‘Terrified,’ she amended, pinning a smile to her lips. ‘Everyone is looking at us.’
‘Belle,’ he said severely, but with a dazzling smile for the benefit of the onlookers, ‘you are the young woman who brazenly entered my bedchamber and threatened to break my hands if I dared to touch you.’
Belle stared at him askance. ‘Did I really say that?’
He grinning down at her. ‘Every word. So do not dare turn cowardly now.’
Her mouth suddenly dry, Belle glanced around at the curious faces, some craning their necks better to see her. ‘I’ll try not to,’ she replied, ‘but it won’t be easy. Don’t they know that it’s impolite to stare?’
‘Probably not. Ignore them,’ Lance quipped, unlike her completely impervious to the stir they were creating. When the countess was approached by an acquaintance and invited to sit with her, he took two glances of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. His bold admiring gaze swept over Belle’s face, and then he lifted his glass and gave her a subtle toast.
It was all sweetly poignant, and Belle, beginning to relax, no longer cared a whit about any other reason for being there other than it was to celebrate their engagement. It seemed to take an age for them to reach the dance floor, because they were interrupted at every step by someone insisting on a friendly word.
They partnered only each other, waltzing with effortless ease, and in his arms Belle glowed and sparkled and reigned like a young queen. Lance’s recent kiss, the husky sound of his voice, the way he held her in the dance, they were like sweet music playing through her heart. He was daring and bold and passionate, and Belle had no objections, but through it all she felt a certain amount of unease, for she sensed Lance was being like this for her benefit, and that behind that smiling façade he remained guarded and resentful of being drawn into a situation he might have cause to regret.
‘You look radiant tonight, and very beautiful,’ he said, studying her upturned face closely. ‘You appear to be happy with the situation, Belle.’
‘I am—very happy—but I am also apprehensive,’ she confessed.
‘You are? Why?’
‘Because I’m afraid it might all go terribly wrong.’
‘And why should it do that?’
Her gaze fell from his and she looked at his frilled white shirt front. ‘I’m being silly, I know, but it’s a feeling I have.’
‘This is what you want, isn’t it—marriage to me?’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘Yes—of course.’ She meant what she said, but the apprehension that occupied a small corner of her mind would not go away. ‘But—is it what you want, Lance?’
He looked away from her, his face guarded. ‘Of course,’ he replied, his answer brusque, as the strains of the waltz died. ‘This is the last social event we will attend before I have to leave for Ryhill and you for Harworth. Will you mind leaving all the glamour and sparkle of the Season behind for the solitude of the country?’
‘Not really,’ Belle replied quietly, disappointed by his unconvincing response to her question, but in no mood to take him to task over it just then. ‘I shall be happy to go. Besides I am looking forward to seeing Harworth.’
‘And Ryhill—of which you shall be mistress of very soon.’
‘I know—and thank you, Lance.’
His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Then since the dance has ended, I think it is time for us to leave.’
‘Yes,’ Belle replied, realising he was uncomfortable with her gratitude.
‘Might I suggest that, if your grandmother would care to leave for Harworth earlier than planned, we could travel to Wiltshire together?’
‘You needn’t put yourself to so much trouble. Besides we have things to do for the wedding before we can leave for Harworth.’
‘As you wish.’
After he escorted Belle and the countess back to Hampstead, when her grandmother went inside the house Belle said a quiet goodnight to Lance. He stood looking down at her a long moment, and after kissing her lightly on the lips—which was more like a duty kiss than of the passionate kind she was becoming accustomed to, Belle thought with a surge of disappointment—he turned on his heel, walking with long strides back to the carriage.
Belle followed his tall, powerful form with her gaze until he had climbed in and told the driver to move on. Her expression was wistful, her yearning for him written on her face. Tears welled in her eyes and a tight ache in her heart. Deep down she knew Lance didn’t want to marry her, but she hoped, with all her heart, that all that would change when they reached Wiltshire and they had the time to get to know each other better.
At present it would appear that the passionate interlude they had shared had done nothing to change their relationship. What had been a devastating experience for her had meant nothing to him at all. She blinked back the tears. She had had been stupid to confuse physical desire with love. Just because a man made love to a woman with such fierce intensity didn’t mean his heart was engaged.
In the days that followed, Belle had little time to think of Lance as she was swept into preparations for the wedding, her wedding gown being of prominence to all else. Her grandmother took charge of everything, and Belle couldn’t help smiling at the return of her grandmother’s familiar autocratic manner—it was vastly preferable to the wounded and worried woman the scandal had made of her.
In the midst of all the preparations, Belle did take a moment to consider her situation. How had it come to this? she wondered. At the beginning of the Season she had made her début on the London scene with no other thought in her head than to enjoy herself, and if she met a man she fell in love with then so be it. And because she had no experience of men like Lance Bingham, being gullible and blind to everything but the devastatingly handsome man she’d met at Carlton House, she had been drawn to him in the most inexplicable way, but not in the way she had imagined it.
The truth was that before he had taken up his military career, Lance Bingham had the reputation of being a notorious rake with a well-deserved reputation for profligacy. Did men change all that much? she wondered. Countless women fell in love with him all the time, and she was just another one of his victims to fall prey to his fatal attraction. He was twelve years her senior, which in the beginning had made her even more wary of his appeal. What could a naïve young woman do to fortify herself against the persuasive charm of a man of experience? Certainly a few moments in his presence could make her flustered despite the handsome young aristocrats who gathered around her, each vying for her attention. But in retrospect these eager gallants seemed hopelessly immature when she had met a more worthy subject with whom to compare them.
However, she must not forget that Lance was not marrying her from choice and that their marriage was one of great inconvenience to him. He did want her—at least physically—his lustful wooing left her in no doubt of that. And the whispered overtures he had had plied her with when he had found her in his bedchamber, coaxing her to yield to the delights to be found in his bed, of how he would like to introduce her to the more erotic rudiments of being a full-fledged wife, quickened her own hunger now that he had given her a taste of what to expect. But was it any different to what he would say and do to any other attractive woman?
In the days that preceded her wedding, Belle was content to settle down at Harworth. It was an extensive, splendid estate, the Tudor house with additions in various styles added through the years. There was a constant stream of friends and neighbours of her grandmother, who came to call to wish her well. Only Lance stayed away and she was deeply hurt and disappointed by this. On the odd occasions when he did escort her to formal events in the neighbourhood, his polite attentiveness could not be faulted, but beneath his handsome façade he was cool and guarded and she felt she could not reach him. It gave Belle the uneasy feeling that she was marrying an absentee stranger.
He was a man any woman would be proud to have for her husband—or lover. Belle fought the memory that thought arou
sed. She tried not to think of when he had made love to her. Sometimes she forgot for a while the incredible wanton things they had done, and the mention of his name would send them rushing back. Yet he seemed to have dismissed their moment of shared passion so easily. If it had meant anything at all to him he wouldn’t be avoiding her like this.
She tried to appear unconcerned about his absence, even going so far as to make excuses for him, saying how busy he must be at Ryhill, having only recently taken on his inheritance and the heavy responsibilities this must entail. But deep inside her she was profoundly hurt and more than a little angry by his absence during these days before their wedding, which they should be spending together and getting to know each other better.
The closer it got to the wedding, more often her heart seemed torn asunder by two choices, both of which at different times seemed rational. One was driven by a growing desire to become Lance’s wife in actuality, the other, based on the fear of entering into a loveless marriage, to abscond. Yet when she mused on the latter option, knowing she was soiled goods and no other man would want her, a miserable emptiness settled on her heart, leaving her feeling drained, and she’d find herself struggling against an assault of tears, both strong indications of his effect on her and her reluctance to leave him. In spite of the precautions with which she had sought to fortify herself, it was a hard fact for her to face knowing that her fascination with this man had deepened in the short span of time she had known him.
Despite the reticence he felt toward his forthcoming marriage to Belle, she would have been surprised to know how Lance, who was determined to hold her at bay for as long as possible, found his gentlemanly forbearance surely strained. Belle was far too beautiful and alluring for him to nonchalantly endure her nearness and not make love to her.
In a quest to put some distance between them, he limited the time he spent with her. Even when he was forced by the demands of protocol to conduct himself in social good manner and escort his fiancée to functions that required their attendance as a couple, he sought to remain distantly detached. He conversed with her when compelled, and then briefly, a contrivance which allowed him by dint of will to maintain his gentlemanly forbearance.
On the morning of her wedding day Belle was unable to dispel her feeling of despondency. Today she was going to commit her entire life into the keeping of a man who did not love her. Every instinct for self-preservation that she possessed warned her not to go through with it, not to marry Lance. She couldn’t help comparing her own situation with that of her grandmother, how she had been forced to live without the love of her life and had married someone else—her grandfather. Had they been happy? She hoped so, but all her life she must have felt she had settled for second best.
Second best! This was where the difference lay. Second best did not apply to her, for there had been no one else before Lance. He was the first man to stir her emotions and set her body aflame with desire. She wasn’t sure she liked the way her heart was inclined to race when she recalled the occasion when they had made love, when he had spoken smooth endearments into her ear, for it made her realise how vulnerable she was to his charm. The powerful persuasiveness that he was capable to launch against her womanly being could reap devastating results, for what defence had she against a man adeptly skilled in the art of seducing women?
It was these thoughts that persuaded her that she wanted Lance to be her husband. She wanted to be made complete by him, to become a part of him, to know him as she had never known a man before—and perhaps with the knowing, for both of them, would come love.
The weather was warm and heady with the intoxicating scents of flowers wafting on the gentlest of breezes. With the sun’s radiance in evidence, it was perfect. With time to spare before they were to leave for the church, alone with her grandmother, Belle hesitantly brought up the subject of the diamonds—the diamonds Lance had given her to wear on this special day—believing that if they did not speak of it, there would always be some unease about it.
‘Lance told me about the necklace, Grandmother. Why did you not tell me that you were engaged to his grandfather?’
The countess turned her head away, gazing out of the window, and Belle said quickly, ‘I am sorry. You needn’t tell me if it will upset you to speak of it.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, slowly returning her gaze to Belle’s face. ‘I know how very sensible and understanding you are, but it was all so long ago now that I often wonder if I understand it myself. ‘
‘But you loved him.’
‘Oh, yes. I loved him with all my heart and soul. We were to be married and I loved him and he cut me out of his life for someone else when he was the only thing worth living for. He had given me the diamonds on our betrothal. You know the rest.’
‘That you did not return them.’
‘Afterwards I hated myself more than I hated those diamonds. I wanted to give them back, but I felt if I were to do that, my humiliation would be total. So they remained in the box until you took it upon yourself to wear them.’
‘I should not have done that. It was unforgivable of me. My stupidity hurt you, and for that I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s too late for self-recrimination now.’ She smiled softly, reaching out and gently fingering the diamonds that had been the cause of so much controversy. ‘They are exquisite, are they not? I’m glad Lance thought you should wear them today. There could not be a more fitting occasion. You—are quite taken with Lance Bingham, are you not, Isabelle?’
She sighed. ‘He is handsome and manly, with the most persuasive smile.’ Her eyes suddenly clouded. ‘However, I—confess that I have had my doubts about marrying him. Why, on waking this morning I asked myself if I was ready for all of this. I almost got cold feet and considered calling the whole thing off—but—when I weighed everything up, I realised that marrying him was the sensible thing to do.’
‘Have you fallen in love with him?’
‘In all honesty I don’t know how I feel. He—he makes me feel things I have never felt before. I like being with him. I like it when he smiles and laughs and tells me I look nice. I—have come to care for him deeply.’
The countess smiled and, taking Belle’s hand, squeezed it gently. ‘There you are, then. If it isn’t love you feel now, it soon will be. I believe Lord Bingham is quite taken with you, too.’
Belle had no idea what Lance’s feelings were where she was concerned, for she still felt a profound disappointment and hurt that he had not come to see her as often as she would have liked. When he kissed her he made her feel that he wanted her, but that was desire, and desire and love were worlds apart.
‘How can you know that? Has he said so?’
The countess chuckled softly. ‘No, not in so many words, but I have eyes in my head and I have seen the way he looks at you. If he felt nothing for you he would never have bowed to propriety and agreed to marry you. I can see you are like me after all—and he is so like his grandfather. And who knows? There may come a time when we shall have cause to bless those diamonds that have been the cause of so much discord.’ She got to her feet and straightened her spine, smiling at the young woman she had come to care for very much. ‘Now come along, Isabelle. I think we’ve dawdled long enough. We have a wedding to go to—or has it slipped your mind?’
The roads around the village church were snarled with curricles and carriages that had disgorged their passengers. The little church was full to overflowing with the local aristocracy garbed in silks and fine brocades, and friendly villagers lined both sides of the path, all come to witness this union between two of the most notable—if not always friendly to each other in the past—families in Wiltshire.
More nervous than she cared to show, in an ice-blue gown of incredible beauty and extravagant expense, Belle took a footman’s hand to be helped from the carriage. There were so many people, all strangers, yet they were all wishing her well.
In the vestibule Daisy fussed about straightening her train a
nd adjusting her veil. When all was as it should be, Belle placed her trembling fingers on Rowland’s arm, glad that he had agreed to give her away, there being no male influence in her life.
When she paused before she began the endless walk down the aisle, where all eyes were focused on her, that was the moment when the enormity of what she was about to do hit her. Panic shot through her and she asked herself why she was doing this, telling herself that it wasn’t too late to turn and run, that she could escape, but her legs were already carrying her towards the altar, to where the minister stood, the marriage book open in his hands. Rays of sunlight slanting through the mullioned windows caught the diamonds glittering in her hair and her veil.
Rowland must have sensed her fear, for he smiled sideways at her and murmured, ‘Take heart, Belle. The parson knows the difference between the last rites and a wedding ceremony.’
Smiling nervously up at him and taking reassurance from her grandmother, who was in the front pew where she should be, her heart began to lose the battle against terror—until her eyes focused on Lance. Dressed in a splendid suit of midnight blue and a pristine white cravat, he stepped into the aisle and waited for her to reach him. With his face partly shadowed, he looked so tall and powerful and dark—as dark as her future.
Belle was unable to quell the sudden ache that his grim expression aroused in her or the sorrow she felt when she remembered her girlhood dream of how she wanted her wedding day to be. How different this was. Her dream had been to go to her future husband with a heart bursting with love and joy. Instead there was only fear and dread and regret. But somehow she managed to keep her own expression cool and serene as she relinquished Rowland’s arm and took her place beside Lance Bingham.
As the music soared, unaware of the moment when Belle had almost taken flight, Lance turned to look at her. To some degree his attempts to treat her impersonally and keep her at arm’s length had helped, but on seeing the perfect vision walking slowly towards him, provocatively beautiful in her flowing ice-blue gown and gossamer veil, it was tantamount to being hit with a sledgehammer in a most vulnerable place, dispelling some of the gloom of his marriage ceremony from his heart.
A Wayward Woman Page 17