Many a time on the dais in her father’s gaming room, Belle had wished for the floor to open and swallow her up. But she had not expected that sensation here. Not at a modiste’s on Bond Street
Nor had she faced the possibility of Lady Melinda Draycott’s mother grabbing her daughter by the elbow and dragging her away, her words sharp and scornful. “Come, Melinda. This very minute. We do not acknowledge strumpets!”
“Bella, I’m so sorry,” her friend called over her shoulder, eyes wide with anguish.
And then Belle was staring at the shop’s closed door and Ashford was apologizing to Mme. Francine, assuring her he would make up for any loss of business.
“From that canaille?” the modiste huffed. “I assure you her business I do not need. A thousand apologies, Miss Ballard.”
Belle mumbled something, she could never remember what, and allowed Gabriel to escort her to the waiting carriage.
She would learn to deal with things like this, she vowed.
She must.
Slowly, Belle set down the novel she had been attempting to read for the last two hours—ever since she had given up expecting Gabriel’s imminent arrival and eaten the unappetizing remains of what had once been a fine dinner. For the second night in a row.
Had he tired of her already? Three days—no, three nights—was all they’d had before he’d slipped from her life without a word. Had the contretemps at Madame Francine’s given him a disgust of her? Or was he out carousing with friends, gaming, or perhaps gone off to the country to watch two bruisers beat each other to a pulp?
But without a word?
Belle bit her lip, tears misted her eyes. Undoubtedly, this was merely another lesson to be learned about the life of a courtesan. Ashford would do as he pleased, with no thought to her convenience. Or her feelings. Like his horse, his carriage, or his household servants, she served at his convenience. Belle Ballard, my lord’s “chère amie,” always ready and waiting in case he remembered her existence.
Well, bollocks to that!
A grim smile punctuated her profanity. Shocking words might momentarily relieve her tension, but once again the lesson was hers to learn. She was no longer Lady Arabella Pierrepont with a right to pride. She was Belle Ballard, bought and paid for, and here she would stay until the high and mighty Lord Ashford chucked her out the door or—oh horrors!—passed her along to one of his friends.
Was that what he was doing right now? Gaming her away because she was an embarrassment? Because he had finally realized setting up the daughter of a baron as his mistress simply wasn’t done?
Or had she put her training into practice so poorly that he was willing to walk away, turn his back on his investment?
No. It all came back to what happened at Madame Francine’s. Gabriel had been silent all the way back to St. John’s Woods, where he had bid her an absent good-bye, as if his thoughts were far from the moment. And then his carriage was rattling away, leaving a trail of dust until it rounded a bend and disappeared from view.
And not a word since.
Belle hurled the small leather-bound book against the wall, where it hit with a satisfying thud and plopped down onto the carpet. The relief was as momentary as her use of profanity.
After all Ashford had gone through to secure her services, he had found her wanting.
Three days as a courtesan, and she was a failure.
No-o, whispered her inner voice. Think, you ninny! Could the passion they shared have been any stronger? Had they not torn at each other’s clothes, melding into one body hard and fast? Followed by slow and easy, lingering over every inch of each other, making love all through the night, with Gabriel still there beside her when morning dawned.
But men were known to be fickle . . .
Not when she cost him a fortune, countered Belle, the hard-headed.
Therefore, something had happened . . .
And so back to Madame Francine’s, Lady Melinda and her mother, the Countess of Stoneham.
Anger surged through her. At Gabriel for his abandonment. At herself for being such a Cassandra, exaggerating what was likely merely the uncertainty of being a courtesan into a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Merciful heavens, however could the French call courtesans filles de joie? Girls of joy.
Clearly, joy was reserved for men.
Belle trudged up the stairs to her bedchamber, where she took one look at the empty canopied bed and burst into tears.
Chapter 14
Gabe lifted the silver cover from a plate on the sideboard and a whiff of kippers hit his stomach like a blow from a sledge-hammer. A wave of queasiness swept over him, and he bolted from the dining room, lest Hobbs, his butler, catch him casting up his accounts all over the Aubusson carpet. That’s what happens to gentlemen who drink for three straight days, his conscience mocked. Telling Hobbs to lock up the liquor was like locking the barn door after the horse was stolen. Nor did it prevent his suffering from all the bottles he’d downed before ordering Hobbs to lock the cellar.
Clutching his head, Gabe dropped into a wingchair in his bookroom, grumbling as he noted its revoltingly cheerful gold brocade. Never again, he vowed. Drink made an ass of a man. And solved not one jot of his problem, which still loomed over him in nightmare proportions. A storm cloud with jagged teeth, threatening to tear out his throat.
Arabella Pierrepont. Lady Arabella Pierrepont.
Belle Ballard. And he’d bought her with only slightly more eagerness than he would purchase a fine bit of horseflesh at Tatt’s.
Hell and the devil confound it, he’d made a right mull of it.
That night at Pierrepont’s, he should have taken the chit to one of his relatives if she had none of her own to offer shelter.
But Pierrepont would have demanded her back. The outrages against her person would have continued. Only by making Arabella a commodity could he save her.
But save her for what?
To be Lord Ashford’s mistress. Ladybird, bit of muslin, chère amie, fille de joie.
Trust the French to have more elegant words for it. But how could she be his dear friend, his girl of joy, when guilt swamped him? When he looked at her and knew he had taken a young lady of the ton—a virgin, by God—and turned her into a courtesan?
He, Gabriel Hartley Beaumont, Lord Ashford, heir to the Earl of Wythorne, had done this. And however vaguely he practiced his religion, he knew he was damned. And yet if he made the only reparation he could, his father would likely kill him. After all, he had a younger brother quite capable of taking his place.
Absurd. The ravings of an liquor-sodded brain. Even though he’d not had a single drop since midnight . . .
“My lord.” Hobbs cleared his throat. “You have a visitor. I told him you were not receiving, but—”
“But he was most insistent,” declared the Earl of Wythorne as he pushed past the butler, who cast an appalled glance at father and son and fled the room. “Foxed, at this hour?” the earl remarked. “Not like you, Ashford. What’s amiss?”
Gabe groaned, sliding farther down in the high-backed chair. “Surely ’tis too early, Wythorne, even for what is commonly called a ‘morning call.’”
“May I sit?” the earl inquired with rather more sarcasm than Gabe could stomach at the moment. He waved a languid hand in the general direction of a matching wingchair. “Are you capable of comprehending me?” his father asked after settling himself into the chair.
“Yes!” Gabe’s teeth ground together, adding to the pain in his head.
“I have been hearing rumors,” the earl offered. “More shocking than the usual on dits the tabbies enjoy so much. The sort of rumors, in fact, that even incite gentlemen to whisper among themselves.”
“And?”
“Cut line, Ashford! You know quite well what I’m talking about. Is it true? Have you actually taken Pierrepont’s daughter for your mistress?”
“His virgin daughter,” Gabe corrected. “And, yes, I’ve done exactly that.”
> “Good God!” The earl laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.
“Which is why I’ve demmed near drunk my cellar dry,” Gabe offered. “I had thought only to rescue the chit from the degradation offered by Pierrepont and his cronies . . . and here I am, caught in a web of my own weaving . . .”
“And the girl with you.”
“With three days of drowning in brandy offering no solution beyond the one that was obvious from the moment I met her.”
“Impossible!” Wythorne exploded. “There are a hundred ways to rid yourself of a fallen woman. I’ll have you free of the chit in a trice.”
“Ah, Papa . . . but what if I don’t wish to be free?”
Belle stared at the large box, which had just been delivered to the cottage and was now residing on the tea table in the parlor. Too small to be more than one or two of the garments she had ordered from Madame Francine, but truthfully she had begun to wonder if Ashford had canceled the order. She was quite certain Madame had promised a number of garments would be ready within three days. And the days now numbered five.
From her position on the sofa, Belle continued to stare at the fine box, handsomely printed with Madame’s name entwined in an intricate design. She should be thrilled, eager to tear open box and see what was inside. Yet her fingers seemed frozen in her lap. What was the point of fine clothing if there was no one to see it but herself?
Open it, idiot!
Hands trembling, Belle untied the bow, lifted the lid . . . pulled back the silver paper. Ah! How strange. She had no recollection of ordering a nightrobe in a soft shade between blue and green with elaborately embroidered flowers in the oriental manner. She held the garment up to inspect the full length of it. She had not ordered it—in fact, she was certain she had never been shown a swatch of this fabric—but it was magnificent.
Belle glanced back to the box and saw something else. When she picked the garment up, panels of fabric the same color as the silk of the night robe rippled and swayed. Scandalous! Belle’s eyes widened as she took in the design—a scanty bodice, embroidered with a single pink water lily which would call attention to the fullness of her figure. And from it depended a myriad nearly transparent panels, all of them open-sided, falling from just beneath her breasts all the way to her toes. Belle blushed. Most certainly she had never ordered such a shocking ensemble.
But that meant . . .
She quashed her surging hope. Ashford must have placed the order before disappearing off the face of the earth. Numb fingers dropped the nightwear back into the box. Belle’s head drooped, a tear splashing onto the silver paper.
And then she saw it. A folded piece of paper. Fine quality paper, sealed with a signet emblazoned in red wax.
Not from Madame Francine.
Hands shaking, she bent to pick it up. As she clutched the thick paper, she could feel him. But not the content. Surely if he were giving her her congé, he would not have sent garments for the bedchamber. Diamonds were traditional, were they not? A bonus for services rendered and a means to survive until the next protector came along.
Read it, you ninny! Belle fumbled her fingers beneath the wax seal and broke the letter open.
My dear Belle, my carriage will call for you at seven o’clock. Please bring this gift with you. Yours, Ashford.
Belle re-read the terse message three times. After five days of silence, this was all she got? Five days of doubts, fears, anguish, yet a gift of nightwear—naughty nightwear—was supposed to make up for it! She jumped up from the sofa and paced the room, anger sparking from every pore.
And jubilation. Yes, she had to admit it. Beneath a tumultuous mix of emotions, jubilation was winning. Gabriel might be oblivious to her feelings, caring not a jot whether he hurt her or not, but he had not deserted her.
He had not tired of her.
He had given her an exquisite ensemble for the bedchamber, one which laid open nearly every inch of her body to his instant touch. Belle shivered. She was hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Without an ounce of pride.
Untrue. She would wear his gift. And make him beg before he did anything more than look. Retribution. Even Gabriel, Lord Ashford, must learn Belle Ballard was not to be a doormat for him to wipe his boots on.
Seven o’clock. Belle glanced at the clock ticking away on the fireplace mantel. She had four hours to prepare herself. Carefully, she repacked the nightwear in the box, retied the wide ribbon around it, before ringing for the housekeeper and ordering a bath. As she ran upstairs to the bedchamber that had been so lonely for the past five days, she smiled. An enigmatic smile, which might have sent a shiver up Lord Ashford’s spine if he had seen it.
Gabriel did not arrive with his carriage. Not that his note had implied it, but Belle had rather hoped . . .
The evening air had cooled rapidly, and Belle pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. Why on earth would Ashford set her up in a cottage in St. John’s Woods and then want her to meet him somewhere else? Clearly, men were mad. There was no understanding them.
Belle peered out into the night. Mayfair? Oh, no! He could not be expecting her to appear at some gentlemen’s party, perhaps even a gaming party? Surely, oh surely, Gabriel would never be so insensitive. She glanced at the box on the seat across from her—the box containing that shocking nightgown. A wave of nausea swept over her. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Not Gabriel, her hero. Belle clasped her hands tightly in her lap, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed.
When the carriage stopped, all was quiet. A dark street, dimly lit by street lamps. No sign of other carriages or sounds of debauchery. But visiting carriages would wait in the mews, and sounds did not escape London’s solidly built townhouses unless the windows were open . . .
The footman, who had ridden on the box with the coachman, had opened the door, was offering her his hand. Maintaining a perfectly blank façade, Belle allowed him to help her out and escort her to the front door of a narrow townhouse, just like every other townhouse on this particular street in Mayfair. When the footman plied the knocker, an austere-looking butler opened the door immediately, as if he had been expecting her.
Or a whole host of guests.
Yet the house was as silent as the street outside. Belle followed the butler up the stairs and through a door to a drawing room. An empty, perfectly silent, drawing room. Except for the hiss of the fire in the golden marble fireplace. She had barely scanned the furnishings in burgundy, gold, and cream, all in good taste, when a voice spoke from the shadows. “Welcome to Ashford House, Arabella.”
His home. Gabriel had brought her to his home.
Perhaps his friends were expected later. Was she here to amuse a slathering bevy of so-called gentlemen? Provide demonstrations like the ones at the Academy?
He’d called her Arabella.
Warily, Belle eyed him, wondering if she could make it to the door before he caught her. But where would she go? They had already played out that scene and were now suffering the aftermath.
“Perhaps you would care to go straight in to dinner?” Gabriel suggested. “Cook tends to be a trifle volatile.”
Hands crossed over her chest, Belle glared. “What am I doing here, Ashford?”
He raised his dark brows, his face the epitome of innocence. “Because I invited you? Because I wanted you here?”
“After five days of total silence, you suddenly invite your mistress to your home. How lovely. Tell me, my lord, am I to be the featured entertainment for your guests?”
“Belle!”
She had to admit he appeared quite properly shocked. “Well?”
He pressed fingers to his forehead, his shoulders slumped. “I should have thought . . . should have realized . . . Not a word in five days and then I bring you here. After what you have experienced with Pierrepont, it was inevitable you would expect the worst. I am an insensitive lout not to have anticipated your fears.” Tapping his thumb against his lips, he shook his head. “Would you like to box my ea
rs?”
“No one else is coming?”
“No one. This is a night for only the two of us.”
Belle frowned. “But why here?”
A small, secret smile lit his face. “A surprise, Belle. One I would like to keep for later, if I may.” He offered his arm, and Belle placed her hand on it, allowing him to escort her to the dining room, even as her thoughts whirled. Nothing about this evening made any sense.
Chapter 15
Later that evening, as Belle’s feet dutifully followed the butler up the elegant curving staircase, her mind wrestled with abject mortification. Being Ashford’s mistress in a house in St. John’s Woods was one thing. Displaying her fall from grace in front of his Mayfair servants was another matter entirely. Truthfully, she couldn’t tell if she was blushing scarlet or pale as a ghost. Why, why had he brought her here?
Worse was yet to come. When the very proper butler—whose lips she’d swear were curled in disdain—ushered her into a bedchamber, Belle saw her new nightwear laid out over a bed canopied in rose silk. A young maid popped up from a chair to drop a deep curtsey. “Lord Ashford said I was to do for you, miss, while you were here.” A saucy grin tugged at the girl’s lips, echoed by a gleam in her eye that said quite clearly, I know what you are.
Armor, armor. She needed her armor. Not just against the men of this world but against all the self-righteous who could never, ever understand the steps that had brought her here. But why here? Belle wailed inside herself. Whyever would Gabriel expose her in such a fashion?
Lady Arabella Pierrepont offered the maid a regal nod and turned her back, allowing the girl access to the hooks and eyes down the back of her gown. She stood ramrod stiff, moving her arms with automaton precision only when required. The maid, seeming to sense Belle’s need for silence, stood on tiptoe to slip the scandalous nightwear over her head. Naturally, the pesky panels slithered every which way, some turning under and not falling all the way to the floor. Involuntarily, Belle shimmied, hips swaying, her hands fluffing the panels until they all fell straight and true.
Belle Page 11
