Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
there was no cryptic little note signed B, to greet him, hinting at a time for their reunion, despite his having sent a letter, ostensibly enquiring if she had any further problems with the house, as he would be able to call any day after this date. Disappointed, Ashe poured himself a glass of Madeira and began to work systematically through the pile, tossing the bills aside to deal with later. He had had almost two weeks of paying careful attention to accounts; he was in no rush to immerse himself in them here yet a while.
Invitations, advertisements, solicitations from tradesmen, more invitations…He opened one letter, addressed in a clear black hand that looked vaguely familiar, and found it was from Bel. Not a hastily scrawled, secretive note, but bold as brass, a formal invitation to take tea tomorrow at three o’clock.
Ashe folded the invitation and sat, absently tapping it against his lips as he tried to divine its meaning. Was Bel about to give him his congé? Or was she becoming much bolder, entertaining him openly in front of her staff? Or…what?
He unfolded the paper and scrutinised it again. No, surely not his dismissal; the tone, although completely harmless if anyone else happened to see it, was warm.
There was the familiar tightening in his loins as he thought of her, but overriding even that, the desire just to see her, to hold her, to talk. What had she been doing? What would she think of how he had spent the past days? He would welcome her opinion about the actions he had taken to advance Frederica’s romance, his ideas for the town house.
‘My lord?’
‘Eh?’ Race was standing by his side, looking faintly martyred. Presumably he had been speaking for some time. ‘Sorry, Race, did you say something?’
‘I enquired which garments you would wish me to put out for this evening, my lord.’
‘I’m going to White’s, I think, so the usual for that. And for tomorrow afternoon, those new kerseymere pantaloons and the dark blue superfine swallowtail coat.’
‘Indeed, my lord. Most suitable to the occasion, if I may say so.’ Race produced a discreet smirk and took himself off before Ashe could retaliate. It really was almost impossible to hide anything from your valet.
At three on Tuesday afternoon Ashe walked up the steps to what had once been his own familiar front door, knocked and was admitted by Hedges. The butler regarded him with more approval than might be expected, given that on the occasion of their last meeting in Half Moon Street he had been hideously hung over and in the wrong bed.
‘Good afternoon, my lord. Lady Belinda is in the drawing room.’
Ashe handed his hat and gloves to a footman, the butler opened the door, announced ‘Lord Dereham, my lady’, ushered him through and closed it behind him with a soft click.
Bel came towards him, her hand held out, her smiling lips parted as though to speak. He did not give her the chance. His coat was off, thrown to one side as he took two urgent strides across the room, then she was tight in his arms, his mouth crushing down on hers, every soft curve pressed against him as he drank in the taste and the scent of her like a parched man.
She writhed in his arms, inflaming him further; her hands were clenched against his chest, beating a tattoo of desperation every bit as urgent as his. Her mouth was open, working under his searching lips as he swept her further into the room, past the knot of chairs around the hearth and towards the sofa. All he had to do was to get there, although the urge simply to drag her to the floor was overwhelming.
One hand slid down to cup the delicious peach-curve of her buttock; she was so tense, quivering with an excitement that matched his own, struggling in his embrace. They were almost there, almost at the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Ashe glimpsed the tea tray on a low table, swerved to avoid it, swept the honey-sweet moistness of Bel’s mouth with his tongue—and froze.
The tea tray was laden with cups and plates and more cakes than two people could eat in a week. The realisation sunk in as Bel’s teeth closed on his tongue in a sharp bite that had him freeing her with a yelp of pain. From behind him a voice like thunder said, ‘Unhand her, you libertine!’
Bel staggered back from Ashe’s arms, panting from her struggles to free herself. His appalled expression contrasted with the outrage on her aunt’s face as Lady James surged to her feet from the depths of the wing armchair, reticule clenched in one mittened hand, intent on saving her niece from masculine assault.
To an onlooker it would have seemed highly amusing, a farce of the first order; all Bel could feel was a sick apprehension. There was absolutely no way this could be explained away, no way that she was not now exposed, before her own aunt, as a loose woman.
‘Explain yourself, sir!’ Ashe turned slowly to face Aunt Louisa. Her face, as she recognised him, was a picture of shocked disbelief. ‘Lord Dereham! What is the meaning of this outrage?’
‘Lady James. I can explain—’
‘I would like to hear you try, sir!’
Bel groped for the high curved end of the sofa and held on to it. Explain? How could he possibly explain that away? How on earth had it happened? She had felt so safe, so happy, and now, in a few seconds, it was tumbling around her ears. She swayed, dizzy, convinced that every ounce of blood had drained out of her face. The back of Ashe’s neck was red, but his voice was steady as he faced the outraged widow.
‘The force of my ardour—’
‘Hah! Is that what you call it, you libertine?’
‘—for Lady Belinda,’ he continued steadily, ‘deceived me into believing that my feelings were reciprocated, and, in coming here today with the intention of proposing marriage, I—’
‘What?’ The question was out of Bel’s mouth before she could stop herself. Neither of the other two answered her, or even appeared to remember that she was standing there.
‘In short, ma’am, the novelty of finding myself, as I thought, alone with Lady Belinda so inflamed my passions that I threw caution to the winds and seized her, wishing to press my suit with more zeal than, I know, is proper.’
‘Proper, indeed! You were about to ravish the poor child upon the sofa, sir. That is not zeal, that is not ardour, that is the action of a ravening beast! You are half-dressed—’
‘Will someone please listen to me?’ Despairing of either of them attending to her, Bel poked Ashe in the ribs so that he half-turned towards her. His neckcloth was askew, his shirt half-untucked and his coat gone.
‘Lord Dereham,’ she said, with as much steadiness as she could command, shock at his words overriding even her shamed confusion, ‘I do not believe that I have, on the few occasions we have met, given you any indication that your suit would be acceptable to me.’
‘I agree, ma’am,’ Ashe responded with equal control. ‘Nothing you have said to me could be construed as encouragement for me, or any other man, to make you an offer of marriage.’
‘Then why—?’
‘You must forgive the ardour of a man seized with feelings too strong to be denied. I had hoped to persuade you.’ Ashe had shifted so that Aunt Louisa could not see his face. His intense expression urged her to agree. His lips moved. Bel strained to read them. Say yes, for goodness’ sake, Bel.
Yes? Marry him? Bel was aware that her mouth was opening and shutting like a carp in a pond and that nothing was coming out.
‘Well, you have achieved your aim, young man,’ Aunt Louisa said wrathfully. ‘Because you are most certainly going to have to marry my niece after this exhibition of unbridled lust.’
‘No!’ The word burst out of her tight throat. ‘No, I am not going to marry him.’ With denial came a kind of awful calm.