Louise Allen - Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

If only he did not keep getting memory flashes of her lying on that damned bearskin rug, her hair tousled, her feet bare beneath a fluttering silken hem, he would find it easier to control himself. But it seemed he did not need to. It seemed, improbably, that the well-behaved widow of the most boring and conventional man in society wanted to take him to her bed.

‘Ashe?’ She was biting the fullness of her under lip; the idea of his own teeth just there made his loins throb. ‘You are frowning. I should not have asked, should I? I expect men always prefer to do the asking. Only, I did not think that you ever would and I have no idea how to flirt so that you would understand it would be all right.’

He wanted to touch her, lift his hand and touch the smooth curve of her cheek, run the pad of his thumb over the line of the enticing red swell of her mouth, but there were people all around them and preserving her reputation had to be paramount.

Ashe did not answer the anxious questions at once. ‘Let us walk. I do not want to attract attention.’ He turned, offering her his arm again; after a moment’s hesitation she took it. He had thought her almost unnaturally composed, now he could feel the tremor running through her, transmitting itself through silk and broadcloth into him. She was as scared of herself, of what she had just done, as she was of him.

‘It is not a question of preference, of the man wanting to ask,’ he tried to explain, returning to her anxious question. ‘Only, with you, it would never occur to me that the question would meet with anything but a stinging box to my ears. My mild attempts at flirtation so far have not been wildly successful.’

Belinda gave a little gurgle of amusement, but her voice retained its anxiety as she probed. ‘So, before, you thought me too respectable for such things, and now you think me—what? All the words are so horrible. The reality of doing this is not at all the fantasy I had of it.’

‘I think that you owe no one an explanation of your behaviour other than yourself,’ Ashe said, meaning it, trying not to speculate about her fantasies. ‘You are not contemplating betraying your marriage vows, you have no children to shelter, no great public position to protect. You are discreet, you have honoured me with your trust—and believe me, I will not betray it. I have no attachments or commitments that I would be breaking. That makes you a private woman with private needs who is able to satisfy them. Nothing more.’

He would never have dreamed he would be having such a measured, serious, discussion with a would-be lover, but it seemed Belinda needed that reasoning. She was not doing it lightly, this was no whim. It made him reassess his opinion of the late Lord Felsham. Had the man been such a superlative lover that his wife was pining for a man in her bed? And yet, if he had not known better, he would have thought her a virgin, her responses were so innocent. The effect of knowing one man only, he supposed.

‘Then you will?’ she asked, looking up suddenly. ‘Be my lover?’ The intensity in her eyes, even in the shadow of the loggia, shook him. No, she was no natural lightskirt like her frivolous friends, who were separated from their sisters in the muslin company only by wealth and breeding, not by temperament.

‘I would be honoured,’ Ashe said, meaning it. That Layne fellow was strolling towards them, a very young blonde chattering animatedly at his side. Time to draw this to a conclusion before anyone commented on how long they had spent together. ‘Lady Belinda, may I call tomorrow?’ He dropped his voice to a murmur as the other couple came up to them. ‘Soon after one.’

Not tonight, then. The strength of her disappointment shook Bel. She was shocked at herself. What had she wanted? That Ashe sweep her up in his arms and take her to bed immediately? Find a bedchamber here and lock the door? Yes, of course that is what I want!

‘Certainly.’ Bel produced her best social smile. ‘And that time tomorrow would be most convenient. Thank you, my lord.’ With a nod to Patrick Layne and his partner, Ashe was gone, cutting easily through the congestion at the entrance to the loggia.

‘Lady Felsham, may I introduce Miss Steppingley?’ She dragged her attention back and smiled at the blonde girl. She was very young, very pretty, wide-eyed with shy excitement.

Bel shook hands and listened with half an ear to Miss Steppingley’s effusions about how thrilling it was that Mama had held this dance party and was letting her and her cousins attend, even though they were not out until the new Season. She caught Mr Layne’s eye and he grinned at her over Miss Steppingley’s head, obviously amused by the naïve chatter.

‘Shall we go back? I am not sure your mama would wish you to be promenading with a gentleman unchaperoned.’ Bel began to stroll towards the ballroom. If Lady Steppingley knew what her guest had just done, she would be far more shocked by her daughter talking to Bel than she would by her walking alone for a little while with the respectable Mr Layne. I am a scarlet woman, Bel thought. Almost. She shot Mr Layne a look that she hoped indicated that she was not suggesting he was an unsafe companion, and was reassured by a slight nod of his head.

Miss Steppingley soon found a friend to chatter to, leaving Bel alone with him. ‘That was probably very wise of you,’ he said, following the giggling pair with a tolerant eye. ‘She’s far too young and trusting to know the ropes yet. Not at all up to snuff. Very dangerous.’

‘For her to be with you, Mr Layne? Surely not.’

‘For me.’ Patrick Layne grinned. ‘The next thing you know with girls that age, they have decided that a little mild flirtation behind the potted palm indicates lifelong devotion and you’re in Papa’s study explaining your intentions.’

‘And have you ever been in that position?’ Bel looked round the room as though watching the party. Ashe had vanished.

‘No, I am glad to say. I prefer ladies closer to my own age.’ As she guessed he was twenty-six, her age exactly, Bel wondered if this was another of his indirectly flirtatious remarks.

‘There is your sister.’ It was better, she decided, to ignore it. Her brain was spinning too much to worry about Mr Layne’s intentions. ‘I must say goodbye.’

‘Do call.’ The poetess slipped a card into her hand as Bel explained she was about to leave. ‘I would be delighted if you would call and take tea.’

‘Thank you.’ Bel put it carefully into her reticule. This was precisely what she had hoped for in coming to London, to make new friends, to build a pleasant social life for herself. It was not, whatever she had fantasised, to take a lover. But she had—almost.

If Ashe Reynard had not had too much to drink the other evening, this would not be happening, Bel thought, settling back in the corner of her carriage and ignoring how badly her new evening slippers pinched. But Ashe had ended up on his old, familiar doorstep, and they had met, and something inside her could not stop yearning for him.

She had danced with several attractive gentlemen that evening. Patrick Layne was good looking, good company and, she was certain, discreet. But it would never cross her mind, not for a single moment, that she might want an affaire with him.

But with Ashe she had met the man of her fantasies, it was the only explanation. And if she did not follow her instincts now, she would never have the chance, or the courage, again.

‘Did you have a pleasant nap, my lady?’ Philpott placed a cup of tea by the bedside and went to draw back the curtains at the window, letting in the late afternoon sunshine.

‘No, not really,’ Bel said vaguely, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. Philpott, studying her with professional frankness, sniffed.