worse. She was feeling so poorly that Lady Canning, a close friend, had invited her to spend the night at her house in town. She was expected to return home the following afte
rnoon.

  With two armed footmen travelling at the back of the coach, the coachman urged the horses forwards. The Dowager Countess of Harworth took no chances when travelling after dark.

  Not only did one have to beware of highwaymen, but discontented soldiers—soldiers once loyal to the country, who had been cashiered from their regiments to eke out a miserable existence in the slums. Many of them took out their spite on the gentry as they travelled the quiet roads after dark to their elegant residences, robbing them of valuables before retreating back into the dark city streets.

  A light wind blew, sending heavy rain clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the moon so that it shone through in a pale, diffused glow. The Ainsley conveyance lurched through the London streets and headed north. The house was close to the picturesque suburb of Hampstead. It stood high outside London, where the air was fresher. Beyond the orange glow of the carriage lamps, the trees all around them seemed to have taken on strange, moving shapes.

  Suddenly a gunshot sounded ahead of them, startling the occupants of the coach. The coachman was heard to shout, ‘Robbers up ahead.’

  Belle leaned out of the window, but could see no assailant, and in an urgent voice ordered the coachman to set the horses to a faster pace. But it was too late. The footmen had no time to load and cock their pistols. There was a sudden movement to the side of them, as if the trees had come to life, and they found themselves confronted by a menacing, ominously cloaked rider who called upon the driver to bring the coach to a halt.

  The driver pulled on the brake lever and hauled at the reins to bring the team to a halt. Belle heard a muffled voice ordering the footmen and the coachman to climb down. Belle was beset with alarm. After what seemed like an eternity, but could not have been longer than a minute, the door was pulled open and the muzzle of a pistol appeared in the doorway held by a man in full cape and a tricorn low over his brow.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘If you mean to rob me, I have no money on me.’