Dancing At Midnight

'What about dancing?' she countered.

'I'm sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you're in London. You must be on your feet all night.'

'I always wear comfortable shoes,' she replied disdainfully.

John wasn't sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. 'Well, don't worry,' he finally said. 'I've treated many blisters, most worse than this.'

'In the war?' Belle asked, her voice cautious.

His eyes darkened. 'Yes.'

'I imagine you've treated far worse injuries than mere blisters,' she said softly.

'I imagine I have.'

Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. 'Weren't there doctors and surgeons for that sort of thing?'

There was a noticeable silence, and Belle felt the pressure of his hands on her foot as the knife punctured her blister before he finally answered. 'Sometimes there aren't doctors or surgeons available. Sometimes you just have to do what you can, what makes sense. And then you pray.' His voice was flat. 'Even if you've stopped believing in God.'

Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She thought about saying something soothing such as, 'I see,' but the truth was, she didn't see. She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of war, and it seemed shallow to imply that she could.

John dabbed at the blister again with the damp handkerchief. 'That ought to do it.' He stood up and held out his hand to her, but she ignored it, rolling over so that she could sit on the grassy knoll. He stood there awkwardly until she patted the spot on the grass next to her. He hesitated, and Belle finally groaned and slapped her hand down on the ground with considerable force.

'Oh, please,' she said in a semi-irritated voice. 'I'm not going to bite.'

John sat down.

'Should I put a bandage on this?' Belle asked, twisting around so that she could examine his handiwork.

'Not unless you're planning to wear another pair of tight shoes. It will heal faster if you leave it bare.'

Belle continued to look at her heel, doing her best to preserve her modesty while she did so. 'I don't suppose too many people wander through Westonbirt barefoot, but I think I have enough clout to carry it off, don't you?' She looked up suddenly, offering him a sunny grin.

John felt as if he'd been hit, the force of her smile was so strong. It took him several seconds to tear his eyes off her mouth, and when he did, he moved his gaze up to her eyes, which was a big mistake, because they were as blue as the sky. Bluer, in fact, and so obviously perceptive and intelligent. He felt her stare almost physically, felt it sweeping across his body even though she never took her eyes off his, not even for an instant. He shivered.

Belle wet her lips in a nervous gesture. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

'Like what?' he whispered, barely aware that he'd spoken.

'Like you're… like you're…' She stumbled over her words, not quite certain how he was looking at her. Her eyes widened in shock as it came to her. 'Like you're afraidof me.'

John felt dizzy. Was he afraid of her? Did he fear her ability to upset the precious internal balance he'd only recently been able to achieve? Perhaps, but he feared no one more than himself. The things he wanted to do to her…

He closed his eyes against the unbidden vision of Spencer on top of Ana. No, that wasn't what he wanted with Belle, was it?

He had to get a hold of himself. To push her away. He blinked, suddenly remembering her question about running through Ashbourne's house barefoot. 'I suppose one can do anything one wants if one is related to a duke,' he finally replied, somewhat sharply.

Belle drew back, a little hurt by his tone. But two could play at that game. 'Yes, I suppose one can,' she said, lifting her chin up a notch.

John felt like a cad. But he didn't apologize. It was probably better if she thought him a boor. He had no business getting involved with her, and it would be so, so easy to let himself do so. He knew a dead end when he saw one. He'd looked her up in Debrett's Peerage after she had visited the day before. She was the daughter of an extremely wealthy earl and related to any number of important and influential members of society. She deserved someone who had a title that went back further than a year, someone who could offer her the material comforts to which she was no doubt accustomed, someone who was whole, whose legs were as perfect as hers.

Dear Lord, but he'd love to see her legs. He groaned.

'Are you ill?' Belle was looking at him, trying not to appear concerned.

'I'm fine,' he said curtly. She even smelled good, a fresh, springtime scent that seemed to envelop him. He didn't even deserve to think about her, not after committing such an unforgivable crime against womankind.

'Well, thank you for treating my blister,' Belle said suddenly. 'It was very kind of you.'

'It was no problem, I assure you.'

'For you, perhaps,' Belle said, sounding as cheerful as she possibly could. 'I had to lie on my stomach next to a man I met just three days ago.' Please, please don't say something unkind, she silently implored. Please be as funny and as joking and as sweetly stern as you were just a few minutes ago.

As if her thoughts traveled through the air and landed on him like a kiss, he smiled. 'You may rest assured that I enjoyed my view of your backside immensely,' he teased, his hesitating smile quickly developing into a rakish grin. It went against his better judgment, but he was quite unable to be unkind to her when she was trying so hard to be friends.

'Oh, you!' Belle groaned, punching him playfully in the shoulder. 'That's a terrible thing to say.'

'Hasn't anyone ever admired your backside before?' His hand stole up and covered hers.

'I assure you, no one was ever crude enough to mention it.' Her voice was breathless. He didn't stroke her, just let his hand rest lightly over hers, but the warmth of his touch seeped into her, traveled up her arm, and was moving dangerously close to her heart.

John leaned forward. 'Didn't mean to be crude,' he murmured.

'No?' Belle touched her tongue to her lower lip.

'No, just honest.' He was close-just a hair's breadth away.

'Really?'

John made a reply, but Belle didn't understand him because his lips were already brushing gently against hers. She moaned softly, thinking she'd wanted this forever, silently thanking the gods and her parents (although not necessarily in that order) for advising her not to accept any of the men who'd offered for her in the past two years. This was what she'd waited for, had barely dared to hope for. This was what Emma and Alex shared. This was why they were always looking at each other, smiling constantly, and giggling behind closed doors. This was-

John gently ran his tongue along the soft skin of her inner lip, and Belle lost all power to think. She only felt, but, oh, how she felt. Her skin tingled-every inch of it even though he was barely touching her. Belle sighed, sinking into him, knowing instinctively that he would know what to do, how to make this wondrous feeling go on forever. She melted against him, her body searching out the warmth of his. And then he abruptly pulled away, muttering a sharp curse, his breathing harsh and uneven.

Belle blinked in confusion, not understanding his actions and feeling utterly bereft. She gulped down her pain and hugged her legs to her body, hoping that he'd say something kind or funny, or at least something that would explain his actions. And if he didn't, she just hoped that he couldn't see how much she was hurting from his rejection.

John stood up and turned away from her, planting his hands on his hips. Staring up at him through her eyelashes, Belle thought that there was something extremely bleak about his stance. Finally, he turned around and offered her his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, softly thanking him as she did so.

John sighed and ran his hand through his thick hair. He'd never meant to kiss her. He'd certainly wanted to, but that didn't mean he'd had any right to touch her. And he'd never dreamed how much he'd like it, or how difficult it would be to stop.