Louise Allen - Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

A dancer moved too energetically, knocking against Belinda, and the smile became a fleeting wince, then she caught his eye and smiled and he found himself smiling back as uninhibitedly as though they were alone on a hillside with no one for miles around. It shook him, and it seemed to have surprised her too, as though she had shared the feeling.

Her expression was serious again in an instant, although he was conscious of her glancing at him sideways from under the sweep of her lashes, a feminine trick that always amused him in other women. Now, he felt the urge to whirl her out of the set, catch her face between his palms and lock eyes with her, to read what was going on in her mind.

Ashe gave himself a brisk mental shake. This was not how he had ever felt about a woman before, and he could not account for it. But then, he knew he was not feeling quite himself somehow. Perhaps he would be back to normal when he had bitten the bullet and gone home for a while.

The lines of dancers were facing each other now, men on one side, women the other. The ladies advanced, bringing them together, so close that the provoking swell of Belinda’s breasts was almost against his waistcoat. She glanced up, saw goodness knows what in his expression, blushed and retreated. When it was his turn to come forward she did not raise her eyes to his, suddenly endearingly shy.

It was the effect of living with a dull man, no doubt. She was unused to other men, unused to even the mildest flirtation. It was rare in a married woman to see maturity combined with such an air of innocence. Why that made him feel both aroused and protective, both at the same time, was the mystery.

The music came to a crashing finale, everyone clapped politely and left the floor. Ashe returned Belinda to her seat and nodded coolly to the young man who had been dancing with her earlier, noting his likeness to Miss Layne. Her brother, no doubt. Young whelp, Ashe thought with a sudden burst of irritation, striding off to find his partner for the next dance. London was definitely not what it was.

‘Hmm. His lordship does not like me, I fancy.’ Patrick Layne stood to position her chair so that Bel could see the dance floor more easily.

‘Why do you say that?’ She was pleased with herself for not letting her gaze stray after her partner’s retreating back. Miss Layne was chatting to a chaperon on her other side, so no one could overhear their low-voiced exchange.

‘If looks could kill, I would be laid out at your feet,’ he said dramatically, grinning.

‘Why on earth should Lord Dereham take a dislike to you?’ Bel demanded, genuinely puzzled.

‘Need you ask?’ Patrick stooped to pick up the fan that had slipped from her fingers. ‘I was waltzing with you, and now I am sitting with you. All his lordship gets is a country dance and the privilege of returning you to my company.’

‘But…that would mean he was jealous, and he has not the slightest reason to be.’ Bel was aghast that anyone might think such a thing, with its implication that she and Reynard were in some way involved. Which they were not. Not in the slightest. ‘I hardly know him. And in any case, he chose which dances to ask me for, and we have a waltz later.’

She was protesting too much, she saw it in the amused quirk of Mr Layne’s mouth. The truth was that he too was flirting with her, in a rather roundabout manner. It was all very disconcerting; somehow she had not expected such a thing when she had contemplated her return to society. As a widow she had imagined her attractiveness to men would automatically have ceased. Apparently she was mistaken.

She was saved from any more badinage by Miss Layne returning her attention to her brother and declaring that she was faint from hunger and he must give them his escort to the supper room. Bel was not feeling particularly like eating, but their departure did at least remove her from the sight of Lord Dereham’s elegant progression down the floor with a vivacious redhead.

By the time he came to claim her for their waltz Bel was feeling far from happy. ‘What is it, Lady Belinda? Are you cross with me?’

‘Cross? No, goodness gracious, of course not.’ She was so flurried that he might think it that she was in his arms and waltzing before she could be apprehensive about his touch. ‘I very foolishly let myself be persuaded into eating a crab patty I did not really want, I have just had my toes trodden on by a very clumsy young man in the last dance and I am wondering if my ambition to establish myself in London was an awful mistake and I should have stayed in the country where at least I know what I am doing.’

Reynard swept her competently around a corner and Bel found she had settled into his embrace as though they had danced a hundred times before. For a tall and very masculine man he was surprisingly graceful. Bel had never been quite so masterfully partnered before and she was well aware that for the duration of this dance she was going to go precisely where he intended. She realised that, far from feeling overpowered by this, or resentful, she could relax and simply enjoy the dance, confident that he was in control.

‘You are feeling as I do at the moment about London, I think.’ He gathered her a little closer as an unskilled young couple blundered past, laughing immoderately at their own clumsiness. ‘We have been away, living very different lives. Perhaps it will take a little while to get back into the swing of things.’ Somehow he kept her just that little bit closer to his body, although the danger of collision was past.

‘Yes, you may well be right. No doubt that is all it is.’ Comforted, Bel let herself go as he executed a complicated turn. ‘Oh!’ Her skirts swung, tangled for a moment in his long legs, and then they were gliding down the floor again. ‘You are a very good dancer, Ashe.’

The name was out of her mouth before she realised it. ‘I beg your pardon, Reynard, I…’

‘But I asked you to use my first name.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

‘That does not mean I should do so, however.’ Bel fixed her gaze on the top button of his waistcoat, which seemed the safest place to look.

‘I like it when you do. Do not stop.’ His voice was a coaxing rumble close to her ear. Far too close.

‘That is all the more reason for not using it!’ Bel’s vehement retort make him chuckle. ‘Do not laugh at me,’ she added crossly. ‘Just because I try to behave as convention demands, there is no need to mock.’

‘I am not mocking,’ Ashe said seriously. ‘I enjoy being with you, I do not find your modest demeanour at all amusing. But I do relish the serious way you keep reminding yourself to behave. It makes me sense some tendency to mischief beneath that very elegant exterior.’

Bel was not at all sure how to take that, it was a positive layer cake of a remark. There was some flattery, a somewhat backhanded compliment and a strong hint that Ashe would very much enjoy it if she were to give her mischief free rein. With him. It seemed he had seen the new wickedness that lurked within her. She contented herself with a sound which was supposed to be a disdainful humpf! and emerged regrettably like a giggle.

The dance ended and she stepped back out of his arms. Ashe bowed slightly, then, as his eyes met hers, she saw in them quite unmistakable desire. It was gone in an instant, his lashes sweeping it away to reveal nothing more than polite admiration. But it had been there, fierce, thrilling and utterly dangerous, and she had recognised it, even though she had never had a man look at her like that in her life before.

The sudden heat she had glimpsed called up an answering warmth in her. The disturbing pulse she was aware of, fluttering low in her belly whenever she was close to him, became insistent, flurrying her. Just that exchange of glances and they were both aware of his desire and her knowledge of it. In her inexperience it seemed incredible that such a thing was possible.