As he spoke he took her hand and led her down the terrace steps into the darkness of the garden beyond and away from prying eyes. His tall figure dark against the shadows, with just enough light from the house to see her by, he reached out and pulled her to him. His eyes were like flames of fire, scorching her.
Belle was astounded at her body’s reaction to this man. A touch, a kiss, a look, and he could rouse her, and something rose and shouted for the joy of it. Her heart was pounding in her breast and she could feel his beating against hers to the same rapid rhythm. She pressed herself close to him, not with fury but with delight, with something she had felt before when he had kissed her, which she knew was the female in her responding to the male in him. It was madness. She made a sound in her throat and she threw back her head in the exultation of the moment.
‘You do want me, don’t you, Belle?’ Lance triumphed softly, her breath sweet and warm against his mouth as she still clung to him. ‘Say it. Your heart beats far too quickly for you to claim uninterest, my love.’
She was dazed, her eyes unfocused with that soft loveliness that comes when a woman is deep in the pleasures of love, her senses completely overruled by this magic that had sprung up between them. Cupping her chin, he began to kiss her face, her eyelids, her cheeks. Her lips trembled as he again claimed them fiercely with his own.
‘My God,’ he whispered hoarsely, his blue eyes smouldering as he gazed at her upturned face. ‘You are the most direct, self-willed woman I have ever met, traits I admire in any woman, but you are also so damn lovely and desirable.’ Pulling her down on to a bench, in the semi-darkness, where the light of the moon contended with the glow from the occasional lantern, the sight of her white shoulders, the fragile neck, aroused in him a violent but unfamiliar desire, such as no woman had ever aroused in him. It was not just blind and bestial lust. There was about it a somewhat mysterious, almost sweet and gentle allure.
Covering her mouth with his own once more, his lips moved against hers, his breath on her mouth. His hand caressed her hard nippled breasts and seemed not to want to stop, before sliding carelessly under her gown and over her thighs as he kissed her passionately. His lips touched her cheeks and moved to her throat and Belle shivered involuntarily at their burning intensity and the touch of his hand on her bare flesh. Her conscience told her to fight him, but there was no fight in her and her senses staggered with ecstasy. Her whole being seemed to burst into flame, while delicious sensations overwhelmed her. The feel of him, the smell of him, all combined to transfix her. She hardly noticed the moment when he lifted her off the hard bench and placed her on the cool, soft, sweet-smelling grass.
Clinging together, their world became one of passion and incoherent sound and heat. From the ballroom the strains of music and voices floated on the night air, and overhead an owl screeched, but the lovers were deaf and blind to everything but each other. When Lance raised her skirts Belle caught a flash of her own rounded thighs, pale and lustrous, above her silk stockings. She became aware that she was holding her breath, that her face and breasts were hot as if a fire had burned them. Drawing her breast from her bodice, Lance cupped it in his hand and kissed and sucked it with his mouth. Belle had never been touched there by a man before, and the sensations he created drove her almost out of her mind.
She was conscious of a trembling throughout her body and desired, above all things, to feel his hard, lean body pressed to hers. He carried on kissing her and caressing her, arousing her until thought and feeling, heart and head became a liquid flame. He drew out all her suppressed longings, freeing her passion until she could deny him nothing. She obeyed the passions of her body, caught up in an agonisingly sweet, yet terrible intensity. Lance lay on her and she felt the strength of him as he held her unresisting body close and took her, penetrating deeply. She held him to her as he took his pleasure of her, moaning with pleasure and pain of her own. Entwined, Belle was conscious of nothing but a wild ecstasy as they merged together, each fulfilling the other in the most sublime act of making love.
Lance gloried in the feel of Belle’s pliant, firm young body straining against his. It was like a yielding, living substance as she gave all her desire and passion, responding to his inner heat. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck as their mouths fastened hungrily on one another, hers moist and warm. A man well used to the lusty pleasures that were always available to him, Lance had not until he had met Belle held a woman in his arms who was not only young but innocent, untouched and pure, with a serene beauty that delighted him.
Then it was over and for a time Belle had no immediate thoughts. She had nothing but the memory of incredible joy, of something immense that had happened to her, beyond which nothing was comparable. Opening her eyes, she saw Lance’s face bent over her. Wanting to hold the moment and feel him close to her, she was disappointed when he moved away and stood up, calmly adjusting his clothing. Belle sat upright, confused, her body still pulsating with heat and the feel of his body joined to hers. She couldn’t believe that she had given herself to him because of deeper feelings she did not fully under stand.
Lance took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He smiled as she struggled to compose herself, relieved that they were alone in the garden and no one had come to find them.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, raising his hand and gently caressing her cheek. He was looking down at her, his gaze penetrating. Her eyes were dark and huge in her pale face, and her skin gleamed like soft silk in the dim light. She was as bewitching as any pagan statue, and she had responded to him not as a girl but as a woman. He was not disappointed. However, his body’s almost uncontrollable desire for her had amazed, unnerved and thoroughly displeased him. He would not touch her again until she was his wife.
Belle nodded, lowering her eyes and smoothing her skirts, suddenly shy of him. Even on the brink of surrender she had realised that she was on the point of giving something to him which by rights belonged only to a husband, and yet since Lance was to be her husband, oddly, she found neither shame nor scruples and felt no will to resist. Why not give him what he so boldly demanded, she had thought, what no woman could be sure of keeping once a man had made up his mind to take her by force or cunning?
‘Do you feel any regrets?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘I—I wish you had waited until—until we are married before you did that. I have been told a woman’s virginity should be a highly valued gift to her husband. Should you decide not to marry me, who else will have me now?’
‘Once I give my word about something, Belle, I never retract it. We will be married, and the fact that you are no longer the chaste virgin of a moment ago matters little to me. Personally, I have never particularly prized virginity.’ He shrugged with complete indifference. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He took her hand. ‘Are you ready to go back inside?’
‘Yes, I think we should.’
As he led her back to the ballroom, Belle wished he hadn’t been so cavalier about her lost virginity. She wished it had been more important to him.
Word had spread of Lord Bingham’s public defence of Miss Isabelle Ainsley. When she appeared on the dance floor with him, whatever had taken place between the two of them that had created the scandal seemed to have vanished. Observing the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s expression of approval as she watched them dance together, those present concluded that a betrothal might be imminent after all. It was a possibility that distressed the lady’s other suitors, and no matter how they vied with each other for her attention and argued amongst themselves, it was plain to see that Lord Bingham had prior claim.
On the day the betrothal of the Earl of Ryhill and Miss Isabelle Ainsley was announced in the newspaper, as arranged, Lance rode to Hampstead to discuss arrangements for the wedding with Belle’s grandmother.
The dowager countess always kept her emotions under rigid control and in this instance she was feeling a grim and angry resignation towards the marriage of Isabelle to Lance Bingham
. Entering the salon where he was waiting for her, as she regarded him she contemplated with bitter amusement this unexpected twist of fate. How had things come to this—her granddaughter marrying into the family she had distanced herself from for fifty years, and all because Lance Bingham’s grandfather had rejected her love?
But this was no time to argue over former grievances. The brutal fact was that if this marriage didn’t go ahead, then her granddaughter’s chances of making a suitable marriage were negligible.
Seating herself in her favourite high-winged chair beside the hearth, with a nod of her head she indicated the chair opposite. She sat quite still, her back ramrod straight, her white head high, but the bitter disappointment of the last weeks had added a decade to her face.
‘Isabelle will be in shortly. She’s been riding on the Heath and has just returned.’ She gave Lance a piercing look as he sat across from her and crossed his long, booted legs, thinking him a handsome devil despite everything. In fact, he was exactly the man she would have picked for her granddaughter, for he was a vigorous, forceful man to keep Isabelle well guarded and safe, especially now. She was a girl who needed firmness, a strong hand to guide her, but with care. ‘Of course I would rather it hadn’t come to this—you must know that.’
‘I do—and no doubt my mother will be uneasy about it when I tell her, although she cannot fail to be taken with your granddaughter. When she has been made aware of the circumstances that have brought our betrothal about, she will agree that I am doing the right thing.’
‘I understand your mother does not live at Ryhill?’
‘No. She resides at Bilton House—which is where I was raised. As you know—since you are as familiar with the area as I am, it’s a mere three miles from Ryhill—not too far to visit. At present she is in Ireland—County Cork—which is where my sister Sophie lives with her husband’s family. Sophie is expecting her first child and my mother travelled over to be with her. When we have arranged a date for the wedding, I shall write informing her of the event. Unfortunately she may not be able to get back in time.’
‘Like you say, that is unfortunate. You are quite certain about marrying Isabelle?’
‘When I left the army I confess that marriage was not in my immediate plans. However, what is done is done and let me assure you that when Isabelle is my wife, I will take care of her and do my utmost to make her happy.’
For the next fifteen minutes they discussed the terms of the betrothal and the dowry, until the door was flung open and Belle appeared, drawing their attention.
Belle’s cheeks were still flushed from her ride and her eyes glowed. She marvelled at the tingling rush of excitement that affirmed Lance’s presence, even before she glanced in his direction. She was aware in that instant of a sudden pang in her breast, a familiar, wild, uncontrollable beat. Something in the brilliance of his eyes made her catch her breath, and her flush deepened when she remembered how wantonly she had given herself to him at the Schofields’ ball. She felt her body heat with passion, and for once she did not care.
As she looked at him, the rush of familiar excitement caused her to become tongue-tied, affected strongly as she was by the force of his presence. She was all too aware of the strong body that had pressed down on to her own. Emotions swept over her and two spots of high colour touched her cheeks as she remembered the intense passion they had shared. Sometimes, at night, she imagined him in her bed, and her skin would perspire, and a flame would flicker through her to gather in the deep recesses of her body, between her thighs, much to her disgust and rising passion. Her thoughts now were in disarray, desire and reason conflicting.
Warily she watched him rise to his feet with that panther’s grace of his that seemed so much a part of him. At this shift in their relationship to that of an engaged couple, she found herself decidedly disarmed and equally aghast at her own shy response to him. But she was not so naïve as to believe his character had reformed in the three days since the ball when she had last seen him.
It didn’t help her composure at all knowing that behind that charming mask of refined masculinity there lurked a disreputable rake bereft of any concern for how he used besotted young women for his own ease and pleasure. His kisses and caresses had been lethal in stripping away her resolve, and she realised she had cause to fear for she had become just as susceptible. He had aroused a yearning inside her for a repeat of his attentions, and she fervently wished she could banish the weeks until their wedding to the four winds.
With a growing sense of unreality she watched him move away from her grandmother and start toward her with long, purposeful strides. He grew larger as he neared, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the room, his blue eyes searching her face, the slight smile curving his lips one of arrogance and self-assurance.
‘Good morning,’ Lance said, his eyes running over her slender figure, clad in the sensuous softness of shimmering green velvet. Recalling the way he had made love to her at the ball, he dragged his eyes from the vee of her bodice and scanned her face for signs that she might have come to regret her decision, but there was no sign of it. Having given her time to reconsider her decision, would she have done so, he wondered, had he not taken her virtue?
‘Good morning, Lance,’ Belle said, unsure how engaged couples greeted each other. His expression was guarded, his eyes sharp and almost unfriendly as he looked at her. She was the only one who noted it, however, for he had his back to her grandmother. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’ve been riding on the Heath. It’s such a lovely day I lost all track of the time.’
‘I think some refreshment is in order,’ the countess said. ‘Ring the bell, will you, Isabelle?’
One of the servants appeared in answer to Belle’s summons, then left to fetch a tray of drinks and food.
Cupping her elbow in the palm of his hand, Lance led Belle to a sofa and sat beside her. ‘Your grandmother and I have just been discussing the terms of the betrothal.’
‘Have you?’ Belle found it incredible that he still intended going ahead with the wedding. He had told her he was attracted to her, that he cared for her. At least, she thought cynically, he didn’t mouth words of love he didn’t feel. Neither had he proposed to her with any show of affection, so she had accepted his proposal in the same unemotional way it had been offered.
‘Will it be a large wedding?’ she asked; considering Lance’s title, his family and her own, she couldn’t imagine it being anything else.
‘You are the bride,’ Lance answered. ‘What would you prefer?’
‘That it’s not too large—if that’s all right. I’m afraid I’d find it all rather daunting and would prefer a small affair.’
‘Then that is how it will be.’ He looked at her grandmother. ‘Are you in agreement, Countess?’
The dowager countess acquiesced with a regal nod of her head. ‘Like you said, Isabelle is the bride—although I would prefer the wedding to take place at Harworth rather than here in town. The ceremony would be at the local church—where generations of Ainsleys are interred—the wedding celebrations at Harworth.’
‘How long must we be betrothed?’ Belle asked. ‘A year? Six months?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Lance said irrevocably. Having already come firmly to the awareness that being within close proximity of Belle aroused every mating instinct he was capable of feeling, despite his aversion to the marriage itself, he was determined their betrothal would be of short duration. ‘I wish to proceed with the courtship with all possible haste.’ He glanced at his fiancée sitting rigidly beside him. ‘What say you, Belle? Do you have any objections as to the date upon which the testing of our emotions should begin? If you have none, then may I suggest that we start as from today?’
‘No, I have no objections—that would be perfect.’
‘You have to get to know each other,’ the countess countered. ‘The rules are strict. At the ball the other night you went to a great deal of trouble to make it seem there had been l
ittle but flirtation between the two of you. Unless you go through the appropriate courtship rituals, which Isabelle has every right to expect, no one will ever believe it. Although I am of the opinion that you conquered the highest hurdle that night and everyone will move on to talk about something else.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ Lance demanded shortly.
‘A courtship never takes less than a year, but I will concede and say six months,’ the countess offered, compromising, ‘of calling on her properly, escorting her to the normal functions, and so on.’
‘Two,’ Lance announced flatly.
His imperious tone didn’t daunt the countess in the slightest. ‘I suppose if it isn’t to be a large wedding, it could be arranged in two months,’ she conceded. ‘Now the betrothal has been announced,’ she said briskly, looking at the newspaper beside her where she had been reading the announcement before Lord Bingham’s arrival, ‘I would like to return to Harworth very soon—next week at the latest—which should give us enough time to begin preparations for Isabelle’s wedding gown. Then your courtship can be conducted away from the prying eyes of the ton,’ she said, reaching for the tea the servant had just put in front of her.
‘I would be honoured if you would both dine with me this evening,’ Lance offered amiably. ‘Afterwards I will be your escort to the Earl and Countess of Sidmouth’s party at Sidmouth House.’ His gaze slid to Belle. ‘After all, it is the evening of our engagement and everyone will expect to see us together. We can use the occasion to set a pattern for our future—and enjoy everyone’s surprise when they realise you really are to be the next Countess of Ryhill.’
After they had drunk their tea and nibbled on cakes, with the countess’s permission, Lance took his future wife for a turn about the garden.
After a few moments of strolling along the walkways in an amiable but somewhat nervous silence, Belle said, ‘None of this is easy for my grandmother. Despite her haughty manner and plain speaking, she is finding it difficult to come to terms with my betrothal to you—as I am myself.’
A Wayward Woman Page 15
