Helen Dickson - A Wayward Woman

However, his attention never wavered from the provocative sensuality of her as she danced with more men than she would be able to remember. There was a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating liveliness that drew men to her, and he took pleasure in looking at her, at the vibrancy of her, her laughing face, his gaze shifting now and then to the glittering diamonds resting against her creamy flesh that brought a quiet, secretive smile to his lips.

The festivities were drawing to a close when he saw her standing by a pillar alone. He lazily regarded her, his eyes following her, snapping sharply. Going to stand behind her, he lightly trailed his skilled fingers down the soft nape of her neck, reassured when she did not move away.

Belle recognised the scent of his cologne. She gasped and quivered, a warmth suffusing her cheeks. Though she commanded herself to move, her legs refused to budge. She felt it so strongly, it was as if her whole body was throbbing suddenly and in her head her thoughts were not orderly—just odd, strong responses. And in her breasts—how could a touch, a caress, reach her breasts? Yet it had; it was making them desperate to be touched and it was all she could do not to reach for one of his hands and place it there.

And the sensation moved on, lower, sweetly soft and liquid; small darts of pleasure travelled as if on silken threads to her stomach and inner thighs as the infuriating man continued his rhythmic stroking, with Belle unaware as he did so that he was giving particular attention to the clasp of her necklace. The heat of his hand seemed to scorch her cool flesh and she licked her dry lips. Recollecting herself, she shrugged away from his caress, but not too forcefully.

‘You overstep yourself, sir,’ she murmured, a little breathless.

‘But you enjoy me touching you, Belle, do you not?’ Lance breathed in a tight, strained voice. ‘Would you deny either of us the pleasures of being together?’

Oddly feeling no grudge against him, Belle turned and looked at him surreptitiously. His bold gaze stirred something deep within her, and the sensation was not unpleasant. ‘You go too fast. I hardly know you at all.’

Lance’s eyes gleamed with devilish humour, and his lips drew slowly into a delicate smile. ‘You’re quite right. You must allow us to get to know each other. You could be the light of my life. Have mercy on me.’

Belle lifted her chin. ‘I am hardly the first or the only one. It passes through my thoughts that you are a rake, Lord Bingham, and have probably said those very words to so many women you have lost count.’

‘I cannot deny any of what you say—but then I had not met you. You impress me. You attract me. It is a long time since I said that to a woman.’

Confused by the gentle warmth of his gaze and the directness of his words, Belle was moved by what he said. It was impossible to determine whether he mocked her or told the truth. He was not like any man she had ever met. When she had spoken to hurt him, to insult him, he had taken it in his stride or with humour, with patience, and still he complimented her.

‘You must forgive me if I appear confused. You confuse me.’

The softening in her manner enhanced her beauty, and Lance boldly and appreciatively stared, encouraged by it. He leaned closer so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘At least we have something in common.’

His warm breath stirred shivers along her flesh, and a curious excitement tingled in her breast. She had to fight to keep her world upright. What was the matter with her? Had she consumed too much wine and was now feeling its effect?

‘Is it too hard to imagine that we could become lovers?’ he asked softly. ‘I find you absolutely fascinating, and yet you suddenly seem afraid. Is it me you fear—or something else?’

The endearment spoken in his rich, deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as his finger on the back of her neck. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said, trying to control herself and the situation, ‘and nor do your words sway me. I realise that this is merely a dalliance to you.’

‘Liar.’ A seductive grin swept across his handsome face. ‘Admit it. You are afraid—afraid of the things I make you feel.’

‘Lord Bingham,’ she gasped breathlessly, ‘I am not a woman of easy virtue and certainly do not intend giving myself to you. Now please go away before my grandmother sees us together. You have no idea how angry she can be.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then you should take heed and leave me alone.’

He moved round her to stand in front of her, his eyes hooded and seductive. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’

With trembling effort Belle collected herself, and, as he stared at her, she drew a deep, ragged breach. ‘She says I must have nothing to do with you. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’

He chuckled softly. ‘Is she afraid I will lead you astray? Is that it, Belle?’

She gave him a level look. ‘I believe she does, but that isn’t the only reason, is it? My sixth sense tells me there is some other reason why she dislikes you.’

‘Your sixth sense does you credit.’

‘So I am right.

He looked at her, his eyes amused, a smile curving his full mouth, and when Belle met his gaze she was struck by the sheer male beauty of him. And then she was struck by something else, very strongly indeed—it shocked her with its violence, a great blow of emotion, emotion for him.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was even, but she acknowledged it—it was startling and unexpected and absolutely new. The evening—the privilege of being at Carlton House, the build up to it, of being with so many people, the music, the laughter, the champagne, all far removed from what she knew—had heightened her emotions, made them raw, even a little reckless and dangerous. She knew quite clearly—they both did, for she could see in his eyes that he acknowledged it too—that this was a new and important thing, only just beginning. And yet she knew she must not accept it, not let it happen. That she must fight it.

When their coach finally arrived at the front of Carlton House, Belle was glad to climb in. Her feet ached and she was tired and couldn’t wait to get into her bed. She was travelling alone in the protection of the grooms, for her grandmother’s headache had become much worse. She was feeling so poorly that Lady Canning, a close friend, had invited her to spend the night at her house in town. She was expected to return home the following afternoon.

With two armed footmen travelling at the back of the coach, the coachman urged the horses forwards. The Dowager Countess of Harworth took no chances when travelling after dark.

Not only did one have to beware of highwaymen, but discontented soldiers—soldiers once loyal to the country, who had been cashiered from their regiments to eke out a miserable existence in the slums. Many of them took out their spite on the gentry as they travelled the quiet roads after dark to their elegant residences, robbing them of valuables before retreating back into the dark city streets.

A light wind blew, sending heavy rain clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the moon so that it shone through in a pale, diffused glow. The Ainsley conveyance lurched through the London streets and headed north. The house was close to the picturesque suburb of Hampstead. It stood high outside London, where the air was fresher. Beyond the orange glow of the carriage lamps, the trees all around them seemed to have taken on strange, moving shapes.

Suddenly a gunshot sounded ahead of them, startling the occupants of the coach. The coachman was heard to shout, ‘Robbers up ahead.’

Belle leaned out of the window, but could see no assailant, and in an urgent voice ordered the coachman to set the horses to a faster pace. But it was too late. The footmen had no time to load and cock their pistols. There was a sudden movement to the side of them, as if the trees had come to life, and they found themselves confronted by a menacing, ominously cloaked rider who called upon the driver to bring the coach to a halt.