Blancmange. Belle nearly picked up the dish filled with the fluffy pure white dessert and hurled it across the room. Surely Cook had not been trying to be symbolic . . . after all, she could not possibly know she was creating a sweet for a virgin about to be . . .
A shiver took her, the fine hairs on her arms noticeably coming to attention.
“Belle?”
“I beg your pardon.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded strangled. Fool! You’re ruining everything! She had thought herself well-armored, a creature of reason. In these past few months she had grown from a dutiful child who obeyed her father to a woman of the world who could handle any situation. A conviction she believed. Until . . . when faced with the reality of Gabriel, Viscount Ashford, she had turned into a pudding as soft and quivering as the blancmange.
“You are not stoking your fires, Belle. Shall I find a typical English stick-figure in my bed instead of the woman who rang my bells so thoroughly just now?”
Belle gasped. The serving maid dropped the entire bowl of blancmange, showering the carpet in gobs of white. Fortunately the cut crystal bowl was sturdy enough to bounce off the carpet, rolling across the floor, still scattering bits of white fluff, until it fetched up against the baseboard, where it did a slow spin before spilling out the last of its contents and coming to rest, face down.
Gabriel stood, pulled Belle’s chair back, and offered a hand to help her up. “It would appear we should consider dessert of a different kind,” he remarked with considerable sangfroid. “Shall we?” He tucked her hand beneath his arm and headed for the cottage’s central staircase, without so much as a glance at the housemaid who had burst into tears, her apron thrown up over her face.
Belle balked. She was the veriest ninnyhammer, not only a disgrace to her chosen profession but a disgrace to women everywhere! She dug in her heels, pulling Ashford to a halt. “There’s no need to cry,” she told the young maid. “Accidents happen.” Belle punctuated her words with a sharply accusing glance at Ashford. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and find someone to help you clean up before the carpet is stained? And then we’ll think no more about it.”
Half a face peeked out from behind the apron. “Truly, my lady?”
“You may address me as ‘Miss,’ but yes, no more will be said on the matter. You will find I am not a hard mistress.”
“Oh, thankee, my–miss.” The girl dropped the apron from her face and scurried toward the kitchen.
“You think me an unfeeling beast.” Ashford, looking grave, stared down at her.
“Merely male, my lord. An overly privileged male, who was raised not to notice those who serve him.”
“I assure you I am well aware of the value of my valet, my butler, and my coachman,” Gabriel huffed.
“Do you ever consider their sensibilities?”
“Sensibilities? Hutchins, Hobbs, and John Coachman?” he muttered, staring at her as if she had suddenly sprouted two heads.
“I thought not,” Belle declared, as her outer coat of armor began to manifest itself and her inner core of steel straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and propelled her feet toward the staircase.
Lord, he should have known the çi-devant Lady Arabella Pierrepont was going to be a challenge. Was that not what he wanted?
Perhaps. Certainly, he was determined no other man should have her.
At least she had recovered from whatever ailed her at supper. A sudden crisis of nerves, no doubt. After what happened in the parlor, it was a bit difficult to remember she was allegedly a virgin.
The truth of which he was about to discover for himself.
The bedchamber, Gabe was pleased to see, was as spacious as he remembered. And perfectly appointed in the colors he had specified. Varying shades of blue, with accents of green and white. The huge bed was draped for summer, with nearly transparent gauze in a color the ladies called azure. The counterpane white, embroidered in azure and leaf green. The rest of the room blurred as he focused on the bed. “My turn,” he murmured, as he spun Belle around and went to work divesting her of her gown with the expertise of long experience. Not even her stays gave him pause. And all the while she stood there, like a child’s doll and let him do it.
When all but her chemise, stockings, and slippers were pooled about her feet, he paused. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he told her. As if he were a puppeteer pulling the strings, she did exactly as told. Gabe knelt and slipped off shoes that were as small and elegant as their owner. Her breath caught as he shoved the skirt of her chemise up above her left knee and began to work her garter down her leg. Was she feeling the same excitement he was? Or was she recalling the sick terror of moments like this at Pierrepont house?
Surely not after what they had shared earlier that night. Belle was his, all his. Gabe’s fingers lingered as he rolled her stocking down, deliberately brushing her leg with his fingertips. He glanced up, catching her biting her lip, eyes closed. Her bosom, rosy tits clearly visible beneath the thin linen chemise, rose and fell in the erratic rhythm of passion. Lust pinnacled, seizing control. Gabe fumbled the second garter, tore off the second stocking. His boots, always a problem, came next, flying off as if they had taken wings. He thought he heard a seam rip as he tore off his tight-fitted coat. Who cared? His cravat fluttered to the floor, his shirt nearly took off his ears as he skimmed it over his head. Pantaloons, drawers . . .
At a slight noise from the bed, he paused with his hands scrabbling at his left sock. Belle was sitting upright, the counterpane pulled up to her chin, simply staring. At him. But surely she’d seen a naked man before. He had, after all, heard tales of the Aphrodite Academy’s graphic instruction methods.
But she had not seen him before. At least not much of him. Only the essential bits.
Gabe flicked off the last sock, tossing it helter-skelter after his boots. He faced the bed, a questioning smile tugging at his lips. Well, my lovely Belle, what do you think? Am I worth what you’ve been through to arrive at this moment?
Hell and the devil! What if the answer was no? Their acquaintance so far had not been full of sweetness and light.
Not a sign of smile. Or approbation of any kind. He should approach the bed, show her all the delights she had yet to experience, yet he stood there like a great gawk, knowing this was all wrong. He should have married the girl.
This should have been his wedding night.
And then a light the strength of the noontime sun broke through the room’s dim light: Belle smiled at him. “You’ll catch your death out there in the cold.” She wiggled once, twice, moving farther away from the edge of the bed. Gabe was about to protest when she folded back the counterpane, revealing the naked length of her exposed against the pristine white sheets. He goggled. He had no idea when she’d rid herself of the chemise—which made it painfully clear she still had him by the bollocks—but at the moment it didn’t matter. Not one whit. He plunged into the warmth of the space she had just vacated and rolled her into his arms. Flesh to flesh from lips to toes. He inhaled the scent of her, groaning as his engorged erection rubbed against her inner thigh. Never, ever, had he felt so eager. Or so inadequate.
Perhaps, contrary to Belle’s accusations, he was developing sensitivity, after all.
Chapter 13
Belle went still as a mouse, mimicking Gabriel’s sudden transformation to stone. Hands that had reached out to encircle his back fell to her sides. Yet the press of flesh to flesh was so startling, so exciting, so magically wonderful that her brain nearly ceased to function. No wonder the poets rhapsodized . . . and wailed. How sweet the touch, how sore the loss . . .
The great weight rolled off her, leaving her chilled. Horrified. What had she done wrong now? A swift glance assured her his shaft had not wilted, so why . . .?
“Belle, are you afraid of me?”
Afraid? Terrified, more like. But only of revealing how much she cared. “Only that I might not please you,” she murmured.
“And if I told
you I am afraid . . . that I’ve never been with a virgin before?”
Startled, Belle turned her head to face him, finding he was nearly nose to nose with her, gray eyes boring into hers. The inches between them crackled with that strange something men of science called electricity. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She sucked in a sharp breath as her gaze fixed on his lips, slightly parted, as if he too were finding it difficult to breathe.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, even though her head seemed full of feathers and she couldn’t tell if her words actually came out. “Lady R told me it likely wouldn’t be bliss the first time. So did Hol—the other girls. The secret, they said, was to proceed slowly.”
“Ah.” His gaze fixed on the gauzy canopy overhead, Gabriel said, “My upper head understands, Belle, but I have doubts about my nether one. It is overeager, you see. Panting for the dark and damp of its precious home.” Belle gulped as his fingers tip-toed down her belly, coming to rest, teasingly, in her mound of short curls. Lips touched her breast, resting lightly on her nipple before beginning a gentle tug, as if after mother’s milk. His tongue followed, licking away the moisture. A tug, a lick. Tug. Belle felt an answering response in her belly. In her womb?
Ah, no, it was happening just as she’d feared. He had barely touched her, and she was his. Willing, eager for anything he might do. What a fine, hard-headed courtesan she was. Putty in his hands, to mold as he would.
And then the hand on her mound moved again, the fingers delving into her cleft. A murmur of satisfaction sounded in her ear. “Already moist,” he whispered. “You are a treasure, my girl. “Moisture decreases the pain, or so I’ve been told.”
Belle’s body, seemingly of its own volition, went stiff as a tree trunk. Was he going to do it now? She stifled a sigh of relief when he turned his attention to her other breast, resuming his sensual rhythm until once again her body softened to pudding and her womb echoed the tug of his lips. Ah! His mouth moved down, his tongue flicking, teasing its way over her belly, through her short curls, just as she had been so shocked to see . . .
No matter. Nothing mattered but Gabriel. And the riot of feelings he was creating inside her. Heat, light, desire, longing. Demanding. His mouth was on her, flicking his tongue into all that moisture. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She could only feel the rising excitement, the want, the need . . . Her body exploded into ripples of passion far greater than any she had managed by herself. Ah, Gabriel, Gabriel.
But as her body quieted—anguish. Gabriel, I hate you for branding me yours. For exercising a power I can’t deny.
He rose above her, shoved her knees high, and plunged into her. The pain in her broken hymen was so much less than the pain in her heart, Belle scarcely felt it. Such a little thing to make a great fuss about. She was his from the moment they met, her innocence long gone before Gabriel, Lord Ashford, pounded into her, pouring out his seed, capturing her soul. She clasped her arms around his muscular, sweaty body, now collapsed on top of her and held on tight. Gabriel. Hers. If this was to be her fate, she would accept it, heartbreak and all.
Not three minutes into their carriage ride from St. John’s Woods to Bond Street, where Ashford declared he would commission an entire new wardrobe for her, Belle gave up all pretense of worldly disinterest in her surroundings. Pressing her nose to the glass, she stared in eager delight as houses grew closer and closer together until, as they crossed Marylebone Road, they blossomed into tall townhouses, each connected to the other. Mayfair. Her part of London.
Belle frowned. Unlike Lady R, who managed to remain balanced on the edge of respectability, she could never return. Except to parade at the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, along with London’s other impeccably arrayed courtesans. A small sigh escaped her.
“You are not looking forward to acquiring new finery?” Gabriel asked, though she could hear the amusement in his tone.
“Merely an acknowledgment of a life well lost.”
“Ah.” An enigmatic sound Belle found impossible to interpret.
The carriage slowed as traffic increased, and all the sights, sounds, and smells of town rose around them. Fortunately, except for the ever-present odor of manure, all of them at their best in this, the most elegant part of London. Past Green Park . . . Bond Street at last. The carriage drew up before an establishment with a discreet brass sign, stating, Madame Francine, Modiste. The proprietor, to Belle’s surprise, turned out to be a genuine Frenchwoman who, Gabriel told her, had been forced to earn her bread through her gift for design after fleeing from the Terror. Small and dark-haired, with pride shining from eyes that matched her hair, Mme. Francine welcomed Miss Ballard as if she were a duchess. Belle swallowed a sigh of relief. One small worry averted.
Of course part of the gleam in Madame’s eyes, Belle suspected, was pure avarice. For Ashford was ordering an entire new wardrobe, from the skin out. Only hats, gloves, and slippers would be acquired elsewhere. As Belle began to follow Mme. Francine into a backroom, she noticed Gabriel on her heels. Stopping abruptly, she hissed, “Surely you are not coming with me?”
He shook his head, a slow grin spreading over his handsome face. “My dear girl, you cannot expect me to pay for garments I have not seen.” Ignoring her outraged huff, he added, “And besides, if I know you, you will order one day gown, one evening gown, perhaps a riding habit, and be done with it.” He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “You are not a proper courtesan, my pet. You are supposed to spend my blunt freely on every gown and frippery imaginable, and then demand sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds to match each outfit.”
“You, my lord, are abominable,” Belle declared, giving him a look that could have stopped a runaway carriage.
“I, my girl, am the besotted swain who wishes to lavish gifts upon you. And you, Miss Ballard, will accept every last one of them with a gracious spirit that would make Lady R proud.”
“Miss Ballard?” Mme. Francine’s well-timed interruption put a damper on both tempers. With one last fulminating look, Belle followed the modiste through a heavy brocaded curtain into the showroom. Every step she took, she could feel Gabriel breathing down her neck—the titled, and arrogantly entitled, gentleman establishing his power over every aspect of her life. Silently, Belle intoned a few expletives she had overheard at her father’s card parties.
Measurements, while wearing nothing more than her chemise and stays, were taken behind an Oriental screen, thank heavens. Disrobing in front of Gabriel in the privacy of her bedchamber was one thing, but here, where it would proclaim her status to the world . . . Belle shuddered.
Not that Mme. Francine and her minions had any doubts about why Lord Ashford was purchasing clothing for Miss Belle Ballard . . .
Facing a blank wall while the tape measure was whipped about her hips and muttered inches dutifully recorded, Belle allowed herself a wince. Somehow she had not thought the problem through. She had pictured her life as a courtesan as something involving only two people, never considering she must interact with others on a daily basis. At Madame Francine’s, at the milliner’s, the haberdasher’s, the shoemaker’s. And at each shop on Bond Street, where she might meet former acquaintances, people who knew Lady Arabella Pierrepont.
And if they drove in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five, the likelihood of meeting former acquaintances was even greater.
Suddenly, she was undone, the shell she had wrapped around herself with such determination shattering into a thousand pieces. She should have settled for reading to an invalid in Cornwall, a spinster with cats in Yorkshire. No, not far enough away. Perhaps Northumberland, the Highlands, Ireland, even Jamaica or the Canadas . . .
Somehow she was dressed and sitting next to Ashford at a long table, being presented with an array of sketches and so many swatches of fabric that her head whirled, refusing to take in the deluge of information. No! Doubts she would not tolerate. She had made her choice and she would live with it.
Slowly, painstakingly, Belle gathered t
he scattered bits of her defenses and fitted her armor back in place. Enough at least to examine Mme. Francine’s sketches with some intelligence, select the proper fabric for each one, while paying judicious attention to Gabriel’s suggestions, which were surprisingly astute. For a man. Hopefully, he had not noticed her moments of panic. Nor the glint of determination in her eye as she recovered, using visions of their private moments to bolster her courage. Perhaps he would attribute her rosy cheeks to the showroom’s warmth . . .
But beneath Belle’s renewed façade the truth pulsed loud and clear. As a courtesan, Ashford was hers. As Lady Arabella Pierrepont, she was tarnished goods, merely the recipient of Lord Ashford’s desire to play Lord Bountiful.
But you’ve known that all along, you silly twit!
Not really. Only now was the truth sinking in. Her desire for revenge had blinded her, the shards of ice in her heart keeping the concept of love at bay. She was trapped between two worlds. As the old saying went, she was neither fish nor fowl nor rare roast beef. The ice might be melting, hate fading in the wake of passion, but here she was, quite thoroughly ruined, with no hope of redemption.
Lord Ashford’s bit of muslin. Not Lady Ashford.
Never Lady Ashford.
“Come, Belle.” Gabriel’s soft words, his firm grip on her arm, brought her crashing back to the showroom, eyes widening as she realized just how far away she had drifted.
Madame Francine, clearly exuberant over the number of items Ashford had ordered, led them back through the brocade curtain into establishment’s small waiting room.
“Arabella!” A young lady of Belle’s own age dashed toward her, exclaiming, “Where have you been, Bella? I’ve missed you dreadfully. Mary, Liz, and I have been frightfully worried. Oh, I am so delighted to see you!”
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