Belle

by Bancroft, Blair

  “You may leave us.” Thoroughly startled by Ashford’s precipitate arrival, Belle froze with her back to the door, one hand fisted around a gauzy sea blue panel. A click of the door as the maid left the room. “My apologies,” Gabriel breathed in her ear. “I could not wait to see how you looked in this gown of my own design. Do you like it?” His lips found her neck and Belle shivered.

  “It is . . . remarkable,” she managed on a hoarse whisper.

  “Indeed.” His soft chuckle blew warm breath onto the back of her neck, unaccountably provoking a stronger shiver that wracked her body from head to toe. His fingers were in her hair, searching for pins. Though there was no sound against the soft depths of the carpet, the fall of each pin resounded in Belle’s brain as loud as horns announcing a Medieval tournament. The prelude to seduction. To carnal intimacy.

  To doing her job.

  But when he was done and running his fingers through golden blonde tresses that fell well past her shoulders . . . When he turned her to him and she reached for the buttons of his pantaloons, as a good courtesan should, he took her hands in his and whispered, “No. Tonight,” he added, “we are going to create our own theatrical production. Solely for ourselves. We are a young couple—let us say, of Medieval or Tudor times—and we have just been married—”

  As confused as she was by what was happening, Belle laughed. “In this gown?” she chortled. “You are indeed mad. And, besides, where are all the people come to put the bride to bed? Where the relatives, male and female, who check the bride’s virginity? A perfectly horrid custom,” she added indignantly, “ which women everywhere give thanks to see long dead.”

  Shaking his head, Gabriel bent to lay his forehead against hers. He sighed. “Very well, you little termagant, “let us be Ned and Mary, a farmer and farmer’s daughter—”

  “Give over, Ashford. Don’t be absurd. This gown must have cost the poor farmer’s income for five years or more.”

  “Did no one ever tell you courtesans are supposed to agree with their protectors on all occasions? That being contrary is simply not part of the bargain.”

  Belle moved in, pressing her full length against him. “Not the courtesans a man keeps,” she breathed into his mouth. “Saying yes all the time is only for the dull and uninteresting.”

  He pounced, one hand suddenly snaking around her waist, drawing her closer; the other, delving beneath the panels, sliding over her thigh, cupping one nether cheek to pull her tight against his straining erection. And, as always, her protective armor and the ice deep inside began to melt. Any other man, and she’d be running as fast as her legs would take her. But not Gabriel. Never Gabriel.

  How could she have had doubts, still expecting a horde of rakish friends to come through the door while they dined? The same horrid thought still crossing her mind as she followed the butler up the stairs. The not-quite-joke when she mentioned the public bedding of Medieval couples . . .

  His hands were everywhere. Tangling in her hair, clutching her breasts, sliding beneath the panels to brush her tingling skin all the way from ribs to ankles. And back up again, this time on the inside of her legs, until his fingers found her nether curls, her mound . . . her cleft.

  But instead of plunging inside her—frigging, he called it—he took his time. Teasing, playing with her, never quite penetrating. Belle’s breath came in gasps, her head swirled . . .

  And suddenly, cold seized her. Freezing cold. Lonely cold. He’d pulled away and was ripping off his garments as if they were on fire.

  As they both were.

  And then he was back, his swollen member pressed against her stomach, his lips hard against hers, demanding . . . begging. His mouth and tongue loving her as his cock waited below, throbbing with eagerness to plunge home. “Belle, my God, Belle,” he muttered, and held her so close she felt absorbed by him, already part of him, even before . . .

  His mouth moved, settling over one gauze-clad breast. Dear Lord, she was going to come without so much as a finger inside her. “The gown,” she gasped. “Off.”

  “Ah, but I like it,” he murmured, abandoning her breast just far enough to speak. “I wish to see it splayed across the sheets, you see, like the petals of a flower.”

  But of course, she should have realized. “Then have at it, my lord,” she whispered into his silky brown hair. “It’s more than time.”

  “But I want to drive you wild, make you want me as much as I want you.”

  Tears gushed to her eyes. How could she have doubted him? Time to confess the truth—even though she had sworn she would not. He had a right to know. No matter what it cost her.

  “Gabriel, dear Gabriel,” she told him, tears threatening, “I have loved you ever since the night you rescued me. Even when I knew I was ruined and could never be more than your mistress, I loved you. Which is why I didn’t want to be with you. Ever. I wanted vengeance against men. I wanted to use them and cast them aside. Not live with someone I loved and know that someday I would have to stand by and watch while he married and had children with someone else—”

  Without a word, Gabriel swept her up and laid her on the bed, the panels of her gown swirling around her, a colorful display against the sparkling white sheets. In a trice he was inside her, filling her all the way to her womb. She flexed her passage, gripping him tight, and he groaned. “Ah, Belle, you have no idea what you do to me.”

  He began to move. The sensations, already burbling inside her, increased until she thought she would die of it. She pleased him. He wanted her. Ah, heavens, this was the only man she could ever be with. She could not bear it if he left her!

  All thought ceased. A few more strokes and her world exploded into fireworks more stunning than anything ever displayed in Vauxhall Gardens. And Gabriel came with her, his body shuddering, harsh breaths expelling from his mouth before he slumped, spent, on top of her.

  Was there anything more glorious than this, Belle wondered—this closest of all relationships, where man and woman became one. Heavy as he was, she held him tight and smiled into the dim candlelight.

  “Belle?”

  “Um-m?”

  “I bought you another dress.”

  What? Belle smiled fondly over the top of his head. “You have already bought me enough gowns for five women.”

  “No, no. This one is . . . special. I chose rose with white lace—I hope that’s all right.”

  Belle’s smile turned to a frown. There was a mystery here, something just out of her reach. “I am sure I shall like it very well, Gabriel, but Madame Francine will soon be delivering so many gowns I do not understand why I should need another.”

  “The gowns are already here.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I told her to send the gowns here.”

  Silence reigned while Belle analyzed this strange remark. “I presume you have a reason for this?” she said at last.

  “Yes.” Gabriel rolled over. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, he gazed down at her. “I fear I have made plans without consulting you. And, yes, I know that is very bad of me. But I wished to make love to you again, to show you how good we can be together, before . . . Well, how was I to know you loved me? I mean, you’d made it clear often enough that you despised all men.”

  Speechless, Belle could only gaze at him. This seemed a very odd conversation for a gentleman to be having with his mistress.

  “The rose gown is intended as a wedding gown, you see,” Gabriel continued. “If you will have me, that is. And I hope you will,” he added on a rush, as I have invited the vicar of St. George’s for eleven in the morning. With Lady Rivenhall and our mutual man of business as witnesses. So say you’ll have me, Belle. With the war over, we can travel to Paris and Rome, perhaps as far as the Greek Isles. By the time we come home, the scandal will be long past. All but the highest sticklers will have forgotten or forgiven.”

  Belle struggled to speak past the vast lump choking her throat. “You wish to marry me?”

&n
bsp; Smiling, he set a fingertip to the end of her nose. “I do. Lady Ashford—how do you like the sound of that?”

  “Your papa will not be among those who forgive you.”

  “Oddly enough,” Gabriel returned, “my papa finds marriage less disturbing than my debauching the virgin daughter of a baron. And by the time we return home, he expects to have convinced my mother and sundry aunts, uncles, and cousins of the same.”

  “Ah.” His words almost made sense. Was it truly possible . . .? “Gabriel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You have not said it, you know. Only that you feel obliged to marry me because I was once a lady.”

  Gabriel slumped down, his forehead coming to rest on her breasts. A long moment of silence, punctuated by what sounded like muffled swear words. Finally, he sat up. Her eyes were so busy enjoying the sight of his broad shoulders, the dark hairs on his chest, his well-muscled arms, the scent of man and sex, she almost failed to hear his words of apology. Belle blinked and focused on what he was saying only when he declared, “I could call you foolish for not realizing no man goes to the lengths I did to secure you for myself and not realize I loved you. But reason tells me men do mad things for short infatuations, so how could you possibly know? “I love you as Belle. I love you as Arabella. I love you from the top of your shining blonde head to the tip of your big toe. I loved your spirit when you were willing to run away with me. I love your ability to adapt to the fate life handed you. I loved you when you ran from me at Vauxhall. I loved you when you feared me. I loved your gallantry when you accepted the cottage in St. John’s Woods, accepted the life of a courtesan, its sorrows as well as its joys. And I love you now for all you have become—a strong, independent woman who can love me as fiercely as I love her. Now and forever.”

  He paused. “Will that do, my love? May we be married in the morning?”

  Belle’s vision of him wavered as tears misted her eyes. But she could reach out, feel him, pull him close. “Oh, yes, my love, I would like that above all else.”

  “A fine wedding,” Darius drawled from a lounging position in the depths of the sofa in Lady Juliana’s private apartments. “You did not weep, however. Don’t the mothers always cry?”

  “I am but a decade Belle’s senior.”

  “But you arranged the match. Don’t deny it.”

  Juliana kept her back to him, her nose pressed to the window glass, staring at a myriad stars on a clear October night. “I had . . . hopes,” she admitted softly.

  “In spite of assuring me the girl had taken men in dislike and Ashford would never be caught in parson’s mousetrap . . .”

  “Perhaps I did not care to discuss the subject of marriage. At least not with you.”

  That hurt. There were moments even a stalwart man of business had to pause to collect his thoughts. “A hit, my Jewel,” Darius admitted, “a palpable hit. I gather it is quite useless to suggest we emulate the happy couple.”

  Her footsteps heavy, Juliana turned from the window, settling into a chair with only the tea table between them. “I greatly feared she would never come round,” she said, her words still directed over him, around him, anywhere but directly at him. “Her hate and fear were so deep-seated, I truly doubted she could ever have anything but a business relationship with a man.”

  “And yet you were wrong.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Darius sat up, planting his boots flat on the floor. His sharpened gaze took in every inch of her, from glorious bronze hair to dainty slippered feet, returning to rest on the slits of amber peeking out from under her long, dark lashes. “Am I to interpret that remark as hope for the future? A hint that a woman may mellow, given the right incentive? Or should I say the right man at the right time?”

  Juliana toyed with the fall of white lace that drooped from the lavender silk of her sleeve. “It is not inconceivable,” she murmured, “given the right man at the right time. Or so I would like to think.”

  “But that time is not now.” A statement, not a question.

  Urgency colored her tone, sweeping away her attitude of cool disinterest. Her eyes, suddenly wide open, bored into his own. “Leave me, Darius. Find a woman who can give you the love, the family you desire. A warm woman, a kind woman. You waste your time here. I am damaged goods.”

  He leaped to his feet, kneeling beside her chair. “And I had no part in this damage? Are you mad, woman? Geoffrey wasn’t the only man present.”

  “Not always,” Juliana whispered. “Not always. And the worst part of it—I loved him anyway. He was always so damnably good to me.”

  Slowly, Darius unfolded from the floor. He laid a hand on her shoulder, while gazing down at her bent head. “I’ll leave you now, my pet. But not for long. Today has given me hope. If Ashford can bind his lady, then there is still hope for me. A light kiss to the top of her bronze tresses, and he was gone.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Lady Juliana Rivenhall slid to the floor. Resting her forehead on the chair’s upholstered seat, she sobbed as seven years of memories attacked her like a whirlwind. Geoffrey. Herself. His devoted followers. Male, female. Dominant, submissive. Her fleeting retreats to voyeurism. The wounded look in Geoffrey’s eyes that always brought her back.

  Thank God he confined his liaisons with men to molly houses.

  And then there was Darius. Participating. Hovering. Amused. Blasé. But always there, ready to pick up the pieces. Ready to step in if things got out of hand.

  Darius. Whom she had sent away. Again.

  Darius. Who would be back.

  Darius. Who always came back.

  Surely . . .

  ~ The End ~

  About the Author:

  Below is a list of my other books. In addition to Regency-set stories, I write Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Steampunk, and Futuristic.

  The Golden Beach (GB) books are not a classic series. Some have connected characters; others, only a connected setting, a very real Florida Gulfcoast resort and retirement community whose name has been changed because the residents would like to keep its uniqueness a deep, dark secret.

  I am always delighted to hear from my readers. I can be contacted at blairbancroft@aol.com. My website is http://www.blairbancroft.com/. My blog (featuring writing & editing tips): http://mosaicmoments.blogspot.com/

  Twitter: @blairbancroft

  Books by Blair Bancroft:

  The Aphrodite Academy series (in order)

  Belle

  Cecilia

  Holly (coming soon)

  Juliana (2015)

  The Regency Warrior series (in order)

  The Sometime Bride

  Tarleton’s Wife

  O’Rourke’s Heiress

  Rogue’s Destiny

  Other Regencies & Historicals

  The Captive Heiress (Medieval)

  Brides of Falconfell (Regency Gothic)

  The Mists of Moorhead Manor (Regency Gothic)

  Lady of the Lock

  The Courtesan’s Letters

  The Temporary Earl

  The Harem Bride

  A Season for Love

  A Gamble on Love

  Lady Silence

  Steeplechase

  Mistletoe Moment (Christmas novella)

  The Last Surprise (Christmas novella)

  Steampunk/Alternative History

  Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

  Romantic Suspense, Thrillers & Mystery

  The Art of Evil

  Florida Wild

  Death by Marriage (GB)

  Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (GB)

  Shadowed Paradise (GB)

  Paradise Burning (GB)

  Limbo Man

  Contemporary Romance

  Florida Knight (GB)

  Love At Your Own Risk

 

 

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