“Not yet, but I've been sorely tempted a time or two,” Belle replied with a tight smile.
“How is he?” Michael asked, poking amongst the ointments and infusions on her tray. He opened a jar of emulsified oil and sniffed it cautiously. He must have been a handful as a boy, Belle thought, charmed by the notion of him as a curious child, always into things and asking an endless stream of questions.
“He's making exceptional progress, my lord,” she offered, “though he still resists each new phase we introduce. He's fearful of failing and somewhat fearful of succeeding. The bed was safe, then the bath chair became safe. Now we're about to take him somewhere challenging and painful again and he won't like it.” She briefly outlined the plan for using braces to help Drew stand.
“I'll make a point of being here to lend what support I can,” he assured her. He gestured to the doorway leading into another bedroom he'd ordered converted to a library for Drew's use. “How does Drew like his new bachelor digs?”
“Fine as far as I know. He and Paddy have taken to playing cards in there during the evenings and they've made it quite clear that everything beyond that door is exclusively male territory. Unless invited, I'm to leave them to their own devices,” she said with a laugh. “Needless to say, I'm still awaiting my invitation.”
“At this point cards and a little whiskey will probably do more to lift his spirits than a sick room, no matter how lovely his nurse.” He gave her one of his roguish grins and she felt her heart turn over.
“I suppose you're right, my lord, and I’ve no objection as long as they leave off the bawdy songs.” She straightened the jars on the table as a means of avoiding his gaze. She would be far less disturbed by what she might see there than by her own reaction to it.
“Michael,” he said quietly, causing her to look up and then damn it all, she was lost. “Call me, Michael, when we're alone and I'll call you, Belle.”
She licked her lips in preparation to force the words to come. “That's hardly proper given my station and the, um, situation, my....” He cut her off.
“Michael,” he repeated softly, “when we're alone and I will call you, Belle. Besides, you already called me by name this afternoon. There's no going back now.”
“That's only because I was startled by your injuries, sir. I apologize for my lapse. You've a title and I am your employee....”
He silenced her protests by reaching across the distance and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. It was all Belle could do not to turn into his hand. “It won’t work, you know.” He leaned in and dropped his tone to a mesmerizing whisper. “Try as you might you’ll never manage to keep me at a distance – not after those kisses. There's too much left unsaid and undone between us.”
Belle turned her back on him and made a show of slowly gathering up the unused roll of bandage and the pads. Blast him, he knew how he effected her. He’d always known.
Belle cleared her throat, but kept her eyes downcast. “It seems that I have quite a few lapses to apologize for, sir. I assure you they won’t happen again.” She felt the air around her stir as Michael closed the distance between them and stood close behind her. She felt her cheeks grow warm and pressed on relentlessly. “What happened five years ago is over and done. There is nothing romantic between us, my lord. There never was.”
“Not true, Belle. There was always something between us no matter how furious I was with you.” He reached out and turned her towards him. “You fascinated me. It didn't matter how young and inexperienced as you were then and now, damn it, I'm more drawn to you than ever.” He grasped her chin gently and tipped her head up to him. A single action would bring his lips to hers and halt her stumbling excuses. Her breath caught, waiting for Michael to move that minute distance and claim her mouth with his. His mouth remained just out of her reach and she thought that if he didn't kiss her soon she might throw herself into his arms from sheer want.
“Oh, God,” she whispered helplessly.
He looked deeply into her eyes giving her no quarter. “You feel that pull between us Belle, just as I do. It's always been there, frustrating, inconvenient, even terrifying, but always there no matter how hard either one of us struggled against it. It's an ache deep inside that never completely goes away, always biting and clawing at us to break free.” He stroked his fingers down the side of her cheek and her breath caught.
“I could have taken your virtue that night,” he whispered, “and against all wisdom, all reason, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”
She held his gaze, past any thought of embarrassment. He wanted truth from her, well all right, she could give him this much of it. “No, I wouldn't have stopped you,” she admitted, “but you weren't really interested in my seduction that night, merely my humiliation. You were quite successful by the way.” Guilt flashed across his features and Michael suddenly looked unsure of his ground. It was uncharacteristic of him and Belle claimed a small victory.
“I was angry at you and justifiably so.” He held up his hand to still her protest. “I admit my own part in driving Drew away and I know you've done your best to atone for yours. You've succeeded admirably, but this I also know.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Past any of it – past Drew, Damaris, even past Ambrose's machinations, there was Michael Lassiter and Lady Arabella Winston who felt something powerful between them. They still do.” He lowered his slowly mouth to hers.
Belle felt the pull he'd spoken of deep within her body before his lips ever reached hers. It was a tangible force compelling her to welcome his kiss and she did. She heard a sound, a gentle murmur of pleasure and realized it came from her. Michael pulled back, surrendering just enough of her mouth to let him speak her name in a heated whisper. In the next second his lips returned to hers, his tongue coaxing her to open her mouth to him. She wrapped her arms around him, unable to resist his lure anymore than he could resist hers. Belle’s tongue sought his and they played together, first in her mouth and then in Michael’s. He touched her breast and like that, five years and a world of differences melted away. Her body arched into his, knowing what those clever fingers of his could do, wanting what they could give her. She felt warmth unfurl in her belly and a telltale dampness gather at the juncture of her thighs. Michael tore his mouth away from hers, leaving her gasping and drunk from the taste of him.
He stroked her cheek again and settled his bandaged arm lightly around her waist. “Can you still say there was nothing between us?” he asked in a husky voice. Belle couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t even think. Her cheeks turned red with the knowledge of how easily he’d reclaimed her body. She pushed lightly against his chest, mindful of his injured arm, but Michael refused to release her.
“No more of this, ‘my lord’ business. Not between you and me.” Belle nodded as she tried to calm her breathing. “You’ll call me Michael when we’re alone and if I'm very, very lucky in the near future there will be times when you say, ‘Yes, Michael, even ‘please, Michael.’ And before I’m done with you, Madam, you’ll say, ‘don’t stop, Michael.’ I will have you, Belle. Make no mistake about it.” He kissed her fast and rough. “I’m going to take you every way I imagined and I had a very vivid imagination back then. I still do.” He let go of her and it took Belle a moment to regain her footing.
Michael moved purposefully to the door then paused to look back at her, his own breathing a little ragged. “Strathmore is coming to interview you at the end of the week.” He dropped his gaze for a moment, then looked at her with a hint of regret. “This will not be a pleasant interview, Belle, but there’s nothing I can do to prevent that.” He turned abruptly and left the room.
Belle sat down on the edge of the settee. “Well, damn,” she whispered as she tried to catch her breath and sort out her thoughts. The interview with Jules Wentworth might be unpleasant, but Michael Lassiter’s plans for her were singularly dangerous, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop the anticipation sweeping through her.
Chapter Twenty
/> Michael watched Belle curtsey gracefully in deference to Jules’s rank. The duke, however, turned his back on her without a word, setting the tone for their meeting. Michael ignored his friend's rudeness and motioned her towards one of a pair of comfortably stuffed chairs opposite the rose-colored settee in the small, morning parlor that faced the abbey's sweeping lawns and the woodlands beyond them. It was a warm, sunny room, softened with chintz and a female fondness for floral patterns. He'd chosen this room instead of the austerity of his study in deference to Belle. It would be the only concession he could offer her today. She sat down and demurely waited for them to begin asking their questions.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Miss Winslow,” Michael began. Jules gave a contemptuous snort at his use of her new surname and raked her with an unrelenting glare.
“Not using your family name these days,Araby?” he asked in a tone riddled with resentment and dislike. “Not that your uncle would object, I’m sure, given your new circumstances.”
Michael remained silent. He had little choice in the matter since his friend had insisted that Michael remain neutral. Besides, Jules had a right to his anger. No matter how Belle acted now the fact remained that she’d once been capable of great selfishness and cruelty. She’d endangered the well-being of someone Jules held very dear and today she must face the consequences of her actions against the duke and his duchess. Belle searched his face briefly, but Michael kept his own expression remote. She arched one eyebrow, her expression slightly sardonic as she acknowledged his lack of response to the duke’s rudeness. She swiveled her head towards Jules, screening her emotions behind a mask of polite indifference.
“My Uncle is aware of my profession, your grace, and while it's true he would rather not claim me as a close connection he has seen fit to provide funds for Dr. Gillian's clinic,” she replied serenely. “My reasons for the name change are my own, but I....” Whatever Belle had been about to say was cut short by a disturbance in the hall. The door to the parlor flew open and Damaris Wentworth, Duchess of Strathmore swept into the room with an extremely upset Hodges hurrying along behind her. Belle and Michael rose quickly from their chairs as Jules rushed to his wife’s side.
“Mari, what in hell are you doing here?” He returned his glare to Belle as if she were somehow capable of harming his wife simply by looking at her. Michael broke his vow of neutrality long enough to cross to Belle's side in case Damaris tried to make good on her promise to slap her former rival. No one would strike Belle in his presence, no matter who they were.
“Go home at once,” Jules ordered his wife. Damaris wasn’t looking at him. She stared at Belle with an appraising eye and Michael sincerely hoped her husband was adept at gauging his wife’s intentions. He didn't relish the idea of physically restraining his best friend's wife should the need arise. Belle curtseyed to Damaris and the duchess gave a stiff nod in return.
Jules attempted to head off an unpleasant confrontation by taking his wife’s arm. “I’m sending you home, Mari. This conversation is not suitable for a lady.” Belle rolled her eyes and Damaris wrenched herself from her husband’s grip.
“I was invited,” she said coldly.
“By whom?” Michael asked. He certainly hadn’t issued her any invitation.
“By Miss Winslow,” the duchess answered, enunciating the name with particular distinction. She glided towards Belle, grace and command in her every motion, and looked her adversary up and down with all the cool, regal regard of her station. “I received your letter,” she told the other woman, “I must say you've surprised me. I haven’t seen you since....” Damaris’ voice trailed off.
“Since the Abernathy’s house party,” Belle supplied.
The duchess’ face blanched, but she held her ground. “Yes, the week before your stepfather and Elkhorn abducted me,” she snapped, “thanks to your letter requesting I meet you. I will listen to your story, Miss Winslow, and then decide afterward whether or not to slap you silly.”
“Fair enough, your grace,” Belle answered calmly. Jules started to protest, but oddly, both women turned to glare at him in unison. Damaris took a seat, making it clear she had no intention of leaving. Short of causing a worse scene, there was nothing for Jules to do but cede to his wife’s demand. Michael shot Belle a harsh, warning look. Whether she realized it or not, Damaris knew nothing of what had transpired in the Malberry’s back parlor and neither man had any intention of letting her find out now. No matter his revised opinion of her, he would not allow Belle to distress the duchess and survive unscathed.
Hodges cleared his throat, “Shall I have tea served, my lord?” he asked as if this were a typical social gathering.
“Yes, Hodges,” Michael replied. “I’m sure the ladies would enjoy some.” He turned to Jules, “I believe his grace and I will have something stronger.” Jules nodded.
“So will I,” Belle interjected. She looked at Michael as if daring him to deny her. It was the least he could do, he reasoned. She might very well need some Dutch courage before the afternoon ended.
“If Miss Winslow is having a glass, I will as well,” Damaris stated in a tone that brooked no refusal. Michael looked to Jules and his friend nodded his permission. Belle, observing their silent exchange, delivered an unladylike snort. She’d lived on her own far too long, Michael noted. Belle was too independent and clearly had no notion that it was a husband’s responsibility to guide his wife and hers to follow his dictates. Damaris was a headstrong woman; case in point, today. The first two years of her marriage to Jules had been stormy until his friend managed to rein in his unruly wife.
Michael passed instructions on to Hodges and in short order the butler returned bearing a decanter of whiskey, a small pitcher of water and glasses. Michael motioned him to set the tray on the table by the window. After dismissing the butler he splashed the liquor into crystal glasses, then prepared to add water into the women's portions. He turned towards Belle before adding water to hers and she shook her head. Damaris likewise shook hers, but her husband cleared his throat and nodded indicating Michael should definitely weaken the whiskey in his wife's glass. Michael turned with the glasses in time to catch Damaris, her eyes snapping green fire, silently promising her husband retribution. Michael fought a smile. Perhaps Jules controlled his wife much less than Michael believed.
“Please start by telling us how you became a nurse, Miss Winslow,” Michael said as he passed around the glasses.
“I still can’t believe it,” Damaris commented. She sniffed at the contents of her glass and wrinkled her nose.
Belle took a sip of her whiskey and Michael noticed that she did it as if accustomed to the taste – a curious thing for a woman of her initial background. At length she spoke. “I didn’t leave London after my engagement to Lord Iredale, I mean Lord Branfel ended.” Michael and Jules both tensed as they awaited her next words. “However, I was in a carriage accident a short time later,” she continued smoothly causing her audience to start in surprise. “I was badly injured, but fortunately a doctor,” she turned with a nod towards Michael, “Dr. Gillian witnessed the event and stopped to give aid. He had me taken to the Hospital for Invalid Gentlewomen on Harley Street. Miss Nightingale was the superintendent there at the time. It was many weeks before I was fully recovered.”
“Why didn’t anyone hear of this?” Jules demanded. “Surely your stepfather would have said something about it. He told everyone you’d taken a tour abroad.” He sounded skeptical and Michael didn’t blame him. There was something decidedly off about her story and he intended to have Rafe look into it at once. Still, in a matter of only a few clipped sentences she’d produced two unimpeachable witnesses for her story; one, a well-respected physician and the second, the Angel of the Crimea, herself.
A half smile tugged at the corner of Belle's mouth as she met Jules’s gaze. “I toured abroad in a manner of speaking, but I must say the accommodations were somewhat less than desirable.” She paused to take a sip from
her glass and Michael suspected she did so to regain a measure of calm. “My stepfather had already left London to join my mother on the day of the accident,” she continued. “She was very ill at the time. Her health had kept her from...joining us for the Season that year.” Belle looked down at her hands and took a deep breath before continuing. “I understand she passed away while I was in hospital.”
“You ‘understand’? You mean you were not there?” Jules pressed, his keen eyes seeking out her tells like the most experienced of gamblers.
“No, your grace. My maid and the coachman were both killed in the accident and I had no recollection of my identity. As I said, my recovery lasted many weeks and even after my physical injuries healed, my memory took months more to return. By the time it did, I’d already given myself the name Annabelle Winslow and started my training as a nurse.”
“Surely, your family tried to find you,” Damaris remarked.
Belle dipped her head in deference to the duchess, the very picture of servility. “I’m certain they did, your grace, but with my stepfather away from London, my mother gravely ill and the only other people involved, dead, the trail was cold by the time my uncle learned I was missing.” Belle looked calmly at each of them, as if the events she relayed had happened to someone else. Perhaps in a way they had, Michael conceded.
“I don’t remember the reason for my journey that night,” Belle continued. “Perhaps we were racing to catch a ship. I was found near the docks in a less than savory neighborhood, to be certain. I had nothing with me to identify myself. Any baggage must have been stolen from the wreckage. My clothes were of good quality, which explains Dr. Gillian’s decision to take me to Harley Street instead of to one of the charity wards in the area.” Clever girl, Michael thought, stay close to the truth about events that could be verified and cover the rest with memory loss and conjecture, albeit very convenient conjecture. He knew that any direct challenges to her version of events would be met with, “I don't remember.” She'd probably been doing this for years.
A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) Page 28