John nodded grimly. He couldn't imagine why anyone would want to shoot at them, but it occurred to him that they shouldn't remain rooted to the spot like sitting ducks. 'If I keep you here with me as we ride back, will Amber follow?'
She nodded, and they were soon galloping back to Westonbirt.
'I think it was an accident,' Belle said once they slowed down.
'The gunshot?'
'Yes. Alex was telling me just the other day that he has been having trouble with poachers. I'm sure it was a stray bullet that spooked Amber.'
'It came a little too close for my comfort.'
'I know, but what else could it have been? Why would anyone want to shoot at us?'
John shrugged his shoulders. He had no enemies.
'I shall have to discuss this with Alex,' Belle continued. 'I am certain he will want to see the rules enforced more stringently. Someone could be hurt. We very nearly were.'
John nodded, pulled her closer to him, and urged Thor to go a little faster. A few minutes later they rode into the Westonbirt stables, and just in time, for the raindrops were coming down faster and faster.
'There you are, my lady,' he said as he set her down. 'Will you be able to make it to the house without injury?'
'Oh, but aren't you coming?' Disappointment was clearly written on her features.
He swallowed, and a muscle twitched in his throat. 'No, I really cannot. I-'
'But you will be drenched if you try to ride home now. Surely you must come in for some tea, if only to warm you up.'
'Belle, I-'
'Please.'
He stared into those marvelous blue eyes and wondered how anyone found the fortitude to deny her anything. He glanced out the stable doors. 'I suppose it is rather wet.'
Belle nodded. 'You'll surely catch the fever if you even attempt to ride home. Come along.' She took his hand, and together they made a mad dash for the house.
By the time they rushed through the front door into the hall, they were both rather damp, and Belle could feel strands of her hair plastered to her face. 'I must look a mess,' she said self-consciously. 'I ought to go and change.'
'Nonsense,' John said, pushing a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. 'You look lovely-all misty-like.'
Belle caught her breath, his touch still tingling on her cheek. 'Surely you mean musty-like. I feel like a dishrag.'
'I assure you, Lady Arabella, you do not resemble a dishrag.' He dropped his arm. 'Although I cannot imagine when you would ever have seen one.'
Belle stiffened. 'I am not the spoiled child you seem to believe me to be.'
John gazed hungrily at the breathtakingly lovely woman standing across from him in the hall. Her hair had partially broken free of its topknot, and golden tendrils, curled by the damp air, kissed the sides of her face. Her long eyelashes glistened with raindrops, framing eyes of an indescribable shade of blue. John took a deep breath and didn't allow his eyes to stray below her soft mouth. 'Believe me, I don't think you're a child,' he said finally.
Belle swallowed nervously, unable to keep her disappointment off her face. Those were not quite the words she'd hoped to hear. 'Perhaps we should continue our conversation in the parlor.'
She turned and strode across the hall, her back ramrod straight.
John sighed to himself and followed. He always managed to say the wrong thing around her. He wanted to grab her in his arms, tell her that he thought she was simply wonderful-beautiful and smart and kind and everything a man could want in a woman.
If a man deserved a woman, that was. And he knew that he could never marry, never accept the love of a woman. Not after Ana.
When John entered the parlor, Belle was standing at the window, watching the rain sheeting against the glass. He started to shut the door, then thought the better of it, and left it open a few inches. He walked over to her, intending to put his hands on her shoulders, but when he was but a foot away, she suddenly whirled around. 'I'm not spoiled,' she said stubbornly. 'I haven't had a difficult life, I know that, but I'm not spoiled.'
'I know you're not,' John replied softly.
'Spoiled means that one is willful and manipulative,' Belle continued. 'And I'm neither of those things.'
He nodded.
'And I don't know why you must always make such awful comments about my background. Your father is an earl, too. Alex told me.'
'Was an earl,' John corrected, relieved that she thought that he was pushing her away due to feelings of social inferiority. That was certainly a consideration, but it was the least of his worries. 'Was an
'Seven children?' Belle asked, eyes widening. 'Really?'
'One was stillborn,' John admitted.
'You must have had a lovely childhood with so many other children with whom to play.'
'Actually, I didn't spend very much time with my siblings. They were usually occupied with their own pursuits.'
'Oh.' Belle frowned, not at all pleased with the family portrait he was painting. 'Your mother must have been very busy having all those babies.'
John smiled devilishly. 'I imagine that my father was as well.'
She blushed.
'Do you think we could start over for the afternoon?' John asked, taking her hand and dropping a feathery light kiss on her knuckles. 'I apologize for assuming that you have never seen a dishrag.'
Belle giggled. 'That's the most absurd apology I have ever heard.'
'Do you think so? I thought it was rather eloquent myself, especially with the kiss on your hand.'
'The kiss was marvelous, and the apology was very sweet. It was the part about the dishrag that sounded funny.'
'Forget about the dishrag,' John said, leading her over to a nearby sofa.
'My mind is already completely blank on that measure,' she assured him.
He sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. 'I noticed that you have a volume of Wordsworth's poetry with you.'
Belle looked down at her forgotten book. 'Oh, yes. You inspired me, I'm afraid. But what I want to know is when you're going to get to the task of writing some verse yourself. I know that you'd be brilliant at it.'
John smiled at her praise. 'Look what happened when I tried to be poetic this afternoon. I called you 'misty- like.' Somehow 'misty-like' does not come to mind when I think of great poetry.'
'Don't be silly. Anyone who loves poetry as much as you do must be able to write it. You need only to apply yourself.'
John looked over at her shining face. She had such confidence in him. The feeling was new to him; his family, after all, had never shown very much interest in any of his activities. He couldn't bear to tell her that her confidence was misplaced, and he was terrified of how she might react when she discovered what kind of man he really was.
But he didn't want to think of this. All he wanted to think about was the woman. The woman who smelled like springtime. He wondered how long he could push the realities of his past from his mind. Could he do it for more than a few minutes? Could he gift himself with an entire afternoon of her company?
'Oh dear,' Belle said, breaking into his tortured thoughts, 'I forgot to ring for tea.' She stood and crossed the room to pull the bellcord.
John rose when she did, shifting most of his weight onto his good leg. Before Belle even had a chance to sit down again, Norwood entered the room on swift, silent feet. She ordered some tea and biscuits, and Norwood left just as quietly as he had come in, closing the door behind him.
Belle's eyes followed the butler as he exited the room, and then she turned back and looked over to where John
