by Lucy Ashford
Yes, a business arrangement.
Belle tried everything to annoy him. She wore a purple pelisse sewn with silver frogging to the theatre and a bonnet adorned with purple-dyed feathers. She flirted and joked outrageously with his men friends, interlacing her conversation every now and then with Somerset dialect, hanging on to his strong arm and calling him her Mr D., but he coped with all her public eccentricities with amused ease.
* * *
There was just one evening when she thought she caught some flicker of emotion in his hooded grey eyes. They were at the opera; Belle had insisted on being taken there, largely because he’d told her he loathed it. Indeed so secretly did she, and once in their private box her own heart sank at the tedious hours which lay ahead.
But then she began to realise that the story was about doomed love. The music, even though she didn’t understand the Italian words, was actually incredibly beautiful. And as the heroine sang her dying farewell to the hero Belle felt a huge lump in her throat.
Don’t be a fool. It’s sentimental humbug.
It made her want to cry. Oh, Lord, she was crying...
‘Are you all right, Mrs Marchmain?’ Adam at her side asked quietly.
She hid her handkerchief and smiled up brightly from behind her purple fan. ‘Oh, indeed, Mr D., I swear it is so diverting!’
He gritted his teeth, but didn’t remind her not to call him Mr D. They were due to join his friends for a supper party after the performance, but he said instead, ‘You look tired. I’ll take you home. You’ve been at your shop almost all day today, haven’t you?’
Belle was silent a moment, still struggling with her emotions. Then she said, ‘Does that spy of yours, Lennox, tell you everything?’
‘Yes,’ he answered imperturbably. ‘Do you really have to be there so often?’
She flicked her fan. ‘But of course,’ she said gaily. ‘Only think of your investment, Mr D.!’
And I need to be independent, she vowed. I have to be. I cannot rely on any man, let alone you.
She’d quickly realised that she now had considerable status in the eyes of the ton because she’d been picked out by one of London’s most eligible bachelors. But there were disadvantages. Again and again she argued with Adam over the number of staff at the Bruton Street house. ‘There are maids and footmen everywhere and I do not need them.’
‘You need the maid I hired, don’t you?’
‘Simmons? Well, yes, I suppose...’
‘Do you object to her?’
‘No,’ said Belle. ‘No, I don’t.’ She was, in fact, used to dressing herself, but she had to admit that Simmons was invaluable in looking after her new and extensive wardrobe.
But it irked her that at Davenant’s insistence she couldn’t go anywhere by herself and had to either travel in the coach he’d provided, or, if she chose to walk, be accompanied by one of his grooms.
Davenant would always answer her protests with, ‘I have a certain position to uphold in society, Mrs Marchmain. And so do you.’
In other words he was as formal, as correct as ever. But that look in his eyes at the opera, when he’d asked her if she was all right, had fractured something in her carefully maintained defences. And every night when he left her alone in that big house, some part of her ached for him to stay. Not just to stay, but to kiss her again, with those firm warm lips that had set her pulse racing and her insides clenching with forbidden heat...
No. That would make things simply impossible. That would be the ruination of their civilised companionship, which Belle was coming to value more than was remotely wise. Why was he going to all this trouble and expense? At first she’d feared he wanted to exact revenge for her insults; now she assumed he was eager for her shop to do well because he’d invested money in it and was expecting some return in order to cancel out Edward’s massive debt. But to spend so much time with her...
Could it be possible that he was actually starting to care for her?
No. Belle found the blood pounding hotly in her veins. That was the last thing on earth she wanted. She absolutely detested Adam Davenant—didn’t she?
* * *
Adam, meanwhile, had matters of his own to attend to. One night he invited Lord Jarvis to dine with him at his house in Clarges Street and when the main courses had been removed and the servants gone, Adam poured Jarvis more wine and said calmly, ‘You’ll acknowledge, I hope, that I’m fulfilling my side of our bargain.’
Jarvis’s pale eyes gleamed. ‘I thought we’d arrive at the business of the widow sooner or later. I assume you’re eager to be getting on with that railway of yours?’
‘My engineer, George Shipley, has advised me that the excavations ought to be well on their way by August.’
Jarvis drank half his glass of the rather fine burgundy in one go. Then he said, ‘You’re being presumptuous, Davenant.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’ Jarvis helped himself to more wine, then sat back in his chair and watched Davenant narrowly. ‘You’ve got to break with her. Humiliate her. Remember?’ He suddenly leaned closer. ‘She should be counting the days—and nights—to your wedding. She should be beside herself with joy. But people are saying that the pair of you look more like friends than lovers—dear God, man, given your reputation with women, she should be swooning at your every touch!’
Adam looked at him steadily. ‘She’s a mature widow, Jarvis, not a lovesick girl. We’re seen almost every night around the town together and are officially betrothed. But you know that I’ve absolutely no intention of meeting her at the altar. Isn’t that enough for you? I take it you don’t expect a ringside view of our more intimate moments?’
‘Now, there’s an idea,’ said Jarvis. ‘What’s she like in bed, I wonder? Does she squeal, Davenant, when you take her? Is she docile, or does she beg you for more, like—’
Adam put one fist on the table, though he kept his voice calm. ‘I don’t remember it being part of our agreement that you have leave to insult her. I repeat—when are you going to give my engineers access to the land you promised me?’
Jarvis scowled. ‘As soon as I’m sure Mrs Marchmain is head over heels in love with you and is convinced you’ll marry her very soon. But devil take it, you’ve not even introduced her to your family yet!’
‘Good God, man, I’ve little enough family, as you know.’
‘You have a brother in Surrey. Has he even met your so-called fiancée?’
Adam laughed. ‘That’s hardly your business.’
‘But this agreement’s my business,’ said Jarvis softly. ‘I want to see her humiliated, if you want that damned land. As for the shop you’ve set up for her in Piccadilly—I take it that’s just a temporary affair also? That you’ll pull out from your investment as soon as you break off this sham betrothal and so leave her
ruined?’
Adam said nothing. Jarvis frowned down at his glass suddenly. ‘Damn it, Davenant, have you nothing stronger than this burgundy? You used to have some fine brandy—or is that reserved for your friends?’
Adam stretched his long limbs and rose to fetch the brandy and two glasses from the sideboard. He started pouring. Said, in a deceptively soft voice, ‘You hate Mrs Marchmain, don’t you, Jarvis? Did you by any chance contrive to destroy her shop in the Strand as revenge for her rejection of you two years ago?’
Jarvis’s hand froze over his glass. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you’re lying. Someone arranged a succession of complaints, then instructed her landlord to double the rent.’ Adam gazed at Jarvis with steely eyes. ‘I think it was you.’
Jarvis laughed. ‘Dear God, I wouldn’t dirty my hands with such a lowly matter. Just remember, Davenant—I want to see her broken if you’re to get your land, understand?’ He drank down his brandy and stood, straightening his coat. ‘Time on that note for me to go.’
Adam had risen also, towering over him. ‘I think you did try to ruin her business, Jarvis
. Be careful. I don’t remember anything in our agreement about you being allowed to harm Mrs Marchmain in any way whatsoever. Do you understand?’
Jarvis let out a hiss of surprise. ‘Are you threatening me? My, my—a mistake, that, showing your hand too early. Maybe you are starting to get a little too fond of her.’
‘I’ve no intention of continuing my relationship with her beyond the terms of our agreement,’ said Adam curtly. ‘And don’t forget we’ve each got a copy of the details, signed and witnessed.’
‘Maybe so. But there’s no way I’m letting you have access to the land you need until you’ve given me a little more proof of your commitment—and until the town is full of the news that you’ve broken with her. Ruined her.’
‘You’re a bastard, Jarvis.’
‘So are you,’ said Jarvis calmly. His hand was already on the door. ‘And wouldn’t the lovely Mrs Marchmain be interested to be told of what we agreed? Because that’s what will happen if you try to wriggle out of this in any way at all. Understand?’
Adam saw him out. Off his property. Damn it. Damn it.
* * *
The next evening Adam escorted Belle as usual back to Bruton Street after a night at the theatre. But—and this wasn’t usual—he followed her into the house.
She was untying her bonnet, a delicious little affair of sage green and claret that matched her figure-hugging pelisse. Her eyes, Adam noted, were still sparkling with laughter from the comedy they’d both enjoyed. Her lips were full and rosy, and as she took off her bonnet some soft coils of black hair fell enticingly to her shoulders.
Tonight she’d turned to him in the interval and put her small, warm hand impulsively on his. She’d said, ‘Oh, I’m enjoying this so much—thank you, Adam, for bringing me!’
‘My pleasure,’ Adam had said. And that was the trouble. It was. He found her intriguing, amusing and damnably arousing.
He liked her. He wanted her—no use denying it. His weeks of celibacy, and her nearness, were wreaking havoc with his self-control. At this moment, his body was throbbing with need, and he wanted to lead her upstairs and make love to her until they were both giddy with sensual delight...
‘Such a lovely evening,’ she was saying with innocent pleasure as he followed her into the parlour. ‘I’m becoming quite an expert on the playwrights. The merits of Mr Sheridan, as opposed to those of Mr Goldsmith—I did enjoy our literary discussion with all your friends.’
She turned to him with such a sweet smile that Adam sucked in a betraying breath at the way her soft cheek tempted him to press his lips there. At the way the faint, delectable scent of lavender drifted from her body...
He forced himself to smile back lightly. ‘I’m sure they enjoyed talking to you. But I fear their attentions weren’t entirely on the finer points of the discussion.’
‘What do you—?’
‘They were enjoying being close to you, Belle,’ he said, going to pour her a glass of ratafia from the tray of drinks Lennox had left and using the moment to fight down his uncomfortable erection before she spotted it. ‘At this rate—’ he turned back to her ‘—you’ll have half of London’s male population at your feet. Perhaps as your fiancé I should show my mettle and drive off some of the more persistent of them.’
She gasped, her smooth brow furrowing. ‘Oh. I really hadn’t thought—I mean, especially as we are only pretending...’
Pretending! Good God, she clearly hadn’t noticed. He clenched his teeth. ‘I know you can fend them off,’ he said. ‘But you should be aware of their interest.’
She blinked. ‘Is this why you’ve come inside with me tonight? To warn me that I’m not behaving correctly?’
‘Partly,’ he said, ‘though with my lowly origins I’m hardly a suitable person to lecture you on the manners expected of the ton.’ He handed her the glass. ‘But chiefly it’s to tell you I’ve got a proposition for you.’ He put his hand on the mantelpiece and turned to face her directly.
Belle’s stomach unaccountably pitched.
It was a long time since the matter of his so-called lowly origins had even crossed her mind. And something about him tonight—was it the way he’d brushed his hair in a slightly different style? The way his plain but perfect cravat set off the sculpted features of his strong face? Something, somehow, made her feel quite shaky whenever she looked at him. Made her wish...
Oh, Lord. That this was for real. And now just being in the same room as him had started to make her feel a kind of aching longing that bewildered and frightened her. She knew he felt nothing for her. That he was merely extracting payment for her insane insults.
But it was as if every time she saw him her yearning body was disconnected from her brain. Every time he said goodnight and left her—so politely, so damned politely—she would totter away to her bed with her pulse thumping and her mind a whirling morass of emotions. Of desire—yes, pure, trembling desire—for him to take her in his arms.
Damn Edward and his debts. Because otherwise she could have pretended that this man was falling in love with her.
Tonight she was wearing a sage-green silk dress that demanded a tight corset. But the corset, which ended just below her nipples, had been chafing her breasts all evening, making them so sensitive she’d wanted to scream. Wanted, even more, to feel his cool hands on them or, dear God, his lips, drawing those burning peaks into his mouth...
‘Are you listening to me, Belle?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ She fixed him with a bright smile, but her heart lurched. His lean cheek was already shadowed with evening stubble; his mobile mouth looked more tempting than ever as it twisted in a slight, wry smile.
‘You looked miles away,’ he remarked. ‘I was saying, I need to ask a favour of you.’ He was pouring himself brandy, only a small glass. His father had often sought refuge from his wife’s vitriolic tongue in alcohol; Adam had no desire to follow him down that path.
‘My brother,’ Adam went on, ‘has come to stay in his London house for a few days with his family; it’s his son’s eighth birthday, and they’re going to visit Astley’s Amphitheatre as a treat. Would you come with me and join in the celebrations?’
‘You have a nephew?’
‘Three, in fact. The birthday boy is the oldest; his name is Joshua.’ Adam sipped his frugal brandy. ‘He and the two younger boys are delightful little rogues and my brother and his wife are quite charming. You’d enjoy it, I’m sure.’
She twisted her wedding ring, giving herself time to think. She needed to remind herself that everything Adam did was for business, not pleasure; but why he should require this of her she couldn’t fathom. ‘Have you told your brother—Freddy, isn’t it?—about the particular nature of our betrothal?’ she ventured at last.
‘That it’s temporary, you mean? I scarcely think it’s relevant to him, do you?’
Belle was silent a moment then said, ‘Don’t you mind deceiving your brother?’
‘Freddy knows me well enough,’ he answered. ‘Please come. I’d enjoy your company.’ Then he smiled. ‘Any ideas for a birthday present for an eight-year-old boy?’
They talked a little more, while he finished his brandy. She followed him to the door, where he took her hand in his and let his firm lips just brush her fingers. Then he was gone and she sat down again.
Freddy knows me well enough. Belle felt as if he’d just flattened her. He might as well have said, Freddy knows I pick and discard women as I please.
And yet, just the touch of his lips on the sensitive back of her hand had sent such a torrent of raw hunger for this man thudding through her veins that she felt real despair.
* * *
Adam set off home, opting to walk so the night air would clear his head and dampen down the rather dangerous racing of his pulse that started up whenever he was too close to Mrs Belle Marchmain. Whenever he as much as touched her hand, for God’s sake.
He’d spoken to Freddy earlier today, about Belle.
�
��Another of your beauteous chère-amies, Adam?’ Freddy had queried.
‘No—my fiancée, in fact.’
‘Fiancée!’ They’d been dining at Adam’s club and Freddy almost spilled his wine in surprise. ‘Good God, Adam, you vowed you’d never let yourself be leg-shackled. In fact, you’ve told me repeatedly that our parents’ sad marriage was enough to put you off for life. You’re not actually serious about this Belle, are you?’
Silence fell. At last Adam said softly, ‘If you’re
wondering whether she’s fit company for Louisa and the boys—’
‘No. Dash it, Adam, it wasn’t that!’
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,’ finished Adam.
And that was that. Freddy had looked amazed. No doubt there were a hundred questions he’d wished to ask, but he’d enough sense not to bother. And if honest, kind Freddy knew exactly why Adam was so insistent Belle be introduced to them all, Freddy would think his brother the biggest villain in London.
Well, as Adam walked steadily through the night-time streets of Mayfair with the silver moon shining overhead, he felt he probably was the biggest villain in London. Even worse than Jarvis. No one in their right mind trusted Lord Jarvis.
But Belle Marchmain, he feared, was beginning to trust him.
Chapter Twelve
It was a bright summer’s afternoon when Adam called to take Belle over the river to Astley’s Amphitheatre. Outwardly Belle was ready for him, with her light smile and defiant air. But as ever these days, just one look at him had her thoughts tumbling into complete disarray.
