Julia Quinn - Dancing At Midnight

The butler raised an eyebrow. "It is."

Belle offered him her brightest smile. "Excellent. Please inform him that Lady Arabella Blydon has come to call."

Buxton didn't doubt for a moment that she was a lady, not with her fine clothes and aristocratic accent. With a regal nod of his head, he showed her to an airy room decorated in shades of cream and blue.

Belle was silent as she watched the butler disappear up the stairs. Then she turned to Emma's maid and said, "Perhaps you should, ah, go to the kitchens and see if there are any, ah, other servants about."

The maid's eyes widened slightly at being dismissed, but she nodded and left the room.

John was still in bed when the butler arrived, having decided to treat himself to some much-needed rest. Buxton entered silently, then put his mouth very, very close to his master's ear. "You have a visitor, my lord," he said loudly.

John swatted the butler with a pillow and reluctantly came awake. "A what?" he asked groggily.

"A visitor."

"Good Lord, what time is it?"

"Nine o'clock, my lord."

John staggered out of bed and grabbed a robe to cover his naked body. "Who the hell comes calling at nine in the morning?"

"Lady Arabella Blydon, my lord."

John whirled around in shock. "Who?"

"I believe I said Lady-"

"I know what you said," John snapped, his temper shortened by his rather unceremonious awakening. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"I am sure I do not know, my lord, but she did ask for you."

John sighed, wondering when Buxton would realize that every question did not require a response. He sighed again. He didn't doubt for a moment that the sly old butler knew very well that John's remarks had been hypothetical. "I suppose I have to get dressed," he finally said.

"I should think so, my lord. I took the liberty of informing Wheatley that you would require his services."

John turned around and headed to his dressing room. Like Buxton, the valet had also come with the house, and John had to admit that it was not difficult to get used to the luxury. In no time, he was dressed in form-fitting biscuit-colored breeches, a crisp white shirt, and navy blue coat. He deliberately ignored his cravat. If Lady Arabella required a cravat, she shouldn't have come calling at nine in the morning.

He splashed some water on his face then ran his wet hands through his unruly hair, trying to tame the sleep-tossed look. "Damn it all," he muttered. He still looked half-asleep. Hell, who cared? He went downstairs.

Buxton intercepted him on the landing. "Lady Arabella is waiting for you in the green salon, my lord."

John took a breath, trying not to let his exasperation show. "And which one is that, Buxton?"

The butler gave him an amused smile and pointed. "Right over there, my lord."

John followed Buxton's finger and entered the room, leaving the door respectably open. Belle was standing near a blue chair, idly examining a painted vase. She looked utterly charming and damnably awake in her rose-colored gown. "This is a surprise," he said.

Belle looked up at the deep sound of his voice. "Oh, hello, Lord Blackwood." She glanced lightly at his disheveled hair. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Not at all," he lied.

"I thought that perhaps we didn't get off to a good start when we met."

He didn't say anything.

She took a breath and continued. "Right. Well, I thought I should greet you to the neighborhood. I brought you something to break your fast. I hope you like scones."

John flashed her a wide smile. "I adore scones. And they're just in time for breakfast."

Belle frowned at his overly amused tone. She had woken him up. "There is some jam to go with them." She sat down, wondering what on earth had possessed her to come over here so early.

John rang for some tea and coffee and then seated himself across from her. He glanced mildly around the room. "I see you have no escort."

"Oh, no, I did bring a maid, but she went off to visit your servants. I would have had Emma accompany me, but she wasn't yet up and about. It's early, you know."

"I know."

Belle swallowed and continued. "It really isn't that important, I don't think. This isn't London, after all, where one's every movement is fair game for the gossips. And it's not as if I'm in any danger."

John's eyes raked appreciatively over her decidedly feminine form. "Aren't you?"

Belle flushed and stiffened in her seat. She looked him straight in the eye and saw honor lurking behind his sardonic facade. "No, I don't think I am," she replied resolutely.

"You shouldn't have come here alone."

"I told you, I didn't come here alone. My maid-"

"Your maid is in the kitchen. You are here in this room. Alone. With me."

Belle's mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to speak. "Well… yes, of course… but…"

John stared at her, thinking that he'd like nothing better than to lean over and kiss those soft lips which were opening and closing with such consternation. He shook his head slightly as if to banish the thought. Get a hold of yourself, John, his inner voice warned. "I apologize," he said abruptly. "I certainly did not mean to make you ill at ease. It is just rather uncommon for a young lady to call upon a bachelor unescorted."

Belle smiled archly, his apology somehow relieving her tension. "I am rather uncommon myself."

John didn't doubt it for an instant. He glanced over at her saucy expression and wondered if she had come calling deliberately to torture him.

"Besides," Belle continued, "I didn't think you would be such a stickler for etiquette."

"I am not," he pointed out. "Most young ladies, however, are."

A servant brought in tea and coffee, and Belle quickly offered to pour. She handed him a cup of coffee and set about fixing herself some tea, chattering all the while.

"Did you grow up in the area?"

"No."

"Well, then, where did you grow up?"

"Shropshire."

"How lovely."

John made a noise that was perilously close to a grunt. Belle raised her eyebrows and continued. "I am from London."

"How lovely."

Belle pursed her lips at his sarcastic comment. "We have a home in Sussex, of course, but I tend to think of London as home."

John picked up a scone and liberally spread some strawberry jam onto it. "How unfortunate for you."

"Don't you like London?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh." And what else was she supposed to say, Belle wondered. A full minute passed, and she was painfully aware of the speculative and amused glances that John was shooting her way. "Well," she said finally. "I see that you were not lying to me yesterday."

That comment caught John's attention and he looked up questioningly.

"You really are dreadful at making polite conversation."

He let out a bark of laughter. "No one could ever accuse you of being less than astute, my lady."

Belle let that comment pass, not entirely certain that it had been meant as a compliment. As she looked over at him she remembered yesterday's conversation. For a moment, at least, they had enjoyed each other's company. They had discussed Shakespeare, and yes, even teased each other a bit.

He'd been different then, almost boyish. That is, until he had put his guard back up. Belle had a feeling that someone had hurt this man very badly in the past. That didn't, however, mean that she would allow him to abuse her in turn.

She sensed something special in him, something fine and shining and very, very good. And perhaps all he needed was someone to remind him of that. She saw no reason not to throw caution to the wind and try to befriend him despite all of the obstacles he was throwing in her path. Crossing her arms, she said, "You can speak in that arrogant tone if you want, but it won't wash."