‘But why should it mean anything? Plenty of people marry twice. There is no shame in that. Your wife was dead—in the past. She couldn’t pose a threat now. Could she? When, Lance? When did the two of you marry?’
‘On the eve of Waterloo. Shortly after Charlotte was born.’
‘You were only recently a widower. That much I have learned. I don’t wonder you were against marrying again so soon after Delphine. Did—did you love her very much?’
He turned a glacial stare upon her. ‘Only a woman would ask such a question.’
‘A wife would want to know if her husband’s dead wife was still a threat,’ Belle replied coolly. The harshness of his voice told her that whatever feelings he’d had for Delphine had left scars, as yet unhealed. She had revived painful memories for him and she regretted her curiosity.
His voice was mocking when he eventually spoke. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me who she was, and how long we had known each other? Women always want to know everything.’
‘If you want to tell me, you will.’ She turned her head and looked at him. ‘You spent many years as a soldier in Spain. I already know that. You must have known many women on your travels. I don’t mean to pry into your relationship with Delphine.’
Lance was drawn by the sincerity in Belle’s gaze. He felt his resistance waver. ‘In truth, I don’t know what I felt for Delphine. It was—complicated.’
‘Was she very beautiful?’
‘In an exotic kind of way. She was an actress. I met her in London at the theatre where she worked. She was happy and vivacious. We got together and when I went to Spain with the army she followed me. I knew nothing would come of our relationship. She understood that—but she always lived in hope. I was in Paris with the conquering army when I sent her away, believing I would never see her again. She didn’t complain or try to persuade me to let her stay. She just accepted it—which was her way.’ His voice hardened. ‘It wasn’t until the eve of the battle at Waterloo—when she was on her deathbed, having given birth to my child—that we were reunited. She knew she wouldn’t survive the birth and came to Belgium to find me—to ask me to look after the child. There was a priest. We were man and wife for no longer than ten minutes.’
‘You didn’t know about the child?’
For a long moment his gaze held hers with penetrating intensity. ‘Had I known, I would never have sent her away. Had I not sent her from me, she would have had the care she needed and she would never have died.’
‘And for that you blame yourself—and Charlotte.’ The intensity of his stare was so profound that Belle thought he was about to admit what she had said, then he turned his head away.
‘Damn you, Belle. Too often for my peace of mind you get beneath my guard, under my skin. I shall have to keep a tighter rein on my tongue in future.’
‘I don’t mean to. I’m sorry. No more questions.’ And there wouldn’t be. Belle had her answer. By not replying to her question he had given her the answer. He had sent Delphine away from him. He would not have done that had he loved her. The Lance Bingham she knew wouldn’t have allowed anything to stand in his way. Clearly he blamed himself for her death—and Charlotte was a constant reminder that he had failed Delphine. That was why he couldn’t bear to look at her.
‘Thank you for telling me about Delphine, and I promise I will try not to be too hard on you in future,’ she said, as they got to their feet. The look she gave him accompanied by a teasing smile hardly portrayed the emotions she was struggling with. Every time they were together she was aware of a potent sense of longing inside her. It was a desire so strong that she wanted to cry because she had made it her endeavour to detach her heart from him until he could accept that Charlotte was his daughter.
At that moment her horse, which had wandered off to nibble a tuft of long grass, disturbed a brightly coloured cock pheasant, causing it to fly up in indignant alarm. Belle jumped and immediately Lance’s hands came to steady her.
‘Oh, the bird startled me,’ she breathed, knowing her tension came far more from Lance’s gentle grip on her arms than from the bird’s quick flight. He seemed to be aware of the intimacy of the moment as well, for something flickered in his eyes and his gaze dropped to her mouth. He was close. So close that she could smell the clean, fresh scent of his cologne. So close she wondered with a sudden thudding of her heart if he meant to kiss her. But disappointingly he released her.
‘I think it is time we sought out your grandmother. My mother will have arrived and will be wondering where we’ve got to.’
Knowing how difficult it was for her grandmother to receive a family she had distanced herself from for many years had troubled Belle from the start, but now she saw there was no need when she saw her chatting amiably to Lance’s mother beneath the shade of the parasol. Such was Elizabeth Bingham’s kindness and compassion, that when she had taken the older woman’s hands in her own and smiled as she assured her how delighted she was to meet her at last, skilfully dispatching the past with a graciousness that was irresistible, after fifty years the ice was broken.
‘I see the two of you have met,’ Lance said, greeting his mother with a light peck on the cheek.
Elizabeth smiled at them both. ‘It’s good to become acquainted at last.’ She turned to Belle, putting a hand on her arm. ‘I am so ashamed of myself, my dear, for speaking out so soon about Charlotte,’ she said, having made up her mind to speak openly about her granddaughter in front of Lance. He must be made to realise the child was a part of his life and accept it. ‘How has she settled in at Ryhill?’
‘Very well,’ Belle answered. ‘She is an adorable child and so engaging. Already she has everyone eating out of the palm of her hand.’ Everyone except the one person the child should be closest to, she thought sadly, looking at her husband’s face, which was quite expressionless. He did not show even the slightest interest in the conversation about his daughter, but Belle now knew that was not out of coldness. It was out of fear, fear that if he stopped blaming Charlotte for Delphine’s death, the full force of that blame would be laid on him.
Chapter Ten
Finding himself on the same landing as the nursery and not quite knowing how he had come to be there, after pausing for an indecisive moment outside, hesitantly Lance pushed open the door, unprepared for the scene his eyes beheld.
The nursery was filled with bright sunshine pouring through diaphanous white curtains. It was a warm, balmy day. Some of the windows had been opened and curtains gently stirred in the slight breeze. The silence of the house weighed heavy. Pictures of flowers and birds and fairies hung on the floral-papered walls, and shelves crammed with books and baskets of toys were everywhere. A clockwork rabbit along with a big brown teddy bear sporting a shining red bow round its neck had been left on the bright blue carpet, and an assortment of dolls were propped up in the window bottom. There was a colourful doll’s house in one corner and a child-size table and four chairs in the other, and set at right angles to the hearth, two comfortable easy chairs. The previous occupant of the nursery must have been female, he realised, and as Charlotte developed she would get much pleasure from these toys. For a moment he was distracted from his purpose by the homely tranquillity that protected the child’s young life.
The room where the nursemaid slept was through a door adjoining the nursery. The door was slightly open so the nursemaid would hear her charge when she woke from her nap.
It was to the crib in which the child slept that Lance directed his gaze. She was lying on her back, her hands on either side of her face, her chubby palms open. She had kicked away the covers so her baby legs were bare. Not wishing to alert the nursemaid of his presence and careful not to wake the child, curious to get a closer look, he edged closer to the crib and looked down.
He was totally unprepared for the feelings and the emotions that almost overwhelmed him. As memories of her birth assailed him, remembering how he had held her in his arms shortly after her birth, and the promise he had made
to Delphine that he would take care of her, he gulped at the air, trying to drag it into his tortured lungs, fighting for breath, for control. He had failed Delphine miserably. How could he have ordered this child out of his life, abandoned her to whoever was prepared to take her?
Not having seen her since her that night, he had no particular feelings for her, beyond holding her—in part with himself—responsible for Delphine’s death. The servants were forever singing her praises, telling him how delightful she was, and on occasion he had seen her with Belle or the nursemaid and watched her crawl about the lawn and heard her baby laughter and sometimes heard her cry. From such a distance she had made no impression on him, but here, alone with his daughter for the first time, he accepted that she was his responsibility and his heart was stirred with a sense of pride in her infant beauty.
The fan of her dark lashes shadowed her plump, rosy cheeks. Her rosebud lips were soft and pink and slightly open. Her head was covered with a mass of glossy ebony curls, and her eyes—he couldn’t see her eyes. What colour were they? he wondered. Did she have his blue eyes or Delphine’s brown? Suddenly he was overcome with shame and remorse and a terrible guilt ripped into his heart. This child was flesh of his flesh, and yet he did not know the colour of her eyes.
He thought of how he had berated Belle—Belle glowing and strong, protective and loyal, with a will of burnished steel as she had stood up to him. He had ordered her to take the child away—anywhere, as long as she was not within the vicinity of his sight. In her compassion and understanding, defiant and brave and with blazing eyes she had defied him. She had subjected him to the most massive dose of guilt, coercion and emotional blackmail that he had ever seen anyone hand out.
Fiercely and strongly she had been challengingly ready to defend his child, throwing his scorn back in his face.
In the headlong strength of her mind and body, in the sweet kernel of her heart, now he could see her clearly he knew that he loved her. She had succeeded in breaking down all his defences and he could not bear to lose her. Her smile warmed his heart, her touch heated his blood. The unpredictable young woman had the power to enchant him, to amuse and infuriate him as no other woman had ever been able to. He wanted to have her by his side—and in his bed, to feast his eyes on her and hold her, and to know the exquisite sensation of her slender, voluptuous body curved against his. She stirred his heart which he had thought to be dead, and she stirred his blood to a passion that given a chance would be everlasting.
Reaching into the crib, he touched one of the soft cheeks with the tip of his finger. The child stretched her tiny body and yawned. Something stirred in Lance, growing quite dramatically into an emotion he did not at first recognise but which, when he’d studied it, he was certain he would find gratifying. And then her eyelids fluttered and opened a little in sleep before closing once more, not yet ready to wake. But the man responsible for the brief disturbance in his daughter smiled to himself, a satisfying, jubilant smile that warmed his heart.
Charlotte’s eyes were blue, just like his own.
Lance was unaware that his wife, coming to check on her stepdaughter, had paused in the doorway. Belle saw Lance leaning over the crib and her first reaction was one of alarm, until she saw his face. Her breath caught in her throat and hope stirred. There was a softening to his features as he looked at his child. Was this the awakening of a father’s love for his child, or a long-delayed sense of responsibility? Was he suffering guilt at the way he had kept the child away from him since birth?
Not wanting to disturb this precious moment, without making a sound Belle stepped out of sight.
Later, when Charlotte had woken from her afternoon nap, with the little girl propped up and taking note of everything she saw, Belle wheeled her along the garden paths in the baby carriage, which had wheels and a handle to steer it. She took her to the paddock behind the stables to see her husband’s horses. Charlotte, wide eyed and wondering, began to rock excitedly in her carriage as one of the horses craned its neck over the fence to take one of the sugar lumps Belle always carried in her pocket as treats.
When Charlotte squealed with delight and held up her arms to be lifted out of the carriage, Belle picked her up and settled her quite naturally on her hip, the well-fleshed legs straddling her waist. The horse nudged its head against them and together they stroked its nose. Charlotte was completely unafraid of the huge beast, as clumsily her little hand patted the patient horse, her bright eyes like violets in her laughing face.
Coming round a corner of the stable block, Lance saw them and paused to watch, mesmerised by the lovely picture they made. Belle and the child made a delightful scene and the impact it had on him rooted him to the spot. Their laughter was infectious and brought a smile to his lips, and he felt himself drawn towards them, to his lovely young wife and the enchanting child she was bringing, by her own efforts, to his notice.
Moving soundlessly towards them, he listened to Belle’s words as she talked to the child, telling her how one day her daddy would buy her a beautiful white pony of her very own to ride, of how she would gallop over the fields as free as a bird.
It was the child that became aware of him first. Her head spun round and she looked at him, her little face aglow with such happiness that Lance’s heart turned over. Aware that Charlotte’s attention was directed elsewhere, Belle turned to face her husband.
‘Lance! You startled me.’
Lance’s gaze went to the child. Not knowing who he was, she was shy of him and hid her face in Belle’s neck, but her curiosity getting the better of her, slowly she twisted her neck round so that she could look at him. Lance saw a small dark head wearing a white frilled bonnet and two bright blue eyes looking at him. A small hand with plump and questing fingers reached out to the bright buttons on his jacket and the blue eyes smiled. They were his eyes, he saw, so blue as to be almost violet, and two tiny teeth like pearls were revealed between parted pink lips.
Belle stood and watched, not saying a word, as father and daughter looked at each other properly for the first time. Her heart was in her mouth, fearing and expecting Lance to walk away.
The small bud of feeling Lance had experienced in the nursery when he’d looked down at his daughter’s sleeping face, moved somewhere inside him and began to grow. He smiled back at his child and put out his hand to her. Instantly his finger was gripped by her tiny hand. Lance felt it, and it was as though a steel band had wrapped itself round his heart and would never let go.
‘She is lovely, Lance, is she not?’ Belle murmured, deeply moved by this moment.
‘Yes—yes,’ he answered hoarsely, ‘she is’, and then a shutter came down on his face and he turned away sharply, disengaging his finger from Charlotte’s grip. ‘Excuse me. I have things to do.’
Belle watching him stride away, his shoulders stiff, his head erect, but she was satisfied. The ice was broken.
After settling Charlotte in her crib for the night, Belle went to her rooms, meeting Daisy on her way out. With a bundle of Belle’s clothes in her arms to take downstairs to be ironed, she paused and pointed to a slender vase on her dressing table, which held a single pink rose.
In bewilderment, Belle moved towards it, eyeing the rose with suspicion. ‘What’s this, Daisy?
‘It looks very much like a rose to me.’
‘But—where has it come from?’
‘Your husband brought it before he went out.’
‘Oh—I wonder why.’
‘Looks like he’s trying to make amends to me.’ Daisy knew how things stood between her mistress and her husband, and was as impatient for matters to be resolved as her mistress. ‘Surely you do not doubt his feelings now?’
Alone, Belle fingered delicate petals of the rose, wondering what could have prompted Lance to give it to her. And then she remembered the night she had worn her rose gown and the comment he had made, telling her the colour suited her, but reminding her that the thorns of the rose were like her and had pierced deep bene
ath his skin.
So what did this mean? What was he trying to tell her? She was given the answer when she removed the rose from the glass vase and saw it was without thorns. She smiled. It was his way of telling her that the barbs had been pulled from his flesh and that he accepted responsibility for Charlotte, that he no longer blamed her for Delphine’s death, and that he no longer wanted to send her away. In doing so, was he also making a genuine confession of his love for her, Belle? she wondered. But, no, surely she had misread the sign, for it did not make sense. He had certainly not loved her in the beginning, so why should he love her now? No, it was not possible, for she knew the foolishness of that far-fetched idea.
Tears started to her eyes and blurred her vision, but she blinked them away, refusing to cry. It would be enough for her that he learned to love his daughter, but deep down inside her she hoped and prayed fervently that he would have a little love left over for his wife.
Suddenly a keen awareness swept over her, causing her to place the rose back in the vase. Then she turned and saw a tall, broad-shouldered form advancing towards her from the doorway. She blinked, wiping desperately at her tears. Then she saw her husband’s smiling face and his arms extended toward her, and all of heaven opened up to her. In an instant she was flying across the carpet into his embrace and being lifted off her feet. She wrapped her arms tightly round his neck, laughing and crying like a crazy woman as he covered her face with kisses before his mouth snared hers in a wild, ravenous kiss.
When his lips released hers after what seemed like an eternity, Lance held her close to his chest. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he whispered, brushing his lips across her brow. ‘You’ll never know how much.’
‘I do, because I’ve missed you also. Do you hate me for what I almost did to us?’
‘Hate you?’ Lance was incredulous. ‘Good Lord, woman, how could I possibly hate you when I’m sure the sun rises and sets with you? Can’t you understand by now how much I love you?’
A Wayward Woman Page 23
