Only the ragged pulse that had leapt to life in his throat attested to Lance’s own disquiet as he stared after her with mingled feelings of regret and concern. However, he was relieved he had escaped from the dilemma and seized on his own instinct that the dowager countess was not serious in her threat to have him charged. He had also mentally listed all the reasons why he was reluctant to marry again—why he should not sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony with Belle Ainsley.
But as he had stared at the proud young beauty before him, he could not put from his mind that by his own actions, if the scandal did indeed hit society like the explosion of a thousand guns, he would have inadvertently, but effectively, destroyed her future. If not for his damnable pride, he might have broken his guise of stoic reticence and agreed to marry her. He’d be wiser by far to test the susceptibility of his own heart where she was concerned before he severed his association with her completely.
The simple truth was that he was strongly attracted to Belle Ainsley and she was far too beautiful for any man to turn his back on. Though his eyes saw the door through which she had just passed through, her face was imprinted all over it and the force of his feelings astounded him. He was quite bewildered by the emotion he felt in his heart. He couldn’t really describe what he felt for her because he didn’t have any words. All he knew was that he felt strange, wonderful, different from anything he had ever expected to feel or would ever feel again. It was as if he had spent his whole life waiting for her to be there, but marriage to her was out of the question.
On leaving Lord Bingham’s house, something inside Belle, some bright and hopeful light that shone brighter whenever she thought of him, faded and winked out of existence. But out of sheer pride she held herself tightly together around the emptiness, not wanting to betray the desolation she felt.
Belle thought she could not feel any more humiliated than she had on her last encounter with Lord Bingham at his house, but she soon discovered she was mistaken. He continued to remain a popular figure at any event. This was not so for Belle. In every well-to-do house—above and below stairs—there was a hunger for a bit of scandal. Those that had been present to witness her disgraceful escapade gossiped, and what they had to divulge about her visit to Lord Bingham’s house and the time she must have spent in his bedchamber, was liberally embroidered and flew like a forest fire from house to house.
From that time onwards no callers, no entertaining billet doux which she usually received from her admirers, and which she generally enjoyed reading as a flattering diversion, arrived at the house in Hampstead. Belle could not have imagined the effect it would have. Reluctant to go out, for the first few days she remained secluded within the house, needing somehow the security of the solid walls around her. But despite her selfimposed seclusion she had no doubt the whole of society knew what she had done and that she would have to face everyone soon.
Having abandoned her decision to go to Wiltshire, for she had no wish to be seen to running away from a situation that would confirm what everyone believed, the Dowager Countess of Harworth decided to sit it out. To Belle’s surprise her grandmother was sympathetic to the way she was being treated and not even her influence could persuade people to change their minds. In the eyes of the ton she had broken all the rules governing moral conduct. She was unfit company for virtuous young ladies and gullible heirs, a shameless wanton soiled and used.
Belle dragged her thoughts from the memories of the handsome, blue-eyed man who haunted every moment of her days and nights, and despite the despicable way he had treated her, she was unable to dismiss her hungering guilt at having actually enjoyed the things he had done to her. She was unable to blot out of her mind the exquisite sweetness of the moments she’d spent in his arms, the memory of his passionate kisses, of his whispered words of passion, for they kept returning to torment her, and she couldn’t prevent it.
Not to be defeated—and by no means having given up on Lord Bingham doing the honourable thing by Isabelle—the countess persuaded Belle to attend a function she had been invited to before the scandal became public—a ball at Lord and Lady Schofield’s house in Mayfair.
Belle shuddered at the thought of what might happen. ‘I cannot do it. I cannot face everyone.’
‘Yes, you can. You won’t be alone. I shall be with you and you have spirit enough to withstand what everyone will put you through. If you are seen out and about, it will help stem the gossip until the next unfortunate young lady falls from grace and they will lose all interest in you.’
And so Belle gave in.
Less than half an hour in the crowded ballroom, she was painfully aware of the extent of her disgrace. It was the first time since she had come out into society when she was not surrounded by admiring beaux. Those friends and acquaintances who did not wish to distance themselves from the influential Dowager Countess of Harworth were polite and courteous, but didn’t hesitate to cast scathing glances at Belle. She responded mechanically to the few cold greetings addressed to her. It seemed to her that the sun had gone out and that life tasted of ashes.
Heads turned, and she couldn’t fail to notice the censorious way people looked at her and whispered behind their fans. They had plenty of reasons to criticise her and she hated them all, loathed every prying eye. They were all strangers, brittle, sophisticated strangers, who resented her intrusion into their select society and who were relishing the mortifying situation in which she now found herself.
Determined to put on a brave face and keeping her head high, in a state of consuming misery Belle stood on the side of the dance floor, watching the dancers whirl by, while drowning in humiliation and making a magnificent effort to pin a smile on her face and avoid the malicious eyes that made her skin burn. Nothing of what she saw penetrated her thoughts, for her mind moved like a disembodied wraith through everything but the quandaries she faced. Afraid she would lose her slender thread of control and the tears shining in her eyes would find their way down her cheeks, her grandmother never left her side.
From a distance, witnessing Belle’s humiliation at first hand, believing he had had a hand in her downfall by exposing her at Lance’s house and mortified by it, Sir Rowland Gibbon left to seek out his friend at his club, to take him to task for feeding a beautiful young woman to the wolves, for in his opinion that stupid wager had been the beginning of her fall from grace.
Striding into the gaming room of the dimly lit exclusive gentleman’s club, which was not lacking for wealthy occupants willing to wager enormous sums of money on the turn of a card, Rowland found Lance just finishing an unsuccessful game of faro. On seeing his friend he stood up, the expression on his face dour.
Rowland laughed lightly. ‘For a man who is usually lucky at cards, Lance, you have a remarkably sour look on your face.’
An ironic smile twisted Lance’s lips. ‘Tonight isn’t a good night. As you know I normally find cards a pleasurable occupation, but tonight my concentration is elsewhere. Come and join me in a drink.’
The two men left the card room and seated themselves in two comfortable armchairs. Lance nodded to a footman to bring two drinks to their table.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, Rowland said, ‘I’ve just come from the Schofields’ ball in Mayfair—a splendid affair as usual.’
‘Then why aren’t you still there?’
‘I came to seek you out. The Dowager Countess of Harworth has taken it upon herself to defy the whole ton and introduce Miss Ainsley back into the ranks, which, considering what I witnessed tonight, is no mean feat. The object is to try to brave it out, but I don’t envy the beautiful Belle.’
With a grimace of annoyance, Lance leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass. ‘What has this got to do with me, Rowland?’
‘It has everything to do with you,’ he pointed out, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice blank as he crossed his legs in front of him.
Lance stared icily at his friend. ‘In what way?’
‘Belle Ainsley has been given the cut direct from half the ton. It seems grossly unfair to me that while she is being ostracised so severely, the unprincipled reprobate who brought so much unhappiness into her life should be enjoying such good fortune when her future looks so bleak.’
The glass in Lance’s hand froze halfway to his lips. ‘You exaggerate, Rowland. Miss Isabelle Ainsley is a beautiful young woman who is proving to be the biggest success of the Season.’
‘That was before she encountered you. Ever since it became known that she spent some time alone with you in your bedchamber, it’s been public knowledge that she’s used goods.’ Rowland watched with grim satisfaction as a muscle began to twitch in Lance’s rigid jaw. ‘It is a brave thing she is doing—showing herself in the face of so much hostility. Think yourself fortunate that the countess didn’t bring a charge against you for highway robbery. As a result of everything you have done, Miss Ainsley is at the mercy of the ton and will probably have to leave London and live in shamed seclusion in Wilt shire.’
‘Come, Rowland, you exaggerate.’
Rowland looked at him askance. ‘You really have no idea, do you, Lance?’
‘With the Season winding to a close, in the two weeks since I last saw her, apart from going to my club, I’ve immersed myself in business matters, for I fully intend leaving for Ryhill within days. And also,’ he added with contempt, ‘among what is amusingly called polite society, matters that concern you personally are never discussed openly—only behind one’s back. How is she bearing up?’
‘She isn’t—if what I have just witnessed is anything to go by. The first time I saw her, her sparkle almost knocked me off my feet—but now that sparkle lacks lustre and she is just going through the motions. She will undoubtedly find it hard to forgive you for the transgression against her.’
Lance had given little thought to how Belle must be suffering the ton’s rejection. Silently cursing himself, he tossed down the contents of his glass as if he wanted to wash away the bitterness of his friend’s verbal attack. He didn’t try to defend himself. How could he? What Rowland said was true and it brought home to him his own cruel treatment of that beautiful young woman.
Thoughts of his father came to mind. As his only male offspring, his father had sought to share his wisdom he had gleaned from his own experiences, teaching his son not merely with words but through example. Above all he had shown him the true meaning of duty and honour, which Lance had put into practice many times in his military career and his daily life—the same duty and honour that had been absent in his treatment of Delphine, but which he must apply to dealing with this situation of Belle.
As so often of late and to his absolute chagrin, he found himself once more beset by visions of her. He remembered how she had looked when he had come upon her in his room, the golden candlelight on her creamy skin, her softly curling hair about her face, and his thoughts brought to mind how those sweet and gentle arms had felt about his neck, and how her subtle body had curved into his own.
Though he had once thought himself immune to the subtle ploys of women, even though he had known her for such a short time, he had begun to think he would never be free of Belle. From the very beginning she had stirred his baser instincts. Yet much as she ensnared his thoughts, he found his dreams daunting to his manly pride, for whenever she flitted through them like some puckish sprite, he felt more like a slave than a conqueror. Although he’d have greatly preferred to limit her constant assaults on his thoughts and his poorly depleted restraint, he was beginning to suspect that, in comparison, standing firm against Napoleon’s forces had been child’s play.
He was caught in a trap, and unable to think of a means of escape from this dilemma that had presented itself, he felt the noose of matrimony tighten inexorably around his neck. If he married Belle, he would not come out too badly. But for now he was furious that by his own behaviour he was being forced into making a decision that was thoroughly distasteful to him, and not having the upper hand.
‘The way I see it,’ Rowland went on, ‘you have done her a great disservice. You have no choice except to rescue her from what she is suffering now. There is no lack of beaux at the ball, but not one will partner her. Good Lord, Lance, the lady could not be blamed if she took it into her head to hate you for this.’
An indescribable expression flashed across Lance’s face as he slammed his glass down and surged out of his chair. ‘I don’t intend to give her the opportunity,’ he replied in an implacable voice.
‘Now what?’
‘To the Schofields’ ball, but before that I shall recruit as many unattached males from the club who will be utterly delighted to partner Miss Isabelle Ainsley at the ball. I must also stop at my house to change into my evening clothes, and arriving at the ball I will speak to the Dowager Countess of Harworth. ‘
‘Really?’ This would be worth seeing and Rowland, determined not to miss such a momentous occurrence, shot after him. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Latecomers to the Schofields’ ball were still coming through the door, the butler’s monotone rhythmic tones rising above the noise. Lord and Lady Hazelwood. Sir Thomas and Lady Mortimer. The Earl of Ryhill …
Belle’s eyes opened wide and she blanched, not daring to look at the man who was the architect of all her troubles. There was a dread, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, yet in her heart, pounding heavily, bloomed an odd sense of elation.
‘I would like to leave,’ she said to her grandmother in a furious voice.
An odd quiet was sweeping over the room as heads turned to stare at the new arrival, and after they had had a good look, turned to look at Belle with raised brows. She knew exactly how their collective minds worked. They were eager to see what would happen next. Would Lord Bingham acknowledge her—or would he cut her dead?
Having no wish to wait and find out, she said, ‘I cannot possibly stay now.’
The countess read what was written on her granddaughter’s face. ‘Don’t even consider leaving,’ she stated quietly but firmly. ‘Get a grip on yourself and see it out.’
Looking towards the door, Belle felt her legs begin to tremble and a gasp rose in her throat, for clad in black evening clothes and wearing an expression of mild amusement, was Lord Bingham, the Earl of Ryhill. Her shock was superseded by a feeling of unreality as she watched him prowl the outer limits of the dance floor like some sleek, powerful panther.
Lance stood on the sidelines, a solitary, brooding man looking with a bored expression on his handsome face at the scene before him, and then he saw the tawny-haired goddess and his heart lurched. Though he made every effort to resist her appeal, he could feel the meagre store of his resolve waning. At times like these, he had cause to wonder why he had refused the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s offer of her granddaughter’s hand in marriage, for the only person he was punishing was himself. He couldn’t imagine the virtuous Belle being tormented by cravings of the magnitude he had recently been suffering. But marriage? God damn it! He didn’t want to get married, not to anyone. Never again.
Belle was looking at him, pale and stricken and very lovely—and furious. Seeing how the fashionable set shunned her and whispered about her, he was angry, but managed to appear superbly relaxed and smiled slightly before turning to speak to an acquaintance.
It was difficult for him not to cut a way to her side, but if he was going to make things right for her it was important to play out a charade and appear casual. Since he couldn’t stop the gossip about his relationship with her, he had set out to turn it about, to ensure the attention was directed in a way he wanted it directed. He knew everyone was watching them both, positively bursting for a firsthand on dit about his relationship with her and what actually had happened between them when they had been alone together in his bedroom.
He mingled with the throng, giving a nod here and pausing now and then to shake hands and speak with an acquaintance, but all the while never losing sight of Belle. His eyes followed the undula
ting sway of her gown that flowed and shimmered in glistening waves about her long legs.
Another waltz was starting when Sir Rowland Gibbon suddenly appeared by Belle’s side.
‘Come, Miss Ainsley, dance with me.’
He led her on to the floor and danced her into the midst of the twirling couples, and the fact that Sir Rowland Gibbon was championing her was immediately remarked upon. Swallowed up by other dancers, Belle breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe for the time being, but then a humiliating thought occurred to her and she scowled up at her partner.
‘I have been an outcast all night and suddenly you ask me to dance. Did you want to dance with me by any chance, or did Lord Bingham tell you to?’
Rowland grinned down at her, his face very boyish and amiable now he had bowed to Lance’s pressure and shaved off his beard. ‘Lance has much to thank you for. He regrets what has happened to you and wishes to make amends. He has asked me to tell you not to worry and that everything will turn out right.’
Belle’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Amends?’ She shook her head at the sheer absurdity of what he was saying. ‘He can make as many amends as her likes, but he cannot escape the fact that because of him I am well and truly ruined. As far as I am concerned, I want nothing more to do with that arrogant Earl. I would appreciate it if he would keep as far away from me as it’s possible for the time we are here.’
Chapter Six
Of course Lance had no intention of doing any such thing. A flamboyant young lord who had been drinking heavily latched on to him, and following his gaze as he watched Sir Rowland Gibbon dancing with Belle, he remarked, ‘Miss Isabelle Ainsley is a beauty, is she not? But then you would know, wouldn’t you,’ he uttered with a leering grin, ‘having had her all to yourself—in your bedchamber. You must have come to know the lady—intimately.’ Showing his lack of polish—and also his inability to hold his drink—he gave Lance a nudge and a knowing wink.
A Wayward Woman Page 13