Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  He didn’t think it was possible, but Belle looked even more wan than before. “Later, perhaps?” she asked, making it sound more like a plea for a pardon than a graceful acquiescence. But she gripped her fan so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

  “Of course.” Cora waved her arms regally. “Now, go have fun.”

  Kit drew Belle away. “What was that all about?” he murmured for her ears alone as they strolled one of the paths.

  “I don’t know,” Belle said, placing her hands behind her back as if she were hiding something. “She’s a bit dotty, isn’t she?”

  Kit raised an eyebrow. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me. I meant, of course, what’s wrong with you?”

  Belle stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.” She glanced down at her clasped hands, more to avoid his gaze than anything else, he suspected.

  Odd—her hands were empty now, but she’d been holding the fan just a moment ago. . . . Glancing back the way they had come, Kit spotted the missing accessory under a bush alongside the path. “Ah. you’ve lost your fan again.” He retrieved it for her quickly, but when he handed it to her, she looked annoyed instead of thankful.

  Could it be the loss of her fan was deliberate? Curious now, Kit resolved to figure out exactly what was going on.

  As they walked the garden paths and chatted with the other guests, Kit noticed that Belle didn’t even attempt to use her fan as she had learned. Even when people asked her to demonstrate her knowledge, she put them off with a vague promise to show everyone later or used someone else’s fan.

  In the meantime, she kept her own firmly closed . . . except when she tried to lose it.

  It became an unspoken game between them. Belle would drop the fan when he wasn’t looking, then he would find where she had secreted it. Each time he found it and presented it to her, she received it with more and more ill grace.

  Though it amused him, he would have stopped the game if she weren’t so adamant about insisting nothing was wrong.

  Damn it, why won’t she confide in me?

  Then a new player entered the game. A woman whose name he didn’t catch stopped Belle. “Ah, Miss Sullivan. I hear you are a connoisseur of fans, as am I.” The woman spread her fan, saying, “This is a Paris original, with a series of charming French vignettes painted on it.”

  Belle dutifully admired it, but when the woman asked, “May I see yours?” Belle blanched.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “It’s nowhere near as splendid as yours.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, still friendly. “That doesn’t matter. I am interested in all manner of fans.” She reached for Belle’s. “I see your sticks are made of cedar. Is it painted?”

  Belle moved the fan out of the woman’s reach, placing her hands behind her back firmly but unmistakably. “Yes, it is, but you don’t want to see it.”

  “I don’t?” the woman asked, looking a little insulted now. “Why not?”

  “Because . . . because my sister painted it,” Belle said quickly. “I carry it because she made it for me, but it is quite hideous. Really, I wouldn’t want to offend your eyes with such a sight.”

  Losing interest now that she had learned the fan was a poor homemade article, the woman wandered away.

  Kit glanced down to ask Belle once more what was going on and noticed that she had angled her body so that her back was toward a rather large, shaggy white dog. He smothered a grin when it became obvious she was twirling the tasseled end in a rather obvious attempt to entice the dog to make off with it.

  But, unlike Miss Keithley’s cats, the dog wasn’t interested in feminine fripperies. Not when there was food around. He sniffed the breeze and bounded away, in search of more edible treats, no doubt.

  Kit grinned and reached behind her to take her fan. “Why don’t you just dip it in some sauce and feed it to the goats?”

  For a moment, Belle looked as if she was actually considering the idea, but as he started to open it, she snatched it out of his hands and looked away. “Why, what do you mean?”

  Taking her chin gently between his fingers, Kit turned her face up to meet his gaze. “What’s wrong with the fan?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not very good at prevarication, you know.”

  She tried to act indignant. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  He wasn’t having any of her distractions. Giving her an admonitory look, he said, “The truth, please. Why are you trying to get rid of it?” He cast about for a reason. “Does it have a hole in it? Is it tearing like the other one?”

  “No, it’s quite sturdy,” she said with annoyance he sensed was directed more at the fan than himself.

  “Does it not open properly?”

  “It opens just fine,” she snapped.

  Annoyed now himself, Kit said, “Can you not trust me for once? You’re paying me to advise you on how to get along in society. To do that, I need to understand why you’re acting so oddly.”

  “I’m not acting oddly,” Belle protested, but her heart obviously wasn’t in it.

  Sensing she was weakening. Kit said, “May I see the fan, please?”

  Belle clutched it tightly in both hands. “No, it’s too . . . embarrassing.”

  His eyebrows rose. Now they were finally getting somewhere. “Why is it embarrassing?”

  She flushed. “I . . . it just is.”

  He held out his hand. “May I see it?”

  Her blush deepened. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “It’s all right,” he assured her softly. “I’m not easily embarrassed.”

  “Perhaps you’re not,” she exclaimed, “but I am!”

  He continued to hold out his hand, and she sighed. “All right, but I don’t want anyone else to see it.” Looking both ways, she was evidently satisfied they were unobserved, for she pulled him into a secluded bower and reluctantly placed the fan in his hand.

  Very curious now, Kit opened the fan and hid a grin. The nude figures depicted there had no doubt given the sheltered Belle quite a shock. Especially since both figures seemed extraordinarily well endowed.

  He glanced at Belle in mock admonition, though he spoke in a low tone to keep them from being discovered there in their hiding place. “I’m surprised at you, Miss Sullivan—carrying such a lewd instrument And you say your sister made this?” Belle slapped his arm and he couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Stop that,” she hissed. “You know I didn’t choose it on purpose—Charisma picked it out. And before you say anything else, I’m sure she didn’t notice the picture either. Quit laughing and help me get rid of it.”

  He tried to control his mirth. “How? Shall I find a goat and give him a treat?”

  “No,” she said reluctantly. “With my luck, he’d chew off everything but the . . . the pertinent parts and drop it in Mrs. Bell’s lap. Can’t we just lose it in the bushes?”

  “And chance some child coming upon it unaware and getting an eyeful of those, er, pertinent parts?”

  “Oh, I suppose not,” Belle said, crestfallen. “What shall I do with it, then?”

  Kit slid it up his sleeve until it was out of sight. “Why don’t I just keep it for you until after we leave?”

  “Fine. In fact, keep it forever—I don’t want anything else to do with it.”

  “Very well, then. Shall I see if I can procure another for you?”

  “No,” she said, sounding irritable. “It’s already ruined my plan.”

  “Plan? What plan is that?”

  Looking aghast, she said quickly, “I mean my day. It’s ruined my day.” In an obvious attempt to change the subject, she added, “If Mrs. Bell wants me to demonstrate the language of the fan, she’ll just have to lend me one. Or perhaps I can borrow Alvina’s. What do you think?”

  He thought she was trying to change the subject. What was she up to? And what part did she expect him to play in her schemes? “What plan?” he persisted.

&
nbsp; She hesitated, then said with an airy wave of her hand, “Oh, you know. My plan to become a beauty and take the town by storm.”

  It almost rang true, but not quite. Obviously, she was lying again. In the privacy of their screened abode, he grasped her chin once more and turned her gaze to face his. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

  She glanced down and away though her chin was still caught in his grasp. When she moistened her lips, he sensed another lie coming. Moving closer, he muttered, “Can’t you trust me for once?”

  Damn, that came out more plaintive and with more intensity than he had intended. Belle’s gaze flew to his, and her eyes opened wide in surprise.

  Kit shuttered his eyes immediately, not wanting her to know how much her trust meant to him. But her face was so near and her skin so soft . . . He couldn’t help but let his fingers wander to caress her chin, to cup her cheek in his hand.

  He stared down at her and found her gazing at his mouth in wonder, her lips slightly parted. Her very kissable lips . . .

  He leaned down to capture those lips with his but froze when he heard a rustle in the bushes. He jerked away. Dear Lord, what was he doing? This was Belle, his student. He was supposed to protect her virtue, not harm it.

  He stepped back and glanced around, wondering if they’d been observed. The bushes rustled some more, then opened to reveal the dog they’d seen earlier, triumphant now with a chicken leg in his mouth. The dog gave them a wary look, then veered away and ran off once more.

  Kit relaxed. But his relief was short-lived as he realized how badly he could have compromised Belle. Unforgivable.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said swiftly. “That should not have happened.”

  Belle wouldn’t meet his gaze, but he could see that her fair, freckled skin had reddened, and not from the sun, he would wager.

  Gesturing toward the path, he said, “Shall we join the others?”

  “Of course,” she said and stepped out briskly.

  Kit berated himself. Not only had he almost gone beyond the pale, but Belle’s antics had distracted him so much, he had wholly forgotten his original purpose here—to search for a potential wife. Intending to rectify that omission immediately, he steered them toward a large group of people.

  Luckily, the most attractive of the local heiresses, Miss Helena Downs, was present. As were Belle’s most persistent suitors—Latham and Winthrop. The moment Belle’s swains descended upon her, Kit took the opportunity to drift closer to Miss Downs.

  The heiress was very shy, but by dint of gentle questioning and with the help of her friends, he was able to discern that her passion was opera and she planned to attend Colorado Springs’ new Opera House next week with her parents. Pleased with this bit of intelligence, Kit promised to see her there and made his way back to Belle.

  Latham and Winthrop were still hovering, doing their utmost to capture her notice. Belle looked pleased by the attention, but the abortive motion of her hands made it obvious she missed having a fan in them.

  Wickedly, Kit thought about offering her the one up his sleeve, but knew she’d never forgive him if he did.

  Suddenly, he saw her stiffen. He moved closer to discern her problem, and there was a sudden silence as the two men regarded Belle with expectation. “Did I come at a bad time?” Kit drawled.

  “Oh, no,” Belle assured him, though two bright spots of color showed on her cheeks. “They were just explaining their role in bringing me into fashion, and offered to do the same for my sisters.” She gave Kit a brittle smile. “Charisma and Grace are in such need of it, you see.”

  He did see. But obviously, these two clods didn’t. Insulting Belle’s sisters was one sure way to get her back up. “Ah, but I’m sure your sisters need no help from anyone. They are charming originals just as they are.” And his raised eyebrows dared Latham and Winthrop to disagree.

  Finally realizing their faux pas, the two hurriedly agreed with Kit, speaking almost simultaneously. “Oh, yes. charming.”

  “Original.”

  “Just as he said.”

  “Quite.” They practically tumbled over each other and their own tongues in their haste to get the assurances out.

  Belle gave them a tight smile and they must have felt forgiven, for they hurried off before she could change her mind.

  Kit turned to share his amusement with Belle but she was looking peaked and holding one hand to her head. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”

  “No, I think I have a headache.”

  And Kit knew exactly who had caused it—the idiots. “Shall we leave, then?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t want to curtail your enjoyment, and Mrs. Bell did ask me to demonstrate the fan. . . .”

  “I’m quite ready to leave if you are,” Kit assured her. He beckoned Alvina over. “Shall I make our excuses?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  But as they drove home, Kit recalled how skillfully Belle had deflected questions about her “plan.” He didn’t believe her protestations for a moment, of course—she was still a poor liar.

  Just what was she up to?

  Belle had put her sisters off yesterday after her return from the garden party, pleading her headache as an excuse. But now that it was morning, they descended upon her bedroom, demanding an explanation.

  Belle tried to ignore them by pulling the covers over her head, but Charisma ruthlessly pulled them away.

  Grace bounced on the bed, making the bed and everything else in the room quake and quiver. “What happened yesterday?” she asked eagerly. “Did you get revenge on one of the threescum?”

  Belle just moaned, reluctant to leave her comfortable bed and confess to failure once more.

  “I doubt it,” Charisma said dryly, placing her hands on Grace’s shoulders to stop her bouncing. “Or she would have gloated already. Something went wrong, didn’t it?”

  Since Charisma accompanied that observation with a poke in Belle’s side, Belle was hard put to ignore her. “Oh, all right,” she said crossly, sitting up to glare at her sister. “Yes. something went wrong—with that fan you picked out for me.”

  Charisma raised an elegant eyebrow. “What was wrong with it? It looked sturdy enough to me.”

  “Oh, it was. Too sturdy.”

  “What happened?” Grace asked, wide-eyed.

  “Charisma forgot to look at the picture.”

  “So?” Charisma said.

  “So it was a scene of Adam and Eve . . . unclothed.” She lowered her voice and gestured vaguely below her waist. “Explicitly unclothed.”

  “Really?” Charisma asked with a twinkle in hereye. “Where is it? I’d like to see what a man’s—”

  “Don’t you dare say it.” Grace interrupted her with a shocked look. “Or I’ll tell Mama.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Charisma scoffed. “I was just going to say I’d like to see what a man’s . . . parts look like.” She turned a curious gaze on Belle. “What do they look like?”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you,” Belle said vehemently. She could just imagine herself trying to describe that odd appendage she’d seen only too briefly. “And I don’t have the fan anymore—I got rid of it. You’ll just have to wait until you’re married to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Spoilsport,” Charisma muttered.

  Belle was unmoved. “Well, if you’d looked at the fan before you gave it to me, you’d know by now.” And Belle would have been spared the embarrassment.

  Charisma cast a speculative glance at Belle’s box of fans. “I wonder . . .”

  “Keep your wondering to yourself,” Belle said, jumping out of bed to snatch up the box and shove it under the bed. She had to do something to protect her sisters from the strange, warm, tingly sensations such pictures evoked.

  Or was it the thought of Kit’s parts that made Belle feel that way?

  No matter, she shouldn’t be thinking of Kit that way, anyway. “And from now on, I’ll choose my own fans, thank you very much.” />
  Charisma shrugged, pretending indifference. But Grace looked concerned. “Maybe you should give up on the idea of revenge altogether.”

  Belle had been thinking that, too, until her encounter with Harold and George yesterday. Why, they had the nerve to repeat their assertion that Charisma was overly bold and Grace too clumsy. Worse, they had suggested that all her sisters needed was a little guidance from them to be accepted in society. The scum.

  Belle scowled. She didn’t want to tell her sisters that and upset them all over again. Big sister Belle would take care of it for them. “No, I’m definitely going to get revenge.”

  “But how?” Charisma asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Sort of. Stanhope invited me to the Opera House next weekend. I’ll just have to put the first phase into place then.”

  “Really?” Grace asked. “You’re going to the opera with Mr. Stanhope? How exciting.”

  Belle had thought so, too, when he asked her in the carriage on the way home. That was, until he made it sound like yet another lesson in her ongoing attempts at refinement. “Not really,” she admitted. “It’s just part of the job for him.” She looked at the bedside clock. “And I’d better get ready—I’m supposed to meet him and Miss Keithley at Madame Aglaia’s in an hour and a half.”

  “And Mama is expecting us to go shopping with her this morning,” Grace said.

  So they left Belle alone to stew over her failure and plan her next foray into revenge. She anticipated no problems in bringing Harold and George to heel, but Kit was another matter.

  Yesterday, she’d almost thought she’d had him. He’d been so close, so tender, so on the verge of kissing her.

  Her heart beat faster at the memory and she had a strange fluttering in her middle. She’d been so eager to experience her first kiss . . . especially when he lowered that wonderful mouth toward hers. Then he had jerked away, darn it. Just when things were getting really interesting. . . .

  Every time it seemed he was getting close to falling under her spell, something happened to make him back away. Frustrated, she wondered why the man had so much self-control . . . and how she could break it. She longed to be in his arms, feel his lips against hers, get a peek at him without his clothes. . . .