Louise Allen – Regency Scoundrels And Scandals (страница 65)
Belinda gave a little gurgle of amusement, but her voice retained its anxiety as she probed. ‘So, before, you thought me too respectable for such things, and now you think me—what? All the words are so horrible. The reality of doing this is not at all the fantasy I had of it.’
‘I think that you owe no one an explanation of your behaviour other than yourself,’ Ashe said, meaning it, trying not to speculate about her fantasies. ‘You are not contemplating betraying your marriage vows, you have no children to shelter, no great public position to protect. You are discreet, you have honoured me with your trust—and believe me, I will not betray it. I have no attachments or commitments that I would be breaking. That makes you a private woman with private needs who is able to satisfy them. Nothing more.’
He would never have dreamed he would be having such a measured, serious, discussion with a would-be lover, but it seemed Belinda needed that reasoning. She was not doing it lightly, this was no whim. It made him reassess his opinion of the late Lord Felsham. Had the man been such a superlative lover that his wife was pining for a man in her bed? And yet, if he had not known better, he would have thought her a virgin, her responses were so innocent. The effect of knowing one man only, he supposed.
‘Then you will?’ she asked, looking up suddenly. ‘Be my lover?’ The intensity in her eyes, even in the shadow of the loggia, shook him. No, she was no natural lightskirt like her frivolous friends, who were separated from their sisters in the muslin company only by wealth and breeding, not by temperament.
‘I would be honoured,’ Ashe said, meaning it. That Layne fellow was strolling towards them, a very young blonde chattering animatedly at his side. Time to draw this to a conclusion before anyone commented on how long they had spent together. ‘Lady Belinda, may I call tomorrow?’ He dropped his voice to a murmur as the other couple came up to them. ‘Soon after one.’
Not tonight, then. The strength of her disappointment shook Bel. She was shocked at herself. What had she wanted? That Ashe sweep her up in his arms and take her to bed immediately? Find a bedchamber here and lock the door? Yes, of course that is what I want!
‘Certainly.’ Bel produced her best social smile. ‘And that time tomorrow would be most convenient. Thank you, my lord.’ With a nod to Patrick Layne and his partner, Ashe was gone, cutting easily through the congestion at the entrance to the loggia.
‘Lady Felsham, may I introduce Miss Steppingley?’ She dragged her attention back and smiled at the blonde girl. She was very young, very pretty, wide-eyed with shy excitement.
Bel shook hands and listened with half an ear to Miss Steppingley’s effusions about how thrilling it was that Mama had held this dance party and was letting her and her cousins attend, even though they were not out until the new Season. She caught Mr Layne’s eye and he grinned at her over Miss Steppingley’s head, obviously amused by the naïve chatter.
‘Shall we go back? I am not sure your mama would wish you to be promenading with a gentleman unchaperoned.’ Bel began to stroll towards the ballroom. If Lady Steppingley knew what her guest had just done, she would be far more shocked by her daughter talking to Bel than she would by her walking alone for a little while with the respectable Mr Layne. I am a scarlet woman, Bel thought. Almost. She shot Mr Layne a look that she hoped indicated that she was not suggesting he was an unsafe companion, and was reassured by a slight nod of his head.
Miss Steppingley soon found a friend to chatter to, leaving Bel alone with him. ‘That was probably very wise of you,’ he said, following the giggling pair with a tolerant eye. ‘She’s far too young and trusting to know the ropes yet. Not at all up to snuff. Very dangerous.’
‘For her to be with you, Mr Layne? Surely not.’
‘For me.’ Patrick Layne grinned. ‘The next thing you know with girls that age, they have decided that a little mild flirtation behind the potted palm indicates lifelong devotion and you’re in Papa’s study explaining your intentions.’
‘And have you ever been in that position?’ Bel looked round the room as though watching the party. Ashe had vanished.
‘No, I am glad to say. I prefer ladies closer to my own age.’ As she guessed he was twenty-six, her age exactly, Bel wondered if this was another of his indirectly flirtatious remarks.
‘There is your sister.’ It was better, she decided, to ignore it. Her brain was spinning too much to worry about Mr Layne’s intentions. ‘I must say goodbye.’
‘Do call.’ The poetess slipped a card into her hand as Bel explained she was about to leave. ‘I would be delighted if you would call and take tea.’
‘Thank you.’ Bel put it carefully into her reticule. This was precisely what she had hoped for in coming to London, to make new friends, to build a pleasant social life for herself. It was not, whatever she had fantasised, to take a lover. But she had—almost.
If Ashe Reynard had not had too much to drink the other evening, this would not be happening, Bel thought, settling back in the corner of her carriage and ignoring how badly her new evening slippers pinched. But Ashe had ended up on his old, familiar doorstep, and they had met, and something inside her could not stop yearning for him.
She had danced with several attractive gentlemen that evening. Patrick Layne was good looking, good company and, she was certain, discreet. But it would never cross her mind, not for a single moment, that she might want an affaire with him.
But with Ashe she had met the man of her fantasies, it was the only explanation. And if she did not follow her instincts now, she would never have the chance, or the courage, again.
‘Did you have a pleasant nap, my lady?’ Philpott placed a cup of tea by the bedside and went to draw back the curtains at the window, letting in the late afternoon sunshine.
‘No, not really,’ Bel said vaguely, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. Philpott, studying her with professional frankness, sniffed.
‘You will have bags under your eyes, my lady, if you do not get some sleep. London life does not appear to suit you. You look as though you did not get a wink last night either. You are quite pale.’ She leaned closer, frowning, convincing Bel that she must look such a hag that Ashe would retreat in alarm after one look at her.
‘Yes, there are smudges under your eyes, my lady, even if there are no bags. Yet.’ The dresser turned away, leaving her mistress to digest this ominous lecture, and began to tidy the dressing table. ‘Once a lady reaches a certain age, she has to take extra care,’ she added. ‘In my last position, try what I might, I could not persuade my lady to use Denmark Lotion. And look what happened.’
‘What did happen?’ Bel slid her arms into her wrapper and got up. Perhaps if she got dressed and had a walk before dinner, she could manage a short sleep after it.
‘Crows’ feet,’ Philpott confided bleakly.
Bel sat on the dressing-table stool and regarded herself in the mirror. Even if the ultimate horror of crows’ feet had not yet arrived, she certainly looked like a woman short of sleep. And that was hardly the way to appear to a sophisticated, experienced gentleman who was used, she had no doubt, to lovely, assured and vibrant lovers. Not to inexperienced ones who were too nervous to sleep and consequently were wan and heavy-eyed. To say nothing of utterly ignorant on the subject of pleasuring a man in bed.
The thought of pleasuring Ashe in bed, whatever it involved, had Bel closing her eyes with a breathless sigh of anticipation. Then she opened them again and stared at her pale reflection.
She tried to find consolation in the glossiness of her hair, which she had washed that morning. Philpott began to style it again and Bel was seized with a new worry. How should she dress to receive Ashe? Would he expect her to be in evening dress and for them to have a conversation first? Or would he expect her to be in bed? Or up, but en négligé? How on earth was one supposed to know these things? Bel worried, distractedly buffing her nails. There ought to be a book on the subject. Perhaps there was, and she was too ignorant to know how to find it. Poor Lord Dereham.
Ashe slid the key carefully into the lock and eased the back door open. The night was quiet, moonless, and here, at the rear of the house, almost totally dark. As he had passed the front façade on to Half Moon Street he had seen the candlelight flickering through a gap in Belinda’s bedchamber curtains. She was awake and waiting for him.
His lips curved in a smile of pleasurable anticipation, unclouded by nothing more than two glasses of claret with his dinner. He had returned to his chambers for a shave and to check there was no last-minute message cancelling their rendezvous and now he was conscious of the steady pulse of his blood, of a certain tightness low in his belly and the slight, pleasurable, frisson of nerves.