Pulling herself away from his chest, but remaining within the circle of his arms, Belle searched his handsome face. ‘Are you sure it’s not your lusting instincts?’
His hands pulled her back to him. ‘If it were, my love, I would have been able to find appeasement with any woman, but I wanted no one but you. One way or another you’ve held my mind ensnared from that moment I saw you at Carlton House.’
Belle traced her finger down the front of his shirt. ‘Then I must tell you that I’ve been in love with you ever since you agreed to marry me.’
His dark eyebrows lifted in a small shrug. ‘I always hoped that, but you led me to believe otherwise when you stood against me and tried to send me packing when I came to rescue you at the Schofields’ ball.’
‘And I thought you’d hate me for making you feel obligated to doing the gentlemanly thing.’ She looked up at him, searching his face. ‘I thought you had gone out.’
‘I did,’ he said, cupping her face with hands, ‘but I came back. I wanted to be with my wife—and child.’
‘Oh, Lance. And the rose? Does this mean you no longer want to send Charlotte away?’
‘Yes, my darling, that is exactly what it means,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her down on to the bed beside him. Belle saw his regret, heard it in his voice when he again looked at her and said, ‘I have been a fool. I should have realised my responsibilities a long time ago and honoured the pledge I made to Delphine.’ His voice was harsh with self-recrimination. ‘I promised her I would support her in a manner suitable to her upbringing. I gave my word and I broke it.’
‘You are too hard on yourself. I don’t see it like that. You made provision for her. You made sure she was taken care of by sending her to your mother, where she received the very best of care. Where she was loved.’
‘But how could I have blamed Charlotte for Delphine’s death? I’m not proud of myself,’ he admitted. ‘Fear had something to do with it—fear of recognising that her death was down to me entirely. I lived in daily dread of the day when I would have to look on Charlotte’s face—when I would have to confront what I had done, because she was the living proof of it. It was the most despicable thing I could have done.’
Lance looked at Belle, waiting for her to comment, and when she didn’t, he said, ‘It would mean a great deal to me, and to our future together, if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.’
‘I have nothing to forgive you for. That you realise it now is a good thing, Lance. Now you can honour the promise you made to Delphine and get to know Charlotte. She is a baby still. You have only a little time to make up—and I know you will make a wonderful father.’
‘Nevertheless, it was wrong of me to cast her off like I did.’
‘You didn’t know Delphine was with child. I’m sorry to say this, but she was equally to blame. She should have told you—or contacted you in some way when she realised she was pregnant.’ Belle sighed, placing her head on his shoulder. ‘The fates played against you, Lance, and there is no turning back the clock to right the wrong. It is the future that counts—a future that includes Charlotte.’
Placing his arms around her, he drew her close, kissing her cheek. ‘I don’t deserve you, Isabelle Bingham. When I consider the way I treated you in London, when your grandmother insisted I did the honourable thing and marry you, when I finally agreed to it, you were already half-convinced my proposal was made out of pity and regret. You didn’t like me very well as it was, and you didn’t particularly trust me, either,’ he reminded her, ‘and I knew you found it extremely difficult to forgive me for hurting you, and for shaming you. I never imagined, though, the extent you would actually go to to retaliate against me by leaving my bed in defence of my daughter.’
Lance saw the pain in her eyes, and despite his belief that all this had to be said, it took an almost physical effort not to ease her hurt with his hands and his mouth.
‘It wasn’t retaliation, Lance, please do not think that. It’s just that I knew you were a fair man and that something about Delphine’s death had hurt you very badly. Your reticence to your daughter almost broke my heart. That you reacted the way you did to my trying to bring about a reconciliation between you and Charlotte was unfortunate, but I did what I thought was for the best.’
That she didn’t blame him or argue made Lance realise that Belle might be very young and inexperienced, but she was also very wise.
In the flickering candlelight Lance and Belle lay together and made love with a fierceness, unable to control the tormenting demands of their bodies, as if to make up for the time they had lost from being apart. Belle’s sighs were soft and seductive as she stretched out alongside this man she adored. Not only had she a husband but a lover. His irrepressible carnality enthralled her.
Blue eyes were now dark eyes, passionate eyes, burning eyes, gazing down into hers. Here they were again, doing the most wonderful things, lovely things, and a shivering ecstasy pierced her entire body, sending streaks of pleasure curling through her. One kiss led to another and soon Lance’s virile body blended with that of his wife’s in an erotic exchange that left them both heady with desire.
The sharp spasm was so insistently physical. Suddenly Belle felt a burst of the wildest wantonness in her body and such urgency that she did not recognise herself, so foreign was it to her, so alien, that she lost all sense of decorum as he drove her into sweet oblivion.
Lance pulled her with him on to his side, his breathing still laboured as he kissed her forehead and moved her rumpled hair off her face. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked softly.
She sighed, nestling closer to him, their bodies as sleek and wet and lithe as the fish in the lake. Her long curling lashes fluttered up, her eyes still dark with passion. ‘Like a wife,’ she murmured. ‘Like your wife.’
His expression was tender as he gently kissed her lips. ‘You are, my love, without doubt.’ He groaned as she writhed against him. ‘Do you know how erotic you are,’ he murmured, running his fingers down her spine to the swell of her buttocks with such delicate tracery, such tenderness, that Belle scarcely knew her own body as they started again, another shuddering tournament of making love.
Belle had come to the realisation that she had never been happier in her life. She was married to the most wonderful man whom she adored, and with each passing hour their love for each other deepened. They enjoyed being secluded and made much of those interludes in the privacy of their home.
Charlotte was a constant delight to them and they could frequently be found in the nursery happily watching her crawling on the rug. Lance, now a besotted father, was quite enthralled by her noisy antics and couldn’t believe his reluctance to have anything to do with her. He looked at Belle, unable to believe how much he loved her, and how much he owed to her for bringing it about.
‘You do not object to a ready-made family, Belle?’
Her cheeks dimpled impishly. ‘On the contrary. I mean to add to it just as soon as I can,’ she said softly. ‘Charlotte is a darling child and I love her as if she were my own.’
Drawing his daughter into the crook of his arm, where she settled down willingly since this was where she most liked to be, Lance placed a finger under Belle’s chin, turning her face towards his. He searched her eyes for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You are quite remarkable, do you know that?’
Belle wasn’t certain, but she thought it might be a compliment. It flustered her to have him looking at her so, as if she had accomplished some great deed rather than spoke well of his child, and his simple words flustered her more.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his husky voice warming her as she gazed into his eyes. After the night he had just spent with her, Lance was certain he had never experienced such fulfilment. He also knew he wouldn’t have traded his freedom for his darling wife, his mate for life.
Belle felt herself being drawn into his gaze, into the vital rugged aura of him. Being so close to him was having a strange effect on her sens
es. She was too aware of him—of his power and his strength. She couldn’t mistake the approval in the tender smile he gave her. It was reward enough, she decided, for her efforts to accept and love his daughter.
Fugitive Countess
ANNE HERRIES
About the Author
ANNE HERRIES is an award-winning author who lives in Cambridgeshire. She is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature and sometimes puts a little into her books—although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers.
Prologue
France 1520
‘This is a fine spectacle, Father. Thank you for bringing me today.’
‘It was His Majesty’s wish that you accompany us, Anton.’ Andrew, Marquis of Malchester and Earl of Gifford, smiled. ‘But you speak truly. It is a day that people will remember for ever, and you will be proud to tell your grandchildren that you were here.’
Anton’s smoky grey eyes travelled round the glittering gathering, hungrily absorbing the scene. His father had no need to remind him of the importance of the occasion, for he was well aware that this was a special day in history. He and his father were amongst those fortunate enough to accompany King Henry VIII of England to France. Here on this field the nobles of both King Henry and King Francis I of France had gathered, to witness the meeting of the two kings. It looked like a field of gold, the richness of the gowns and jewels worn by the wealthy men of two countries beyond anything anyone had ever seen. It was, Anton thought, as if the two monarchs wished to outshine each other.
At just seventeen, Anton was already a man of some stature: broad-shouldered and long in the leg, his dark hair cut so that it turned under and just brushed the gold lace ruff he wore about his throat. His jerkin of black velvet was slashed through with gold, and he wore tight-fitting hose of cloth of gold with soft leather boots that came halfway up his calf and boasted tassels of pure gold. His flat cap was black, but in honour of the occasion it had a feather fastened with a huge emerald and gold pin. Across his body was a sash of gold sewn with precious jewels; his sword was encased in a scabbard of leather set with semi-precious stones. He looked what he was: the son of an extremely wealthy man, and his position in the King’s train showed that His Majesty held him in some esteem.
Anton took his place in the world for granted, sitting astride his horse proudly as he relished the glittering scene. More and more nobles were entering the field, some of them riding carelessly, their horses jostling for position as they tried to get closer to where the two kings had come together to exchange greetings and promises of friendship. Anton was feeling excited, for his father had told him that King Henry had spoken of giving him a more prestigious position at court. Despite his father’s wealth, Anton knew that he was expected to make his own way in the world. He would one day inherit a fortune, but it had always been clear to him that he must win honour and fame for himself.
It was so exciting to be a part of this momentous occasion. Anton did not wish to miss anything, his gaze travelling constantly from one face to another, unwilling to miss a moment. Young and strong, he had proven himself on the training ground and now longed for adventure.
He suddenly noticed a fracas going on to his left, and realized that some of the proud nobles were not satisfied with their position. An English noble he recognized and a French lord he had never seen before were trying to edge each other out, their horses jostling and shying. One of the horses close by was snorting, clearly nervous of the crowd. As Anton watched, it reared up and started to kick out at the nearest horse, which made that beast snort and shy sideways, in turn causing some of the others to panic. It was obvious that some of the horses were on the verge of mad flight. One fine chestnut mare reared up and dislodged her rider.
As the rider screamed and went tumbling, Anton leapt from his own horse and rushed towards the lady, scooping her up out of the way of flailing hooves. The nobles were starting to bring their horses under control once more as Anton pushed his way through the crush, carrying his precious burden to a place where pavilions of rich cloth had been set up apart from the crowd. The lady had been frightened, and clung to him as he carried her to safety, but he thought she was not seriously harmed.
‘Are you hurt, little mistress?’ he asked as he set her down, for he thought her not more than thirteen or so, and little more than a child. Her breasts were mere buds beneath the silk gown that clung to her slender form. Her hair carried a hint of red in the gold, and her eyes were more green than blue. He thought that she was fair, and would be beautiful one day, and he was angry that she might have been seriously harmed. ‘The fool who caused your horse to rear like that should be flogged for his life.’
‘Oh, no… please…’ The girl blushed delicately. She spoke English well, but with an accent that told of her French birth. ‘I would not have a fuss made, sir. My father would be angry. He wanted me to ride pillion behind my groom, but I insisted that I could manage my horse. I did not expect such a crush.’
‘I dare say no harm has been done.’ Anton smiled at her, for she was both pretty and sweet, her face that of an innocent angel. He glanced round. ‘Someone has rescued our horses, it seems.’ He saw his squire leading his mount, and a French vassal was bringing the spirited chestnut that had thrown her.
She touched his arm to reclaim his attention. ‘Will you tell me your name, sir? I am the lady Marietta Villiers …’
‘I am honoured.’ Anton bowed gracefully. ‘Anton of Gifford—son of the Marquis of Malchester and Earl of Gifford.’
‘Thank you for my life, Anton of Gifford.’ Marietta reached up and kissed his cheek. There was a faint flush in her cheeks, but her eyes were as bright and clear as the summer sky. ‘I shall honour your memory for as long as I live. I must go, for my groom comes and my father will be anxious.’
‘It was nothing.’ Anton said. He hesitated, wanting to ask more—who her father was, where she came from—but he knew that he too was looked for. He must return to the King’s train, for he might be summoned to do His Majesty some service. The girl had had a fright, but she had borne it well and she was not alone. She was but a child, and they were not likely to meet again. He must forget her and remember his duty to the king.
He relinquished her to the care of her groom and made his way back to where his father waited. The Marquis had noticed his act of gallantry and nodded, a look of approval in his eyes. It was no more than he would expect of his son.
‘That was well done of you, Anton. I dare say it did not go unnoticed by others. As you know, we are to accompany His Majesty to the court of Charles of Spain. Charles has recently been appointed the new Holy Roman Emperor and Henry must pay his respects.’
‘Yes, Father. I am happy to be a part of His Majesty’s train.’
‘I think you will find that Henry thinks much of you, Anton. It may be that you will be given a position of more importance than you imagine …’
Anton felt a surge of excitement. He was not sure what his father meant, but the future held a golden promise. He was strong, ambitious, and impatient for the good things life had to offer. All thought of the young French girl was forgotten as he watched the moment when the two kings greeted each other. It was good to be young and on the verge of something wonderful.
Later he would remember the girl he had rescued and smile, tucking the memory away deep in the back of his mind, but for now history was in the making!
Marietta looked at the man who stood beside her father, to the right of the French King. It was due to the Comte that they had been invited to this glittering affair, and she must be grateful for the privilege. The Comte was not ugly, for his years sat well on him, and though of a heavier build than she found attractive, he seemed strong and noble. Her father, brought to the verge of ruin by foolish investments, had given her to this knight in return for the right to live i
n peace on his own lands. She was fifteen years of age and it was time for her to be wed. The Comte de Montcrief would make her a good husband, for she knew him to be a kind and generous man.
However, his smile did not make her heart beat faster—the way the young English knight’s had when he’d held her close to his chest. He was so bold, so strong and so handsome! She had felt so safe in his arms! More than that, she had felt a warm melting inside her, like liquid honey that curled through her body, arousing sensations she had not known existed.
Anton of Gifford—the son of the Marquis of Malchester!
Marietta knew that she would never forget the man who had rescued her from what might have been painful injury or even death. Something in her had responded to him as he’d looked down at her with those serious grey eyes. In those brief moments she had experienced the strangest feeling—as though she had met her destiny. She had kissed him impulsively, but wished that he had kissed her back—on the mouth. Instinctively she wanted so much more that in her innocence she did not understand.
She was so immodest! It was as well that neither her father nor the Comte could read her mind. Her thoughts were wild and romantic—the foolish dreams of a young girl. She had listened to the storyteller and his fables of courtly knights too often! The reality was that she must marry a man she did not love or see her father dispossessed of all he owned and both of them turned out to beg for their living.
Marietta might instead have chosen life as a nun, but she doubted she would be taken without a dowry, which her father was unable to give her. Perhaps if she had felt a true vocation she might have chosen that life rather than marry the Comte, but her father would still have been faced with poverty. By agreeing to marry the Comte de Montcrief she had ensured that her beloved father would end his days in his own bed.
A Wayward Woman Page 24
