Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  “But you promised to take me to Dr. Bell’s party . . . and to help me until the Founder’s Day Ball,” she protested.

  “After your success last night, you should have no problem finding someone to escort you,” Kit assured her.

  “But I’m comfortable with you. I don’t want anyone else.”

  Kit wasn’t sure he cared for the word “comfortable.” It sounded entirely too . . . domesticated for his peace of mind. “You’ll manage.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said crossly. “Besides, you promised.”

  Madame Aglaia moved between them as if to referee their bout. “He’s quite right, Miss Sullivan. Your reputation is of utmost importance.”

  Then, before Belle could protest once more, Madame turned to Kit and placed a hand on his arm. “But don’t you think you are being overly cautious? You have been most circumspect and I’m sure no one suspects anything untoward. And I should certainly set them straight if they did.”

  Somehow, though Kit didn’t quite know how it came about, he found Madame’s arguments entirely logical and reasonable. He wavered. “I don’t know. . . .”

  Madame continued her insidious persuasion. “There’s no harm in simply escorting her to events, is there? Especially if you are chaperoned by Miss Keithley.”

  “I suppose not. But—”

  “And honestly, as long as you are discreet and chaperoned at all times, there’s no harm in your meeting her here, either. Is there?”

  “You have a point,” Kit admitted. Though he wasn’t quite sure how, she had made him change his mind. All she had done was touch his arm, and his resolve had become putty in her hands. Then again, could it be that a part of him didn’t want to leave off helping Belle so soon?

  Belle clapped her hands in delight. “Good.”

  Feeling he needed to reclaim some of his manhood, Kit added, “But only until the Founders’ Day Ball. That’s the limit of our agreement.”

  “All right,” Belle agreed with a smile. “I’m sure that’s all the time I’ll need. . . .”

  Her expression turned so calculating, Kit’s eyebrows rose. What did she have in mind now? And what poor soul was the object of her schemes?

  Later that evening, Aglaia met with the other two Graces to review her progress. “That was a close one,” Aglaia said. “I had to use just a jot of . . . persuasion to convince him to stay on.”

  “Yes, we saw,” Thalia said. “But I hope you-know-who wasn’t paying attention.”

  “It was only a little magic,” Aglaia said, defending herself.

  Euphrosyne nodded with a graceful movement. “But why did you bother? He was right, you know—he could harm her reputation.”

  “But don’t you see?” Aglaia said. “They are so obviously perfect for each other.”

  “Perfect?” Euphrosyne repeated. “Why, he thinks her a schoolgirl, and she wants him for nothing but revenge.”

  Thalia smiled charmingly. “Oh no, dear. You haven’t been paying attention. They’re made for each other, all right.”

  Euphrosyne shrugged. “I haven’t really been paying attention, it’s true. I’ll defer to your judgment.”

  Aglaia accepted her capitulation with an inclination of her head. “Our main problem seems to be that Daltrey person. Did you hear what he called me? Long in the tooth!”

  Thalia patted her hand. “You’re nothing of the kind. You’re barely three thousand years old, dear. And, of course, as the Grace of Beauty, you’re the most beautiful of us all. Why, he hasn’t even seen you. He just made a totally unfounded assumption.”

  Somewhat mollified, Aglaia said, “Perhaps. But I don’t trust him. I think I’m going to do a little sleuthing and see what I can learn about him.” And Zeus help the man if she learned he was interfering in her matchmaking, for surely no one else would.

  On the morning of the garden party, Belle lay in bed, reluctant to get up. She’d been having the most marvelous dream and wanted to savor it awhile longer. She’d been the belle of the ball on Founders’ Day, and her revenge on Harold and George was successful. They were so humiliated, they couldn’t show their faces in public.

  In a satisfied glow, she had danced with Kit, thrilling to the feel of his arms about her, and watching him stare down at her in besotted admiration. Unable to resist her glowing beauty, he had whirled her out to a secluded balcony and kissed her.

  Belle held her fingers to her lips in remembered bliss. Though she had never experienced the feel of a man’s mouth on hers, she had an excellent imagination. In the dream she had almost swooned in delight when she had finally felt those marvelous lips on hers. . . .

  But mixed in with the delight had been savage triumph as she prepared to spurn him and exact her revenge. Thankfully, she had woken before she could put that part of her plan into effect.

  Thankfully? What was she thinking? Kit Stanhope might have helped her find beauty, but she still owed him for that unkind remark of his.

  He apologized for that, and very nicely, too, her conscience chided her.

  But he was also one of the threescum who had hurt and humiliated her sisters. She nodded decisively. For that, he had to pay.

  Unfortunately, though her plan to ensnare Harold and George was coming along nicely, Kit seemed immune to her charms. Oh, there was that one moment with the fan, but he had recovered all too soon. And when she had tried to punish him by making him the object of her scorn in the fan lessons, he seemed more amused than annoyed—not exactly the mien of a would-be lover. Perhaps she needed to take a different tack, find another way to get revenge.

  Hmm, where was he vulnerable? In this investment scheme of his? No, that was out. She didn’t know anything about that sort of thing. Besides, that was his livelihood. He had hurt her emotionally, not fiscally. It was only fair that she repay him in kind. Hmm, Kit also seemed to be wary of that man she had seen him talking to. What was his name? Oh, yes—Daltrey. Maybe she should make a few discreet inquiries about him.

  A knock on the door jolted her out of her musings, but before she could say anything, her sisters barged in.

  Charisma placed her hands on her hips and regarded Belle with reproach. “What are you doing still in bed? Have you forgotten about the garden party today?”

  Belle laughed and threw back her covers. “No, I didn’t forget. I was just daydreaming.”

  “About what?” Grace wanted to know.

  “Oh, the wish I made in the Garden of the Gods,” Belle said breezily. She didn’t want to share the dream kiss with her sisters.

  Grace bounced onto the end of the bed. “Your wish came true—do you think ours will, too? Oh, I hope so.”

  “But my wish hasn’t come true yet,” Belle said, puzzled.

  “Yes, it did,” Grace insisted. “You’re beautiful now.”

  “Oh, that wish.” Belle laughed. “Well, that may be what I said out loud, but what I really wished for, inside, was revenge on the threescum.”

  “Oh,” Grace said, sounding deflated. “But do you think the Graces are supposed to grant the wish you voice or the one you keep secret?”

  “Neither,” Charisma said scornfully. “You don’t really believe a bunch of rocks are going to grant our wishes, do you?”

  Grace pouted. “Well, it’s looking pretty good for Belle so far.”

  Before the conversation could degenerate into an argument, Belle said, “I won’t get anywhere unless I get dressed soon. I need to look ravishing today.” It was necessary to put stage one of her plan into effect.

  “All right,” Charisma said briskly. “And we dismissed the maid so we can help you.”

  They assisted Belle in choosing and donning a lovely dress in a shade of russet that lit up her face, then helped her put her hair up in the becoming new style Madame had recommended.

  “What fan will you use today?” Grace asked.

  “Well, it better not have feathers,” Charisma said with a laugh.

  “Definitely not,” Belle agreed. “Why don’
t you choose something. Charisma?” Charisma couldn’t do worse than Grace, and her sisters did like being a part of Belle’s new social life.

  Charisma sorted through them and held one up. “Look, here’s a painted fan with strong cedar sticks, and the colors go with your dress.” Ever practical, she opened and closed it several times. “Looks sturdy enough to survive one small garden party—and no feathers or other loose adornments.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Belle said, and took it from her. “There, I’m ready. How do I look?”

  She twirled around for her sisters who assured her she had never looked better.

  “Good—I hope Harold and George agree with you.” And Kit, too, she added to herself.

  “What are you going to do to them?” Charisma asked.

  That part was still a little unclear. She just had to wait and see what opportunities presented themselves. “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.” Her plan had gone very well so far, and she had no doubt it would continue to do so.

  They trooped downstairs just as Kit and Alvina arrived. As Belle joined her friends in the small closed carriage, she found herself seated next to Kit, crowded up against his side in the close confines. How odd—it made her tingly all over. She had never felt like this when she sat next to her father.

  The longer she sat there, the more she realized she was enjoying the sensation. Sitting this close, with her arm and leg pressed up against Kit’s, Belle suddenly realized how very tall he was . . . how very firm. And he smelled wonderful—manly and woodsy.

  As he conversed with Alvina, Belle had the oddest urge to reach out and touch him. She wanted to caress the muscles beneath his arm, see if his thighs were as hard as they looked beneath the taut material of his trousers, feel those mobile lips against hers. . . .

  Oh, dear. It was getting warm in here. With her free hand, Belle applied the fan vigorously.

  Alvina looked at her with concern. “Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’m just warm, that’s all.”

  “Are you nervous?” Kit asked.

  “A little,” Belle admitted. It was certainly a good excuse for her strange reaction. And, since it was the first time she was actually entering society—Alvina’s small soirée didn’t count—she had every right to be apprehensive.

  “Don’t worry,” Kit said, patting her on the hand as if she were a foolish child. “You laid the groundwork very well at Miss Keithley’s, so we have no tasks for you to perform at this party. All you have to do is enjoy yourself.”

  Well, he might not have any plans, but she did.

  Vague ones, true, but with the language of the fan, she hoped to get at least one third of her revenge taken care of today. And at the same time, perhaps she could find a way to make Kit Stanhope stop treating her like a child.

  Belle continued to scheme and fan herself as Kit and Alvina carried on a conversation about people Belle didn’t know. Then, as Belle cooled and slowed her vigorous hand movement, the picture on the fan caught her eye.

  Oh, dear. Was that what she thought it was?

  She spread it out surreptitiously and took a good look, staring in rising horror at the scene depicted. Some exacting artist had painted Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden . . . unclothed . . . in full frontal anatomical detail.

  Oh, my, was that what a man’s nether parts looked like? Did Kit have one of those?

  Belle snapped the fan shut and felt her face heat in embarrassment, then had to fight an urge to peer into Kit’s lap to see if she could discern an answer to her question.

  “Are you all right?” Alvina asked.

  Belle jumped in startlement. Was her guilt written all over her face? Did Alvina know she was imagining Kit naked? Did Kit?

  “I’m fine,” Belle managed to say.

  But she wasn’t fine. She was nowhere near fine. In fact, she was positively frantic. Everyone at the garden party would have heard about her language of the fan by now and would be expecting her to use this . . . this . . . lewd instrument.

  But how could she flash bare breasts and bare . . . other things in the faces of the social elite of Colorado Springs?

  She couldn’t, of course. Abruptly, her plans changed. Forget trying to exact revenge today. Instead, it was imperative she find a way to get rid of her shocking fan.

  The only question was, how was she going to do it without causing undue comment?

  Chapter Seven

  As they drove to the garden party and Kit conversed on mundane topics with Miss Keithley, his mind was occupied with another matter entirely. His search for a suitable investment had proven difficult, so it appeared he would have to take another look at finding a wife, preferably an heiress. It might be the only way to salvage his future.

  This garden party would be a good place to start shopping, especially since he had been wrong to think Belle might help introduce him to her nouveau riche friends. Surprisingly, he had discovered that Belle had few friends other than Miss Keithley, Madame Aglaia, and himself.

  It wasn’t that she was standoffish, it was just that she seemed wholly content within the bosom of her family. She and her sisters were so close, she had little need for outside friendships.

  He envied them that. His own family had never had that sort of closeness. If they had, he probably wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

  And, to tell the truth, he would give a great deal to experience it for himself. A tiny voice whispered in his ear, You can have that if you marry Belle. . . .

  No, that wouldn’t do. She had made it very clear that she was trying to capture the attention of a specific man at this garden party. And though Kit wouldn’t balk at trying to win her away from another man if he felt she was the perfect future Mrs. Kit Stanhope, the fact was, he wasn’t sure at all.

  Oh, Belle had the liveliness of spirit and mental agility he desired in a wife, but she lacked the one tiling he found truly important—trust. His stupidity at the Garden of the Gods had seen to that.

  He sensed a continued reserve in her though he had long since apologized for his ill-advised remark. No doubt she still nursed a grudge for being called homely. He winced at the memory. No wonder she didn’t trust him enough to tell him the name of the man she was trying to impress.

  And though he was rather enjoying the feel of her soft body pressed up against his side in the carriage, he felt her tense every time they were thrown against each other, as if she couldn’t bear his touch.

  Yet another reason why Belle wouldn’t serve. Kit sighed. He’d just have to pay attention at the garden party and find a young woman who would.

  The carriage stopped, and Kit sensed a marked increase in Belle’s tension. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, but there was a slightly alarmed expression on her face.

  He lowered his voice as Miss Keithley exited the carriage. “Are you certain? You needn’t do this if you don’t wish to.”

  Belle seemed to waver, but said, “I’m just a little nervous.”

  He felt sure it was more than that, but obviously, she wasn’t about to say more. Nodding, he helped her out of the carriage.

  As she walked away, he noticed a tassel protruding from beneath the cushion where she’d been sitting. Curious, he tugged on it, and pulled out her fan. Belle must really be nervous if she’d left this behind.

  “Excuse me, Miss Sullivan,” he said with a smile as he held it out to her. “You seem to have forgotten this.”

  She looked at it in disgust but made no move to take it.

  He continued to offer the fan, wondering why she was regarding it as though it were a venomous snake. “I found it in the cushion. You must have dropped it by accident.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said with a forced laugh. She took it from him gingerly, as if she were afraid it might bite.

  How odd. What was she thinking? Did she fear a repeat of the other night? “I don’t think
you need to fear feathers flying today.” He looked around. “And there don’t seem to be any cats present.”

  Though there were an abundance of boisterous children, dogs, goats, and other livestock in attendance. All in all, a typical party at Briarhurst Manor.

  “I know,” she said, but she still clutched her fan in a death grip, as if she were afraid it might fly off without her. But when she glanced around and her gaze rested on the animals, her gaze turned speculative.

  Now what was going on in her agile mind?

  Since Miss Keithley seemed to have been appropriated by a gaggle of her friends. Kit remembered his duty. “Have you met our hostess?” he asked. When Belle shook her head, he led her over to Cora Bell and introduced them to each other.

  Mrs. Bell clasped her hands together. “Oh, how marvelous,” she exclaimed. “Another Bell. Are we related, dear?”

  Though she was one of the leading society hostesses, Cora Bell was a bit scatterbrained. Kit hid his amusement as he watched Belle try to mask her confusion.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Belle said warily. “My family comes from Ireland.”

  “Dr. Bell comes from Ireland, too,” Cora enthused. “We probably are related and you just don’t know it.”

  Belle glanced up at Kit, evidently looking for a clue on how to answer, but he could do nothing but grin at her.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Belle said with a weak smile.

  “Marvelous,” Cora Bell said. “And I have heard wonderful things about your language of the fan. Will you demonstrate it for us later?”

  Belle blanched and said swiftly, “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “No?” Cora looked as surprised as Kit felt

  Belle certainly seemed to enjoy showing her prowess the other night. What was wrong?

  Belle recovered quickly. “I mean . . . it would be impolite of me to monopolize your guests.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Cora said, waving away her objection. “I’m sure everyone will be thrilled to see it. No more excuses, please. You simply must demonstrate for us.”