She managed a courageous smile. ‘I am thinking that I have a beautiful, adorable stepdaughter. I can see she favours her father. I confess I have been worried about this moment, and now I can’t see why. You must be proud of her.’
‘I am. Very proud—as I hope my son will be eventually.’
‘You will miss her when she leaves.’
‘I shall, but she won’t be too far away for me to visit. Now, if you still want to take her with you, I’ll instruct the nurse to make her ready.’
Chapter Nine
Belle’s arrival at Ryhill with Charlotte and her nursemaid was expected. With great excitement servants were hovering in the hallway, longing to catch a glimpse of the master’s child. The master himself had left the house after a hasty breakfast and had not yet returned, so he had no idea his offspring from his first marriage was about to take up residence in the nursery, which the mistress had ordered to be made ready for the young arrival.
The servants knew very little about the new Earl of Ryhill’s private life, only that he was a military man and was the old Earl’s nephew. They were aware that he had a child by his first wife, now deceased, living with his mother at Bilton House, so it was only natural she should come to Ryhill now the earl had a new wife.
The young nursemaid carried the bright-eyed, happy and gurgling child—who was delighted with all the attention she was receiving—up the stairs to the nursery. Two footmen emptied the carriage of all the paraphernalia that had accompanied the child from Bilton House.
Belle helped the nursemaid, who was thoroughly devoted to her young charge, settle in. When Charlotte was washed and fed and put down for the night, Belle looked down at her stepdaughter and felt something permanent enter her heart. It was a warm, melting feeling that she supposed all mothers felt when they looked at their offspring. Yet this was not her child—but she was the closest thing to a mother Charlotte had. Whatever the future held, she vowed to get to know the child and to do her best by her. She really was beautiful, a fine child, healthy and robust, and she prayed Lance would come to love her.
When Lance returned later that night and Masters told him of the child’s arrival, he was furious.
Belle heard his raised voice coming from the hall as soon as she left her room. After she smoothed the front of her skirt with slightly trembling hands, it was with a mixture of alarm and trepidation that she went downstairs to face the fireworks.
She found him in his study in the middle of pouring himself a drink. He had his back to her. He’d been riding in the rain and had removed his jacket, having flung it over the nearest chair. His white shirt was soaked, clinging wetly to his broad shoulders, and his brown riding boots were covered in mud.
Sensing her presence, he whirled round so violently that he sloshed brandy down his shirt front. He looked directly at his wife as she closed the door, and she felt the need to recoil from the expression in his eyes. They were hard, with nothing in them of the lively warmth, the good humour that had once lit up his face. They narrowed with what looked like venom and his mouth snarled in a cruel twist.
‘So, you condescend to join your husband,’ he uttered with a sarcastic bite. ‘What you have done is heartless and arrogant. How dare you defy me? How dare you disregard my wishes and bring that child into this house to satisfy your own whim?
‘It was not a whim and how dare you criticise me?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t think I have to spell it out, Lance, do you? I am sorry if Charlotte’s arrival upsets you, but she is here now so you had better get used to it.’
‘You’re sorry?’ he mocked scathingly. ‘Sorry for what? Defying me?’
‘Yes, but not for bringing her here—to where she so rightly belongs.’
‘I want an explanation from you—a reasonable explanation as to why you thought you had the right to go against my express wishes in the matter of my daughter.’
‘Well, that’s a start,’ Belle bit back, thrusting her chin haughtily. ‘At least you acknowledge you have a daughter.’
Lance’s eyes had a terrible blankness in them and about his mouth was a thin white line of anger. He went to his wife, standing over her like a hawk over a rabbit, and Belle was aware that there was some dreadful destructive power in him which if released could destroy her. But she stood her ground, refusing to let him beat her on the matter of his daughter.
‘You will take her back, do you hear me?’
‘Take her back where?’
‘To my mother.’
‘Your mother, like me, is of the opinion that Charlotte is better off here—with her father.’
‘Indeed, then we shall have to think of something—’
Belle cut through his words, trying to contain her mounting disgust. ‘Dear Lord, Lance, your attitude to that child is inhuman. What kind of father are you? Have you never enquired about her—asked if she was healthy and whole? Are you really not interested at all? Charlotte is a baby—your baby—and this is her home.’
‘I shall have her removed. There are ways and means.’
‘Is that so?’ Belle thrust her face closer to his. Her eyes had changed from their usual warm green to the cold spark of emeralds. There were spots of red on each cheek bone, and her mouth was as thinly drawn with determination as her husband’s. She held her head high with defiance, and for an instant she saw a glimmer of something in Lance’s eyes that, had she not known better, she might have called admiration. ‘You should know that if she goes, I go, and there won’t be a thing you can do about it.’
Lance stared at her in stupefied amazement as she spun round and stalked to the door. ‘You? Don’t be ridiculous. You are my wife. You are not going anywhere.’
Belle spun round, a savage, spitting she-cat in defence of herself and the child. She strode back to him, thrusting her face close to his. ‘Try to stop me. I mean it, Lance. Your behaviour is totally un reasonable and quite unacceptable. If Charlotte goes, I go with her. I swear I will.’
‘Your determination to defend my daughter is commendable, but Charlotte is not your responsibility. She is not your child.’
‘No, she is yours,’ she hissed. ‘Accept it, Lance. That she is not of my flesh is quite irrelevant. I have made myself responsible for her since she is defenceless and she has no one else to speak for her.’
‘Dear God, you will not do this. I will not allow it.’
‘You will not allow? Ha! Your choice of words is disastrous, Lance Bingham. I am not a servant to be ordered about at will. I am your wife. I shall do whatever I please, and you shall not stop me.’
‘Will I not? If you do not heed my warning—call it advice, if you like—you will get a taste of what I can do.’ Lance’s voice was coldly dangerous.
Belle was beyond caution. ‘Advice? If I wanted advice,’ she retorted, her eyes sparkling with jade fire, ‘you would be the last person I would ask.’
His jaw tightened. ‘My compliments,’ he said curtly, and Belle watched his mercurial mood take an obvious, abrupt turn for the worse. ‘You’ve learned very quickly what it takes to displease me.’
Fixing an artificial smile on her face, Belle said lightly, ‘That wasn’t too difficult. Before our marriage you found me strong-willed and direct. I even recall you saying how you admired those traits in a woman. Now you’re complaining because I am those things. There is simply no pleasing you.’
To Belle’s mortification, Lance didn’t deny he found her strong-willed and direct.
‘We can discuss how you can please me when you return to my bed.’
Outrage exploded in Belle’s brain. ‘How dare you say that?’ she said, her colour rising with indignation. He expected her to resume physical relations as if nothing had happened. ‘If you thought you’d married a complaisant, adoring female who would rush to do your bidding, you didn’t get one.’
‘I will.’
Belle tossed her head and turned. ‘You’re wrong, Lance Bingham,’ she s
aid and started for the door.
‘Belle, you are my wife,’ he informed her coldly.
She stopped and half-turned, her delicate brows arched in feigned surprise, her colour gloriously high. ‘I am aware of that,’ she replied, and with a calm defiance, she added, ‘and much good it has done me so far.’ Having thus informed him that she was beginning to regret her position as his wife, she turned and walked across the room, feeling his eyes boring holes into her back. Not until she put her hand on the handle of the door did his low, ominous voice break the silence.
‘Belle.’
‘Yes?’ she said, looking back.
‘Think very carefully before you make the mistake of defying my orders again. You’ll regret it. I promise you.’
Despite the cold shiver of alarm his silken voice caused in her, Belle lifted her chin. ‘Goodnight, Lance. I hope you find time to reconsider your attitude where Charlotte is concerned.’ At that moment the sound of a child crying in the upper part of the house could be heard. ‘That is your daughter making her presence known. Perhaps she’s as reluctant to be in her father’s house as he is for her to be here.’
On that note she left him seething. Lance sank down into a chair, dark brows pulled together in a black frown. He would accomplish what he had set out to do, which was to make Belle understand the rules she would have to live by as his wife, and was certain he would succeed no matter how she fought against it. The very idea of being defied as she had defied him by bringing Charlotte to Ryhill, knowing how he felt, was unthinkable. Moreover his body’s almost uncontrollable desire for her when he had faced her defiance, amazed him, and thoroughly displeased him, even though he realised her removal from his bed was partly the cause.
A reluctant smile replaced his dark frown. He realised Belle would never be a complaisant wife in her vibrant, feisty spirit, and with those stormy eyes flashing like angry sparks, her cheeks stained an angry pink, he would find ample compensation.
In an attempt to bring some kind of order into the house, over the days that followed Belle carried on as though the acrimony that existed between her and Lance did not exist, hoping that given time the tension would lessen. If the servants wondered at the manner in which the master and mistress treated one another it was not spoken of out loud, but they thought it odd for them to be at loggerheads after just two days of wedded bliss. There was no contact between them, no touching of hands as there had been at the beginning, no soft glances nor exchange of affection.
Charlotte was an easy, engaging child and everyone who came into contact with her was drawn under her spell—everyone, that is, but her father. Taking a genuine interest in the child, Belle spent a great deal of her time in the nursery, so that she and Charlotte could grow slowly used to one another. She would watch her crawl about the rug and sit before the fire with her on her lap, holding her carefully, liking the feel of the plump, sweet-smelling body against her own, her cheek resting on her ebony curls and listening to her baby talk. She sang soft lullabies to her to get her to sleep, and fully weaned, fed her custard and eggs and boiled milk, for the woman who had wet nursed her in the beginning had left to take up another position.
Determined not to keep her hidden away, on one occasion when Belle had carried her out into the garden, she saw Lance watching from the window of his study. She looked at him, hoping to see some sign of pleasure, of emotion, even sentimentality, but there was nothing visible on his face. It was quite expressionless, and then he turned away.
A heaviness centred in Belle’s chest whenever she considered the days ahead. Instead of the tension easing, it only seemed to grow. She had driven Lance away, and this filled her with pain. But her own unfulfilled yearning for him was worse. She knew what it was like to be pleasured by a considerate and tender lover, and her discovery had marked her physically—a hot, restless longing that had her twisting and turning in her lonely bed night after night.
She wished they could share their thoughts and aspirations and truly talk together, instead of relying on the coldly constrained words that usually passed for conversation between them. She wanted to reach out to him when they were together, to have him possess her. She did love him—so very much—why else would she be experiencing this painful yearning? She was finding it harder and harder to retreat into cool reserve when she was near him, especially when memories of his kisses, his caresses and how it felt to wake in his arms, kept spinning around inside her mind.
But she could not bring herself to go to him. The only thing that could put things right was for her to take Charlotte back to his mother, and this she would not do.
Belle swept into the dining room, the skirt of her rose-pink gown swirling about her. Though she had been doubtful about the colour, Daisy had persuaded her to wear it, telling her the colour gave her a fragility and vulnerability her husband would find attractive. The neckline was scooped low and showed more of Belle’s cleavage that she considered suitable for a quiet evening at home, but nevertheless she agreed to wear it, knowing that in his present state of mind, it would have no effect whatsoever on Lance Bingham.
And she was right. His deep blue eyes looked somewhere over her smooth, white shoulders as he handed her a pre-din-ner glass of sherry, careful not to touch her hand.
She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Lance.’
He merely nodded curtly, his eyes still retaining their total uninterest, as though she were a stranger, so she was surprised when he said with cynicism, ‘The colour becomes you—rose—but not without thorns, eh, Belle?’
‘Please don’t start, Lance. I hoped we could enjoy our meal together without arguing.’
‘I have no intention of arguing tonight,’ he said, sitting down and crossing his long legs. Reaching for a newspaper, he immersed himself in its contents, paying her no attention—it was as if she didn’t exist.
With an ache in her heart, Belle looked at him admiringly. His athletic frame was resplendent in midnight-blue jacket and trousers, his shirt and neckcloth dazzling white. The flame from the candles turned his skin to amber and darkened his eyes to that of the night sky. His dark hair was still damp from his bath and curled vigorously in his nape. He was a vigorous man, and she thought of his smile, how his teeth would gleam in a bold smile.
Belle’s young heart beat rapidly in her chest. No wonder she was so much in love with him.
‘Have you made arrangements for us to go the picnic tomorrow, Lance?’ she asked in attempt to break the uneasy tension that hung in the room.
Lance jerked his head up, lowering the newspaper. ‘Picnic? What picnic?’
‘At Sir John Bucklow’s house. You can’t have forgotten. It promises to be a lovely day. I’m looking forward to it.’
He raised the newspaper and continued to browse. ‘That’s too bad, because we aren’t going.’
‘Oh?’ Belle said. ‘That’s a shame, for you will miss a splendid day out.’
Lance dropped the newspaper into his lap. ‘I don’t think you heard me, Belle. I said we weren’t going.’
‘I know. I heard you, but I have no intention of disappointing my grandmother and your mother. We have arranged to meet them there—to introduce them to each other.’
‘Why?’ he drawled with bitter irony. ‘So we can play happy families?’
‘It’s about time, don’t you think? I haven’t seen my grandmother since our wedding, and I would like to see her. She has told me the Bucklows’ picnics are most delightful and it promises to be a lovely day.’
Lance looked at her steadily. ‘I am not going and I refuse to let you go alone.’
‘Do you mind telling me why?’
‘Because I’m in no mood for a picnic. When your grandmother and my mother meet, they can come here.’
‘But it is arranged.’
‘Then I will unarrange it. Is that clear enough?’
‘Quite clear,’ Belle told him. She was crushed, but when she looked at him and found him observing her pained reaction with cynical am
usement, as hurt as she was, she became quietly angry and felt anything but meek or sad. So for no viable reason, Lance didn’t intend to go the Bucklows’ picnic, but she did. She knew she would be playing with fire and that she might anger him to the point where he would explode with rage, but she would continue to stoke the fire of his emotions—either fury or desire, for she was sure that one of them would eventually drive him from his stony silence.
When the food was brought in, seated across from Belle, after one mouthful, Lance put his fork down with a grimace of distaste.
‘You don’t like the salmon mousse,’ Belle ventured to say calmly.
He shoved his plate away. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Would you like something else? I’m sure cook has something—some consommé, perhaps?’
‘I do not want consommé.’
‘Then—perhaps some—’
‘Leave it, Belle,’ he snapped. ‘Why all the questions?’
‘I was only trying to tempt you with something else.’
His furious gaze shot to hers. Tempt? she said. There was only one thing she could tempt him with and it wasn’t his damned dinner. ‘I’d rather you spared me the wifely concern.’
His sarcastic reply nettled her. His continued determination to punish her was beginning to get on her nerves, but it was pointless to attempt a discussion when he was in such a foul mood.
Lance suddenly threw his napkin on the table and stood up. ‘I’m going out. Enjoy your meal.’
Alone, Belle put down her fork and sighed. She glanced around her at the beautiful room, at the candlelight gleaming on the tableware, shimmering on crystal glasses, and suddenly everything seemed so futile.
On the other side of the door Lance stood rigidly still, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to bring the onslaught of his fury under control. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his expression so incensed, so bleakly embittered by what Belle was doing to him. She was so damned lovely that it required all his self-control to be in the same room with her. Night after night he lay awake in his empty bed, trying to find an explanation for every unexplainable word or action on Belle’s part.
A Wayward Woman Page 21