Louise Allen – Regency Scoundrels And Scandals (страница 64)

‘Th…thank you. That was a delightful dance.’ She sketched a curtsy and turned to walk off the floor. The sets were already beginning to form for the next dance.

‘Lady Belinda?’

‘Yes?’ She hardly dared turn round. She had fantasised about physical desire. Now she was so acutely aware of it vibrating between them that it terrified her.

‘Might I have one word in private?’

‘Um. Yes…of course.’

Ashe guided her towards the loggia overlooking the lawns. It had been opened up as a cooling promenade for the dancers, away from the heat of the ballroom. There was nothing to worry about, Bel assured herself. With so many young and inexperienced girls in the company, Mrs Steppingley had made sure all the curtains were pulled back and the arcaded walk was well lit. Several couples were already strolling up and down its marble floor amidst potted palms and baskets of orchids.

‘This is most pleasant.’ Bel unfurled her spangled fan, realised she was positively flapping it, and began to wave it languidly to and fro. What is he going to ask me?

‘Indeed, yes.’ Ashe took her free hand and placed it on his forearm. ‘I simply wanted to tell you that I should have returned your key, and I did not want to mention it where we might be overheard. I apologise for not having dealt with it sooner.’

‘My key.’ Bel stared at him blankly. Despite the relative cool of the loggia, she could sense the heat of his body as he walked so close beside her. And surely he could feel the hammering of her pulse where her wrist lay on his forearm? Of course, the key. She made herself say something sensible before he thought her a complete lackwit. ‘You overlooked it, no doubt. An easy thing to do under the circumstances.’

‘No. I did not forget.’ The denial took her completely by surprise. They had reached the end of the arcade and she turned to face him, her back against the balustrade as he stood close in front of her, one arm raised so his hand rested on the column, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the company.

‘I do not understand.’

Ashe nodded. ‘No, neither do I.’ He grimaced. ‘It has been lying on my dressing table in full view ever since that day, being pointedly ignored by my valet. I cannot pretend to have forgotten.’ He moved away from her as though he was uncomfortable with their conversation and went to lean on the balustrade. Bel glanced down at the strong ungloved hands as they curled over the carved stone, then up at his profile as he looked out over the garden: classical, handsome, unreadable. Vulnerable.

She blinked and looked again. Whatever it was she had glimpsed, it had gone, leaving only a sense of aloofness.

‘I will have it sent round tomorrow.’ Ashe turned to face her again, his hands at his back bracing him against the stonework, his long, lean body making an elegant black line against the grey background. ‘In a package so it is not obvious what it is.’

Thank you, that would be very thoughtful of you. The right words formed in her mind, polite and cool and correct. Bel opened her lips to articulate them. ‘Please keep it,’ she said.

What? Ashe almost said the word out loud. He must have misheard her. Keep her door key? ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Belinda. I thought you said—’

‘I said, keep it. The key.’ There was colour flushed across her cheekbones and her eyes were wide, apparently in shocked disbelief at her own words, but Lady Belinda’s voice was quite steady. ‘You may like to drop in one evening on your way home. For a nightcap.’ She might have been inviting him to afternoon tea. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, surprised that he could focus on such tiny details while he was being so amazed.

‘A nightcap?’

‘To drink, I mean.’ Ashe nodded, fascinated. ‘Not to wear,’ she clarified. Belinda’s slender fingers flew up to seal in what sounded like a gasp of horrified laughter at the image she had conjured up. Her wide grey eyes became serious again in a second. ‘My staff will always be in bed by one. There is no need to knock and, er…disturb anyone. Just let yourself in as you did the other night.’

This was not an hallucination. This was proper, respectable Lady Belinda Felsham, the widow of a man of paralysing respectability, suggesting that he come to her home at one in the morning—for a nightcap?

It was not unknown for married ladies or widows to make it clear to gentlemen that they would not be averse to an affaire. It had happened to him in the past on occasion and he was equally skilled at pretending not to understand what was being hinted at, or at taking advantage of the opportunity for some mutual pleasure, depending on how he felt about the lady, and how territorial her husband appeared to be.

But was this sheltered lady really suggesting what he thought she was? Perhaps Belinda genuinely expected him to drop in for a glass of brandy and a chat on his way home from the clubs. She did not appear to sleep very well, if it was her habit to be reading on the hearthrug at two in the morning. And she was most certainly inexperienced with men. It must be his own desire for her that was making him believe she was offering her body, not her company.

‘Lady Belinda.’ He paused to choose his words with care. ‘I should point out that however innocent a late-night drink between two friends might be, it would not be seen in that light by a third party. It would be regarded in the worst possible light. It simply is not done.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Bel regarded him in dismay. ‘I am making such a mull of this. You see, I am not in the habit…that is to say, I am not used to inviting gentlemen to…Oh, dear. I should have asked Ther—I mean, a friend—how it is done.’

‘How what is done?’ Ashe asked bluntly, wondering if there was something wrong with the champagne. He was not accustomed to feeling this light-headed. Not after a mere three glasses of good wine.

‘How one asks a man if he will become your lover.’

‘Ah.’ Ashe took a deep, steadying breath. It occurred to him, distractingly, that the last time he had found it necessary to do so he had been standing up to his ankles in mud, a sword clenched in his fist while the French cavalry had been advancing towards him at a gallop. He was not certain that this was not more terrifying. ‘I was not sure that was what you meant.’

‘That I was asking if you would be my lover?’ She repeated the noun as though trying to become used to it. ‘Of course, if you do not want to…please, do say so.’ It sounded as though she was offering him a plate of macaroons. ‘I mean, I would feel awful if you felt you had to say yes, just to be polite.’

‘Polite? No, politeness is not a consideration, I assure you. Nor, believe me, is desire, or lack of it. I find you highly desirable.’ Ashe strained his ears for the sound of footsteps behind them. He had moved into this position for discretion; now they were discussing matters so sensitive they should be at the bottom of the garden, not in the middle of a popular promenade.

‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him from under her lashes, suddenly shy again.

He found his lips curving into a smile. Belinda was so deliciously serious as she accepted as a compliment what he had intended as a simple statement of fact. She should not have needed telling; he was still chastising himself for his loss of control back there on the dance floor. But the rhythms of the music, the sway of her body in his arms, her trusting surrender to his lead just made him want to sweep her away into a bedchamber and continue to explore those rhythms, that yielding, until they reached the ultimate conclusion.

If only he did not keep getting memory flashes of her lying on that damned bearskin rug, her hair tousled, her feet bare beneath a fluttering silken hem, he would find it easier to control himself. But it seemed he did not need to. It seemed, improbably, that the well-behaved widow of the most boring and conventional man in society wanted to take him to her bed.

‘Ashe?’ She was biting the fullness of her under lip; the idea of his own teeth just there made his loins throb. ‘You are frowning. I should not have asked, should I? I expect men always prefer to do the asking. Only, I did not think that you ever would and I have no idea how to flirt so that you would understand it would be all right.’

He wanted to touch her, lift his hand and touch the smooth curve of her cheek, run the pad of his thumb over the line of the enticing red swell of her mouth, but there were people all around them and preserving her reputation had to be paramount.

Ashe did not answer the anxious questions at once. ‘Let us walk. I do not want to attract attention.’ He turned, offering her his arm again; after a moment’s hesitation she took it. He had thought her almost unnaturally composed, now he could feel the tremor running through her, transmitting itself through silk and broadcloth into him. She was as scared of herself, of what she had just done, as she was of him.

‘It is not a question of preference, of the man wanting to ask,’ he tried to explain, returning to her anxious question. ‘Only, with you, it would never occur to me that the question would meet with anything but a stinging box to my ears. My mild attempts at flirtation so far have not been wildly successful.’