Dancing at Midnight

by Julia Quinn

Belle arched her neck as he ran his lips along her tender skin. “I hope you haven’t conducted any other courtships with this particular brand of, er, persuasion.”

  “Never,” he promised.

  “Good.” Belle’s smile was equally possessive. “But you know,” she said, taking a quick gasp of air as his hand stole around and cupped her breast. “There is more to courting than flowers and chocolate.”

  “Mmm-hmm. There is kissing.” He squeezed her breast through her dress, causing Belle to squeal with wonder.

  “Of course,” Belle sighed. “I wasn’t forgetting that.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep that at the forefront of your mind.” John was busy figuring out the best way to free one of her perfect little breasts from the confines of her attire.

  “That’s fine. But you must remember, I won’t let you forget that you owe me a poem.”

  “You’re a stubborn wench, aren’t you?” John finally decided that the best course of action was simply to push the dress down and thank God that the fashions of the day did not require endless streams of buttons.

  “Not particularly.” Belle laughed softly. “But I still want that poem.”

  John momentarily diverted her attention by carrying out his plans. He smiled and moaned with pure masculine pleasure as he looked down on her dusky nipple, puckered with desire. He licked his lips.

  “John—you’re not going to...?”

  He nodded and did.

  Belle felt all her limbs go weak, and she melted into the sofa, pulling John along with her. He worshipped her breast for a full minute and then moved on to the other one. Belle was helpless against his sensual onslaught and couldn’t control the soft cries of desire escaping through her lips. “Say something,” she finally moaned.

  “Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?” he quoted. “Thou art—”

  “Oh, please, John,” Belle said, pulling his head off of her breast so that she could look into his laughing brown eyes. “If you’re going to plagiarize, at least have the sense not to choose something so famous.”

  “If you don’t stop talking this instant, Belle, I shall be moved to drastic action.”

  “Drastic action? Now that sounds interesting.” She pulled his mouth back down onto hers and kissed him eagerly.

  Just then they heard an agonizingly familiar voice coming from the hallway.

  “What a ninny I am to forget a warm pair of gloves,” Persephone said. “It’s so nippy out.”

  Belle and John jumped away from each other instantly. When Belle was not hasty enough in righting her appearance, John took charge of the situation and yanked her dress back up, practically to her chin. As they frantically tried to remedy their mussed appearances, they heard the soft murmur of another voice, probably that of the servant to whom Persephone had been speaking.

  “Isn’t that kind of you?” Persephone said. “I’ll just wait in the drawing room with Belle and her friend while you fetch them for me.”

  Belle had just managed to throw herself in a chair opposite the sofa when her chaperone entered. “Persephone, what a surprise.”

  Persephone leveled a rather shrewd look in her direction. For all her flittering about, she was no dullard. “I’m sure.”

  John stood politely at Persephone’s entrance. “Would you like a chocolate?” he asked, holding the box out toward her.

  “I rather would, actually.”

  Belle fought a blush as she remembered what had happened when John had offered her a chocolate. Luckily, Persephone was too busy choosing between the sweets to notice.

  “I do like the ones with nuts,” she said, plucking one out of the box.

  “Is it so very cold out?” Belle inquired. “I heard you saying that you needed warmer gloves.”

  “Well, it certainly has cooled off since yesterday. Although I must say it’s quite hot inside.”

  Belle bit back a smile. When she looked over at John she noticed that he had started to cough.

  “Your gloves, madam.”

  “Excellent.” Persephone stood and walked over to the footman who had just entered the room. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

  “Have a good time,” Belle called out.

  “Oh, I shall, my dear. I certainly shall.” Persephone walked out and started to close the door behind her. “Actually,” she said, blushing slightly. “I believe I’ll just leave this door, er, open, if you don’t mind. Better circulation of the air, you know.”

  “Of course,” John said. And then when Persephone was gone, he leaned forward and whispered, “I’m shutting the door just as soon as she’s out of the house.”

  “Hush,” Belle admonished.

  The minute they heard the front door close, John got up and shut the door to the drawing room. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m almost thirty years of age. I have better things to do than sneak around behind some chaperone’s back.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s damned undignified, I tell you.” He made his way back over to the sofa and sat down.

  “Is your leg bothering you?” Belle asked, concern clouding her eyes. “You seem to be limping a bit more than usual.”

  John blinked at the change of subject and looked down at his limb. “I guess so. I hadn’t noticed. I’ve grown used to the pain, I imagine.”

  Belle crossed over to the sofa and sat back down. “Would it help if I rubbed it?” She placed her hands on his leg and began to rub the muscle just above his knee.

  John closed his eyes and laid back. “That feels marvelous.” He let her continue her ministrations for several minutes until he said, “Belle...about last night.”

  “Yes?” She continued massaging his leg.

  John opened his eyes and stilled her hand by placing his own over her fingers. She blinked, sobered by his serious expression.

  “No one has...” His mouth opened and closed as he searched for words. “No one has ever defended me like that.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I didn’t see very much of them when I was growing up. They were quite busy.”

  “Were they?” Belle said, disapproval evident in her voice.

  “It was always made clear to me that I would have to make my own way in the world.”

  Belle stood abruptly and walked over to a vase, nervously rearranging its flowers. “I would never say something like that to my child,” she said, her tone strained. “Never. I think a child should be loved and cherished and—” She whirled around. “Don’t you?”

  He nodded solemnly, entranced by the passion and fire in her eyes. She was so...good. No flowery word could possibly be more descriptive.

  He could never be worthy of her. He knew that. But he could love her, and protect her, and try to give her the kind of life she deserved. He cleared his throat. “When are your parents returning?”

  Belle cocked her head at the abrupt change of subject. “They were supposed to get back any day now, but Emma recently forwarded me a letter from them saying that they were having such a good time that they were staying a bit longer. Why do you ask?”

  He smiled up at her. “Would you mind rubbing my leg again? It hasn’t felt this good in years.”

  “Of course.” She returned to his side. When he didn’t pick up the conversation, she prodded him with, “My parents...”

  “Oh, yes. I just want to know when I can ask your father for your hand and be done with it.” He shot her a cheeky grin. “Ravishing you in dark corners does have its excitements, but I’d much rather just get you to myself and have my way with you in the privacy of my own home.”

  “Have your way with me?” Belle asked unbelievingly.

  John opened his eyes and shot her a rakish grin. “You know what I mean, love.” He pulled her to him and nuzzled her neck. “I’d just like to have some time alone with you without fearing that someone is going to
walk in on us at any moment.” He started to kiss her again. “I want to be able to finish what I start.”

  Belle was having none of that, however, and wriggled away. “John Blackwood, was that a proposal of marriage?”

  Still leaning back, he looked up at her through his lashes and smiled. “I rather think it was. What do you say?”

  “ ‘I rather think it was. What do you say?’ ” Belle mimicked. “I say that that is just about the least romantic proposal I have ever heard.”

  “Have you had so many proposals, then?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  That wasn’t quite what John had expected to hear. “I thought you were supposed to be the practical and pragmatic one in your family. I thought you wouldn’t want weepy words of love and all that.”

  Belle swatted him on the shoulder. “Of course I do! Every woman does. Especially from the man she actually wants to accept. So devise some weepy words and I’ll—”

  “Aha! So you accept!” John grinned victoriously and pulled her on top of him.

  “I said I want to accept. I didn’t say I did accept.”

  “A minor technicality.” He started to kiss her again, barely able to believe that she would soon be well and truly his.

  “A major technicality,” Belle said in an annoyed voice. “I can’t believe what you just said to me. You want to marry me and be done with it? Good gad, that’s awful.”

  John realized that he had blundered but was too relieved to make amends. “Well, what my proposal lacked in grace, it made up for in sincerity.”

  “It better have been sincere.” Belle shot him a disgruntled look. “I’ll say yes just as soon as you ask me properly.”

  John shrugged his shoulders and pulled her back to him. “I want to kiss you some more.”

  “Don’t you want to ask me something first?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean?” Belle tried to squirm away from him, but he held firm.

  “I mean to kiss you.”

  “I know that, you oaf. What I want to know is, why don’t you want to ask me something right now?”

  “Ah, women,” John said, sighing melodramatically. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. If—”

  Belle punched him in the arm.

  “Belle,” he said patiently. “You must realize that you have thrown down the gauntlet. You’re not going to say yes until I do it right, right?”

  Belle nodded.

  “Then allow me a short grace period at least. These things take time if one wants to be creative about it.”

  “I see,” Belle said, the corners of her mouth tugging up into a smile.

  “If you want romance—true romance, mind you, you’re going to have to wait a few days.”

  “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Good. Now will you come over here and kiss me again?”

  She did.

  John came by later in the week. As soon as he had Belle alone, he pulled her into his arms and said,

  “Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

  Before I knew thy face or name;

  So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame—”

  “Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be,” Belle finished. “I’m afraid it’s your bad fortune that my governess was mad about John Donne. I’ve got most of it memorized.” At his disgruntled look, she added, “But I must commend you on your passionate recitation. It was quite moving.”

  “Obviously not moving enough. Out of my way, if you please, I’ve got work to do.” Head down, he tromped out of the room.

  “And stay away from the Donne!” Belle called out. “You’ll never fool me with one of his.”

  She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard him mutter a rather inelegant word as he shut the front door behind him.

  John made no mention of his impending proposal during the entire next week, even though he escorted Belle to a few affairs and called on her nearly every morning. She didn’t bring up the topic, either. She knew he would deny it, but he was enjoying his plans, and she didn’t want to spoil his fun. Every so often he would give her a sidelong assessing kind of glance, and she knew he was up to something.

  Her suspicions proved correct one morning when he arrived at the Blydon mansion with three dozen perfect red roses, which he promptly laid at her feet right in the middle of the great hall. He sank down on one knee and said,

  “Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

  And I’ll not look for wine.

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

  Doth ask a drink divine:

  But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

  I would not change for thine.”

  He almost got away with it. Belle’s eyes misted up, and when he said the part about the kiss in the cup, her right hand strayed involuntarily to her heart.

  “Oh, John,” she sighed.

  Then disaster struck.

  Persephone descended the stairs.

  “John!” she cried out in a delighted voice. “That is my absolute favorite! How did you know?”

  John lowered his head and clenched his fists at his sides. Belle shifted her hand from her heart to her hip.

  “My father used to recite that to my mother all the time,” Persephone continued, her cheeks rosy. “It never failed to make her swoon with happiness.”

  “I can imagine,” Belle muttered.

  John looked up at her, his expression sheepish.

  “And it was especially appropriate, you know,” Persephone added, “as her name was Celia, God rest her soul.”

  “Appropriate?” Belle asked, her eyes never leaving John’s. As for him, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “It’s called ‘Song: To Celia,’ after all. By Ben Jonson,” Persephone said with a smile.

  “Is it now?” Belle said wryly. “John, who is Celia?”

  “Why, Persephone’s mother, of course.”

  Belle had to admire him for keeping a straight face. “Well, I’m glad that Jonson wrote the verse. I’d hate to think that you were writing poetry to someone named Celia, John.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Celia’s a fine name, I think.”

  Belle offered him a sickly sweet smile. “I think you’ll find that Belle is far easier to rhyme.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I prefer a challenge. Now then, Persephone—that would be a poem worthy of my intellect.”

  “Oh, stop,” Persephone laughed.

  “Persephone...Hmmm, let’s see, we could use cacophony, but that’s not very elegant.”

  Belle couldn’t help but be swept away by John’s good humor. “How about lemon tree?” she offered.

  “That has definite possibilities. I shall have to get to work on it immediately.”

  “Enough teasing, my dear boy,” Persephone said, taking John’s arm in a maternal fashion. “I had no idea you were such an admirer of Ben Jonson. He is a particular favorite of mine. Do you also enjoy his plays? I adore Volpone, although it is rather wicked.”

  “I’ve been feeling rather wicked myself lately.”

  Persephone giggled beneath her hand and said, “Oh good. Because I saw an advertisement for a performance. I was hoping to find someone to escort me.”

  “I would be delighted, of course.”

  “Although perhaps we ought not bring Belle. I’m not sure it’s fit for unmarried ladies, and Belle tells me that I’m not quite stern enough as a chaperone.”

  “Belle tells you that?”

  “Not in so many words, of course. I doubt she wants to spoil such a good thing. But I know which way the wind blows.”

  “You’re not going to the theater without me,” Belle put in.

&nb
sp; “I suppose we shall have to take her,” John said with an affected sigh. “She can be quite stubborn when she puts her mind to it.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Belle returned. “And get to work. You have some writing to do.”

  “I suppose I do,” John replied, nodding at Persephone as she disappeared down the hall. “ ‘Persephone in the Lemon Tree’ is sure to be my masterwork.”

  “If you don’t get to work soon it’s going to be ‘Belle sends you to hell.’ ”

  “I’m quaking in my shoes.”

  “As well you should be.”

  John saluted her and then stepped forward and stretched out his arm, assuming a dramatic pose. “Persephone in the lemon tree—Sings to me indomitably.” He quirked a boyish grin. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re marvelous.”

  John leaned down and kissed her on the nose. “Have I told you that I have laughed more in the last few weeks than I have in my entire lifetime?”

  Wordlessly, Belle shook her head.

  “I have, you know. You do that to me. I don’t know quite how you’ve done it, but you’ve stripped away my anger. Years of hurt and pain and cynicism made me brittle, but now I can feel the sun again.”

  Before Belle could tell him that that was poem enough for her, he kissed her again and was off.

  A few nights later Belle was cuddled up in her bed, several anthologies of poetry strewn around her. “He’s not going to fool me with another ‘Song—To Celia’ again,” she said to herself. “I’ll be ready for him.”

  She was a little worried that he might be able to trip her up with one of the newer poets. Her governess had gone over only the classics with her, and it was only because Lord Byron was so notorious that she’d known “She Walks in Beauty.”

  A quick trip to the bookshop that afternoon had supplied her with Lyrical Ballads, by William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge as well as Songs of Innocence and Experience by a rather obscure poet named William Blake. The proprietor assured her that Blake would someday find great fame and tried to sell her The Marriage of Heaven and Hell in addition, but Belle had put her foot down, figuring that there was no way John would be able to find something romantic in that.