Using her most precise penmanship, Juliana wrote out invitations to a dozen young gentleman, all single, for an evening three weeks hence. Gabriel, Viscount Ashford was one of them.
On Friday evening, 23 August, I shall have the pleasure of chaperoning three highly attractive young ladies to Vauxhall Gardens, where we will dine in a private box in the pavilion. If you should pass by between the hours of eight and ten, I will be delighted to make them known to you.”
Juliana, Lady Rivenhall
If rumors of her previous successes had reached as far as she thought they had, that ought to bring them running, even from the far reaches of Yorkshire or Cornwall. The question, however, was: Would Ashford be among them?
Chapter 8
“Ah, this is ever so grand!” Holly cried as the girls settled themselves onto the velvet cushions of what appeared to be the most elegantly appointed of the small boats waiting near Westminster to ferry passengers wherever they wished to go along the meandering banks of the Thames.
Lady Rivenhall appeared pained. “Learning to look graceful while entering and exiting a boat is part of your instruction, Miss Hammond. We could have taken the carriage to Vauxhall,” she added in softer tones, “but the journey is shorter by water and I must admit to enjoying the view of the Gardens as we approach from the riverside.”
Almost, Belle thought, Lady R sounded human. Perhaps now that her pupils were nearing the end of their instruction, she felt she could reveal a bit more of her inner self.
The waterman pushed away from the dock, shipped his oars, and began to row. A smile tugged at Belle’s lips as they moved out onto the moonlit water. Something magical seemed to tinge the world around them tonight. Not just that they were in London, staying at a fine Mayfair residence the girls had not dreamed Lady Juliana owned. Not that they were dressed as fine as young ladies making their first visit to Almack’s. Nor even that they were finally free of visiting the British Museum, the Tower, and the National Gallery, or spending inordinate amounts of time standing on raised platforms in the backrooms of Bond Street dress-makers.
There was simply something in the air. Belle allowed herself a wry smile. Something far better than the questionable odors drifting off a river that tended to be the great city’s sewer. The excitement of the unknown? Perhaps, but that could also be frightening. What man was to be hers? Would she see him tonight? Who would do for Cecy, for Holly?
Fear had no place here. Not tonight. She was basking in the cool evening air, dressed in white satin and silver gauze, with faux gems that sparkled like diamonds caught in each delicate pouf of her overskirt. Pearls, the symbol of innocence at her throat and ears, brilliants nestling in bits of ruffled silver gauze sparkling among her long blonde curls. She had never looked finer. She was about to become her own woman. Not a “kept” woman, but a woman in charge of her life.
A woman of power.
“Just look at that!”
“Ah, marvelous!”
Cries of delight from her friends brought Belle back to the reality of the moment. “Oh!” Eyes wide, she could only stare at the fairyland of twinkling lights now spread before them. A thousand lanterns and torches, she’d heard, but it had been impossible to picture until now. For a moment her hard-headed determination wavered. Surely, in such an enchanted forest miracles happened.
Magic.
No, not for Arabella Pierrepont. Nor Belle Ballard. She had no doubt why they were here, why they were displaying themselves in such a fantastical setting. Vauxhall was the stage, they the actors approaching from the watergate. The drama was about to begin.
Gabe sent his regrets to one of society’s most acclaimed hostesses, refusing a dinner invitation most young gentlemen would have considered mandatory. He waved away an offer from friends to indulge in a game of Faro, and scribbled a response to an entreating note from Felice Lattimore, which said only, Perhaps very late. A.
And now, madman that he was, he was paying a waterman and stepping onto the dock at Vauxhall at nine at night. And all because, months ago, an inexplicable urge to chivalry had seized him by the throat in the midst of a debauched game of cards. Chivalry that had not extended to the only proper solution for the poor girl—marriage to the man who had spirited her away from her father’s house in the wee hours of the morning.
Made her a whore, guilt whispered mockingly in his ear.
Hell and the devil! He’d brought her to safety, certain Juliana Rivenhall would never force the girl. He had paid off Pierrepont. And yet he’d read Lady R’s invitation so many times he had memorized it. I shall have the pleasure of chaperoning three highly attractive young ladies to Vauxhall gardens. . . . If you should pass by between the hours of eight and ten, I will be delighted to make them known to you.
Curiosity was only natural, Gabe assured himself. He wanted to know what had happened to the chit, that was all. Was she one of the three, or had she long since been sent to a position of safety far from the city? He sighed. A terrible waste to confine the lovely Lady Arabella to the role of companion, reading to an invalid, organizing embroidery threads, running errands . . .
He could have stooped to asking Lady Rivenhall about the poor abused girl—the post was, after all, remarkably efficient. But, no, Viscount Ashford, heir to an earldom, dared not show interest, particularly in a girl who might still be considered eligible for marriage.
If the ton were not so vicious about its niceties.
Yet the poor, bedraggled girl haunted him. Perhaps it was the spark of fire he’d seen when she finally defied her father. Perhaps it was simply her fragile blonde beauty, his urge to protect. But tonight he would walk down the glimmering paths to the supper pavilions, lurk among the crowd, and find the answer to his question. That was all. He simply needed to know.
Ignoring the many feminine eyes cast in his direction, Gabe headed straight for the long crescent of private supper boxes, which were open on one side so diners could see and be seen. Sounds of music—Handel, he thought—drifted above the soft sibilance of the crowd. The smell of food grew stronger as he approached the private boxes. He slowed his pace, keeping on the far side of the broad walkway, hunkering down so he wouldn’t tower above the crowd. Swiftly, he scanned the supper boxes. No, no, no, no, no, and . . . yes!
Lady Rivenhall in the flesh, modishly garbed in silver gray silk overlaid by bands of black lace, her bronze hair shining like a beacon beneath a crystal chandelier. And with her . . . Gabriel drew a sharp breath, fisted his hands at his side, appalled by the intensity of his reaction. She was there, the little Pierrepont, displayed in all the purity of white and silver for any man who cared to look. And pay. Displayed with two others Lady Rivenhall had wisely decided not to garb in virginal white. Gabe narrowed his eyes at them, somehow annoyed to find Lady Arabella in their company.
The dark-haired one seemed to relish the role of courtesan-in-waiting, wearing a shade of green known to be the color of Medieval women who wished to offer themselves for sale, and laughing up into the eyes of one of London’s well-known rakes. The sandy brown-haired one, garbed in sky blue, was also smiling, her gaze fixed on another young gentleman of Gabe’s acquaintance. While Lady Arabella, looking as demure as a girl just up from the country, was being introduced to—
Blood rushed through Gabe’s veins, setting off an explosion that propelled him through the crowd and straight into the private supper box. Jason, Marquess of Longmere, notorious for debauchery from one end of England to the other, was not, absolutely not going to touch a hair on Lady Arabella’s golden head. Ever!
“Lord Ashford, how delightful to see you,” Lady Rivenhall declared, deftly adding him to her list of introductions. The names of the two unknowns sailed over his head, but Ballard? Belle Ballard? Lady Arabella Pierrepont was hiding behind the contrived name of a lady of the evening? And being ogled by not just these the three reprobates in the box but by every man passing by. Dear God, what had he done?
Gabe managed a bow, murmuring all the expec
ted phrases, but single-mindedness had him in its grip. “Lady Rivenhall, I wonder if I might have the pleasure of escorting Miss Ballard on a tour of the gardens. We are, after all, old acquaintances.”
Over strong protests from the other three gentleman, Lady R agreed. “It is nearly ten, after all, and our ladies have met a quite astonishing number of gentleman. So by all means, enjoy a stroll, Ashford. No more than half an hour, however.”
Half an hour? He’d need half a year to say all he had to say. He’d rescued her, paid her father for her freedom. How dare she choose the life of a courtesan? Grimly, Gabe offered his hand to help her up. She responded demurely, eyes cast down. He whisked her out of the box, maneuvering through the crowd, plunging down the first dark path he found.
“My lord! Go slower, I can scarce keep up.”
Gabe skidded to a halt, suddenly realizing that only ambient light lit this particular path, one of Vauxhall’s many accommodating paths for lovers. “I beg your pardon, Lady—Belle, was it?”
“Yes.” Her voice a bit breathless. His fault, of course.
“There should be a bench along here somewhere . . .” Gabe continued to pull her after him, though at a slower pace, until he found a narrow side path which led to a sheltered niche cut into the shrubbery. A very private niche, surprisingly unoccupied. “And now, my girl, tell me what you’re doing on display like a plum ripe for the plucking.”
Chapter 9
Sometimes, in unwary moments when Belle wasn’t concentrating with grim determination on her path to power, she had pictured the moment when Ashford would see her beautifully coiffed and garbed, a young lady at the pinnacle of perfection instead of the poor down-trodden creature he’d rescued from her father. He would be enchanted, falling at her feet, declaring his love, whisking her away from the fate she had so recklessly chosen.
But never had she anticipated anger. Nor gray eyes, as dark and roiling as an approaching storm, glaring at her as he plunked her down on a hard marble bench, airily ignoring her gasp of surprise. Arabella might have hidden the fire inside her behind the meek façade of a mouse, but not Belle Ballard. Ashford might be her hero, but heroes could have feet of clay. And, besides, she could never let him discover her true thoughts—the ones that made her so terrifyingly vulnerable.
Belle sat tall, raised her eyes to his, even though it took a bit of doing to ignore the rather remarkable bulge in his skin-tight pantaloons, not a foot from her face. “You can ask such a question after abandoning me on the doorstep of The Aphrodite Academy?”
“Abandoning?” he gobbled, looking close to an apoplexy. Good.
“What else shall I call it? A gentleman, on discovering I had no one to shelter me, might have taken me to a female relative of his own. A gentleman would not have thrust me into the arms of someone who trains young women to be courtesans. Which, I believe, makes you a procurer.” Even in the dim light Belle watched the peculiar play of color over his handsome aristocratic face. A pulse of bright red, instantly fading to cheeks of chalk.
“You didn’t have to,” he sputtered. “I’m not ignorant of Lady R’s ways. She would have given you a choice.”
“Ah yes, a choice,” Belle mocked. “A choice between an old lady and a dozen cats or a farmer’s wife. At the very best, consort to a midlands coal merchant.”
Ashford crossed his arms over his chest. “Honest positions all.”
“Honest?” Belle cried. “Would you care to retire to the country to spend your days reading to some ancient, or perhaps slopping pigs, feeding chickens, or enduring the stultifying company of those with no education and no conversation beyond their children and their husband’s successes? And do not tell me, ‘Woman’s work,’ for I’ll have none of it. I was born to the ton and, by hook or by crook, I shall stay in it. No matter how . . . how strange its fringes might be.”
Ashford sank onto the seat beside her, head in his hands. Silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant murmur of voices and faint rustling in the shrubbery, which could have been anything from small creatures of the night to couples enjoying more than conversation in the darkest recesses of the gardens.
“I fear I too had no relatives of an understanding variety,” he said at last, running his hand through his warm brown hair, suddenly looking more like a chastised school boy than a future earl.
“I apologize,” Belle said. “I should not have accused you. I quite distinctly recall telling you I should be eternally grateful and, in truth, I am. If you had not taken me from my father’s house, I would have been sold to the highest bidder—if not that night, then the next.”
“But the chance you take! I cannot believe Lady R would invite a man like Longmere to view—”
“She did not! She told us the moment she saw him approach that we were to have nothing to do with him. Ever. I assure you, he quite gave me the shivers.”
“And so he should.” Belle’s heart flip-flopped as Ashford lifted her chin. Flutters crashed through her, far stronger than anything she had experienced during the Academy’s demonstrations. He peered at her as if he would see into her soul. And she very much feared he could. “Have you really thought this through, my girl? Do you truly wish to give up the security of home and children, no matter how humble the father, to cut a swath through the society of Cyprians?”
No! A thousand times no. But she would. She would rise above all this, flaunt herself before the men who had ruined her, let them get a good look at what they could never have. And, God willing, manage an even more overt revenge against their callous disregard for her position as daughter of a baron. But how to explain, how to put off his fears, which were, after all, rather sweet? Ah, that was not easy.
“Very well, I shall confess,” she told him. “I am not so enamored of town as I would have you believe. But the life Lady Rivenhall offers is my only hope of acquiring enough money to live on my own terms. A cottage by the seaside, perhaps, where I am my own mistress, at no one’s beck and call.”
“Lonely. And a waste,” Ashford shot back. A loud explosion cracked through the gardens. Belle gasped, and somehow Ashford’s arms were around her. “Look up!” he told her.
Fireworks. Only fireworks. Belle sagged into his embrace.
“They shoot them out over the river so there’s no danger of fire, or anyone getting hurt.”
“It’s lovely,” Belle admitted. “I have always wanted to see fireworks.” Just as she’d longed for his embrace. Longed to feel safe. “Ashford?”
“Hm-m,” he murmured as the sky was lit with sparkles of silver and white, echoing the colors of her gown.
“The truth is,” Belle said in a very small voice, “I have taken a disgust of men.” All but you.
A shower of red sparks turned their faces pink. Ashford traced a finger from her forehead, down over her nose, pausing against lips that were fast fading back into the gray of night. “Then I fear you may have chosen the wrong profession,” he murmured, and kissed her.
The stuff of dreams. And nightmares. Ashford was the one man she could never be with. The one man she could never use, milk dry, and cast aside without a qualm.
His lips were touching hers, pressing harder. Demanding she react, even though she was as stiffly immobile as the bench she was sitting on. Her senses, alas, remained active. She drew in his warmth, the scent of him—manly, clean, and something indefinable that was all Ashford. Only Ashford. Her breasts ached, as if being pounded by a heart thudding so loudly it seemed ready to leap from her chest. Her female parts cried for more, even as moisture dampened her chemise.
She had known he was dangerous to her resolve. But surely, after all her vows of independence, she could not turn into a perfect nincompoop at the drop of a kiss. Even an Ashford kiss.
Suddenly, she was cold. He was holding her at arm’s length, staring in what appeared to be disbelief.
Devil a bit! He’d swear she’d never been kissed. Did they not teach this fundamental caress at an academy for courtesans? Perhaps it n
ever occurred to Lady R that this was an area where her students needed tutelage. Gabe gazed into blue eyes illumined by sparkles of blue and white far above their heads. He saw confusion. Hurt. A clear, What did I do wrong? He hardened his heart. “Are you truly a virgin, Belle?”
She ducked her head, clutching in her lap hands that had so recently encircled his back. “I–I may not be an innocent, my lord, but I am still virgin. I suspect Lady R plans to extract a pretty penny for me.”
Gabe winced but recovered quickly. “I am told she extracts no more than the usual fees of a young ladies’ boarding academy from the extortionate amounts she demands for her pupils’ services. Most of the money goes to begin a banking account for each of her students. Is that true?”
“Indeed. I anticipate starting my retirement fund with a goodly amount,” Belle declared as she hiked her chin into the air, her gaze fixed on the latest burst of multi-colored lights in the sky.
“Then be wise and do not spend it all on fripperies.”
“Fripperies!” Belle fixed him with a glare. “Allow me to assure you, my lord, that men shall pay for my fripperies. And the roof over my head, the food on my table, the clothes on my back, the gems I wear—”
“And when you are between protectors?” he shot back, temper rising.
She leaned in, her lips nearly touching his. “But I am so very skillful, so well taught in every aspect of the bedchamber, that no man shall tire of me for a very long time.” Deliberately, she brushed her lips over his, driving his already burgeoning cock to rock hard. “And I assure you that by the time any man grows tired of me, I shall have extracted enough jewels and objects of value to tide me over until the next fool comes along.”
Belle Page 7
