ohn stood still for many minutes, watching Belle disappear amidst the trees. He didn’t move until she was long gone, thoroughly disgusted with himself and his behavior toward her. But, he reminded himself, it was no more than what was necessary. She was furious with him now, but she’d thank him eventually. Well, maybe not him, but when she was cozily wed to some marquess, she’d thank someone for saving her from John Blackwood.

He’d finally turned to head home when he realized that Belle had marched off without her boot. He leaned down and picked it up. Damn, now he’d have to go to return it, and he had no idea how he could face her again.

John sighed, tossing her flimsy boot from hand to hand as he began his slow trudge home. He’d have to come up with some excuse for having her boot in the first place. Alex was a good friend, but he would want to know why John had his cousin’s footwear in his possession. He supposed he could go by Westonbirt that evening—

John swore under his breath. He’d have to go by Westonbirt that evening. He’d already accepted Alex’s invitation for dinner. His curses grew more fluent as he pictured the agony ahead. He’d have to look at Belle all night, and of course she would be ravishing in her expensive evening attire. And then just when he couldn’t bear to look at her for one minute longer, she’d probably say something utterly charming and intelligent, which would make him want her even more.

And it was so, so dangerous to want her.

Belle’s progress home wasn’t much swifter than John’s. She wasn’t used to walking about without shoes, and it seemed that her right foot managed to find every sharp pebble and protruding tree root in the narrow path. And there was also the little problem of her left shoe, which had a slight heel on it, and left her feeling rather lopsided and forced her to limp.

And every limp reminded her of John Blackwood. Horrid John Blackwood.

Belle started muttering every inappropriate word her brother had ever accidentally said in front of her. Her tirade lasted only a few seconds, for Ned was usually quite careful about holding his tongue around his sister. Fresh out of curses, Belle started in with, “Wretched, wretched man,” but that just didn’t seem to do the trick.

“Damn!” she burst out as her foot landed on an especially sharp pebble. The mishap proved to be her undoing, and she felt a hot tear spill down her face as she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.

“You are not going to cry over a little pebble,” she scolded herself. “And you are certainly not going to cry over that awful man.”

But she was crying, and she couldn’t stop herself. She just couldn’t understand how a man could be so charming one minute and so insulting the next. He liked her—she could tell that he did. It was all there in the way he’d teased her and cared for her foot. And while he hadn’t been completely forthcoming when she’d asked him about the war, he also hadn’t completely ignored her. He wouldn’t have opened up to her at all if he hadn’t liked her just a little.

Belle leaned down, picked up the offending pebble, and viciously tossed it into the trees. It was time to stop crying, time to think this problem through in a rational manner and figure out why his entire personality had changed so suddenly.

No, she decided, for the first time in her life she didn’t want to be calm and rational. She didn’t care about being practical and pragmatic. All she wanted to be was mad.

And she was. Furious.

By the time Belle reached Westonbirt, her tears had dried up, and she was quite happily plotting all sorts of vengeful schemes against John. She didn’t expect to actually carry any of them out, but the mere act of planning them raised her spirits.

She plodded through the great hall and was nearly to the curved staircase when Emma called out from a nearby parlor, “Is that you, Belle?”

Belle backtracked to the open doorway, poked her head in, and said hello.

Emma was sitting on a sofa with ledgers spread out on the table in front of her. She raised her eyebrows at Belle’s disheveled appearance. “Where have you been?”

“Out for a walk.”

“With only one shoe?”

“It’s the latest rage.”

“Or a very long story.”

“Not that long but rather unladylike.”

“Bare feet usually are.”

Belle rolled her eyes. Emma had been known to wade through knee-deep mud to get to her favorite fishing hole. “Since when have you become the model of taste and decorum?”

“Since, oh, never mind, just come and sit with me. I’m about to go insane.”

“Really? Now that sounds interesting.”

Emma sighed. “Don’t tease me. Alex won’t let me out of this blasted parlor for fear of my health.”

“You could look on the bright side and view it as a sign of his eternal love and devotion,” Belle suggested.

“Or I could simply strangle him. If he had his way, I’d be confined to my bed until the baby arrived. As it is, he’s forbidden me to go riding by myself.”

“Can he do that?”

“Do what?”

“Forbid you.”

“Well, no, he doesn’t order me about like most men do to their wives, but he made it quite clear that he’d be extremely worried every time I took Boston out for a ride, and blast him, I love him too much to upset him like that. Sometimes it’s best just to humor him.”

“Mmm,” Belle murmured. “Would you like some tea? I’m a bit chilled.” She got up and rang for a maid.

“No, thank you, but go ahead and get some for yourself.”

A maid entered silently and Emma ordered some tea. “Oh, and will you please tell Mrs. Goode that I’ll come by to discuss this evening’s menu within the hour? We’ll be having a guest, so I think we ought to do something special.”

The maid nodded and left the room.

“Who is dining with us tonight?” Belle inquired.

“That John Blackwood fellow you met a few days ago. Alex invited him yesterday. Don’t you remember? I think we discussed it at tea.”

Belle felt her heart sink down to her stomach. She’d forgotten all about their dinner plans. “It slipped my mind, I guess,” she said, wishing that she already had her tea so that she could hide her face with the cup. Her cheeks were growing unpleasantly warm.

If Emma noticed Belle’s blush, however, she made no mention of it. Belle immediately began discussing the latest fashions from Paris, and the two ladies stayed on that topic until long after the tea arrived.

Belle dressed with particular care that evening, knowing full well that John was the reason for her assiduousness. She chose a simply cut gown of ice blue silk which set off her eyes and wore her hair piled loosely atop her head, allowing soft wispy curls to frame her face. A strand of pearls and matching earrings completed the look, and, satisfied with her appearance, she headed downstairs.

Emma and Alex were already in the parlor waiting for John to arrive. Belle barely had time to sit down when the butler entered the room.

“Lord Blackwood.”

Belle looked up as Norwood finished intoning John’s name. Alex rose and strode to the doorway to greet his friend. “Blackwood, good to see you again.”

John nodded and smiled. Belle was irritated by the fact that he looked extremely handsome in his evening attire.

“Allow me to introduce you to my wife.” Alex led John over to the sofa where Emma was seated.

“How do you do, your grace,” John murmured politely, placing a swift kiss on the back of her hand.

“Oh, please, I cannot bear so much etiquette in my own home. Please do call me Emma. Alex has assured me that you are a special friend of his, so I don’t think we need to be formal.”

John smiled at Emma, deciding that Alex had been his usual lucky self when it came to claiming a bride. “Then you must call me John.”

“And of course you already know Belle,” Alex continued.

John turned to Belle and took her hand in his. A fierce heat traveled up her arm, but she forced herself not to jerk her hand back. He didn’t need to know how he affected her. But when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her softly, she wasn’t able to control the blush that stole across her cheeks.

“It is indeed a pleasure to see you again, Lady Arabella,” he said, still holding her hand in his.

“Pl-please call me Belle,” she stammered, hating herself for her loss of composure.

John finally released her hand and smiled. “I brought you a gift.” He held out a box tied with a ribbon.

“Why, thank you.” Curious, Belle untied the bow and lifted the lid. Inside she found her slightly muddied boot. She stifled a laugh as she lifted it out of the box. “I had a blister,” she explained, turning to Alex and Emma. “It was really quite painful, and I took off my boot…” Her voice trailed off.

John turned to Emma. “I would have brought one for you, too, but you don’t seem to have left any shoes on my property recently.”

Emma grinned and reached down toward her feet. “I shall rectify that matter immediately.”

John found himself liking Alex’s duchess immensely. It was easy and painless to like her, he supposed. Unlike her cousin, she didn’t cause his heart to race and his breathing to stop every time he saw her.

“Perhaps I could simply give you one of my slippers now,” Emma added, “and then you could give it back to me next time you dine with us.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Of course, Blackwood,” Alex put in. “You are always welcome here.”

The foursome exchanged pleasantries for a quarter of an hour, awaiting the call to dinner. Belle sat quietly, surreptitiously studying John, pondering why he would do something as sweet as wrapping her boot up as a present after he acted so rudely that afternoon. How was she supposed to react? Did he want to be her friend again? She kept a weak smile pasted to her face, silently cursing him for setting her into such confusion.

John’s thoughts were similarly occupied, wondering how on earth Belle would react to him that evening. She couldn’t possibly understand all of the reasons he needed to keep his distance, and Lord knew he couldn’t explain it to her. Rape, was not, after all, an acceptable topic for polite conversation.

When dinner was ready, Emma whispered something into Alex’s ear and then he rose and took her arm. “You’ll excuse me if I defy convention and take my wife in to dinner,” he said, smiling rakishly. “Belle, we’ll be in the less formal dining room. Emma thought it would be more comfortable.”

John stood and offered his hand to Belle as the other couple swept out of the room. “They seem to have left us quite alone.”

“I imagine they did that on purpose.”

“Do you think so?”

Belle took John’s hand and rose. “You should take it as a compliment. It means Emma likes you.”

“And do you like me, Belle?”

There was a long pause, followed by a decisive, “No.”

“I suppose that I deserve no better.” He allowed her hand to drop back to her side.

She whirled around. “No, you don’t. I cannot believe you even had the nerve to come over here to dine tonight.”

“I was invited, if you recall.”

“You should have declined. You should have sent word that you were ill, or that your mother was ill, or your dog or your horse or anything to avoid accepting the invitation.”

He had nothing to say other than, “You are, of course, correct.”

“You just don’t—You don’t kiss someone and then speak to her the way you did to me. It isn’t polite. It isn’t nice, and—”

“And you are always nice?”

His voice wasn’t the least bit mocking, which confused her. “I try to be. Lord knows I tried to be nice to you.”

He inclined his head. “You certainly did.”

“I—” She broke off and looked up at him. “Aren’t you even going to argue with me?”

He lifted his shoulder in a tired gesture. “What would be the point? You are obviously in the right, and I, as usual, am in the wrong.”

Belle stared at him incomprehensibly, her lips parted in amazement. “I don’t understand you.”

“It is most likely for the best that you don’t even try. I apologize, of course, for my behavior this morning. It was unpardonable.”

“The kiss or your horrid words afterward?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Both.”

“I accept your apology for your insults.”

“And the kiss?”

Belle kept her eyes fixed on the crescent moon which shone through the window. “There is no need to apologize for the kiss.”

John’s heart slammed into his chest. “I am not sure I understand your meaning, my lady,” he said cautiously.

“I only have one question.” Belle tore her gaze away from the moon and forced herself to look at him. “Did I do something wrong? Something to offend you?”

John let out a harsh laugh, unable to believe his ears. “Oh God, Belle, if you only knew.” He raked his fingers through his hair and then planted his hands on his hips. “You couldn’t offend me if you tried.”

A hundred conflicting emotions raced through Belle’s heart and mind in the space of one second. Against her better judgment, she touched his arm. “Then what happened? I need to know.”

John took a ragged breath before he faced her. “Do you really want the truth?”

She nodded.

He opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before his lips formed words. “I’m not the man you think I am. I’ve seen things…” He closed his mouth, a muscle working violently in his throat as he fought to control the emotions playing across his face. “I’ve done things. These hands…” He looked down at his hands as if they were foreign objects. His voice dropped down to a low whisper. “I’m a greedy bastard, Belle, just for kissing you this morning. I’m not fit even to touch you.”

Belle stared at him, horrified by the pain etched on his face. How could he not see what was so clear to her? There was something within him. Something so good…It seemed to glow from his very soul. And he thought that he was worthless. She didn’t know what had happened to make him so, but his pain devastated her. She took a step forward. “You’re wrong.”

“Belle,” he whispered, “you’re a fool.”

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

John looked deeply into her eyes, and heaven help him but he couldn’t stop the slow descent of his lips down onto hers.

For the second time that day, Belle felt that unfamiliar rush of desire as her body swayed closer to his. His mouth brushed gently against hers, and Belle daringly ran her tongue along the soft skin of his inner lip, just as he had done to her that morning. John’s reaction was instantaneous, and he pulled her roughly toward him, needing to feel the heat of her body pressed up against his.

The intimate contact set off an alarm in Belle’s mind, and she gently pulled herself away from him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and there were considerably more wisps of hair framing her face than there had been just a few moments earlier. “Alex and Emma are expecting us in the dining room,” she reminded him breathlessly. “We’re going to be quite late.”

John closed his eyes and exhaled, mentally willing his body to cool down. After a moment he offered her his arm, quirking his mouth into a lopsided smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “We shall blame our tardiness on my leg.”

Belle felt an immediate rush of sympathy for him. He was a proud man and wouldn’t like to admit that his injury slowed him down. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. Emma is forever complaining that I walk too slowly. I shall simply tell them that I was showing you one of the paintings in the gallery. Alex has a marvelous Rembrandt.”

John placed his forefinger against her lips. “Shush, we’ll blame it on my leg. It’s about time I got some benefit from this damned thing.”

They exited the parlor, and Belle noticed that he moved quite quickly through the long halls to the dining room. “Tell me when we’re almost there,” he whispered in her ear.

“It’s just around the corner.”

John slowed down so much that Belle thought they’d stopped. When she glanced down at his legs, she noticed that he was limping far more noticeably than usual. “You’re terrible,” she scolded. “I know you can bend your leg more than that.”

“I’m having a bad day.” His expression was positively angelic.

Alex stood when they entered the dining room. “We thought you’d gotten lost along the way.”

“I’m afraid my leg has been paining me a bit today,” John replied. “Belle was kind enough to accommodate my slow gait.”

Belle nodded, wondering how on earth she was able to keep her lips from twitching. She and John joined Emma and Alex around the small table of the informal dining room. They were served asparagus in mustard sauce, and Emma, recognizing that her neighbor and cousin seemed to be better acquainted than time would warrant, immediately began her interrogation.

“I am so glad you were able to come for dinner this evening, John. But you must tell us more about yourself. What part of England are you from?”

“I grew up in Shropshire.”

“Really? I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s quite lovely.”

“Yes, it is quite.”

“And does your family still live there?”

“I believe that they do.”

“Oh.” Emma seemed slightly flustered by his odd choice of words but continued the conversation nonetheless. “And do you see them very often?”

“I rarely see them at all.”

“Emma, darling,” Alex said gently. “Pray give our guest time between questions to eat.”

Emma smiled sheepishly and speared a stalk of asparagus with her fork. Before she put it in her mouth, however, she blurted out, “Belle is marvel-ously well-read, you know.”

Belle choked on her food, not having expected the conversation to turn her way.

“Speaking of reading,” John cut in smoothly, “did you finish The Winter’s Tale? I noticed you were nearly done the other day.”

Belle took a sip of wine. “Yes, I did. And it marked the end of my Grand Shakespearean Quest.”

“Really? I’m almost afraid to ask what that was.”

“All the plays.”

“How impressive,” John murmured.

“In alphabetical order.”

“And organized, too. The lady is a wonder.”

Belle blushed. “Don’t tease me, you wretch.”

Alex’s and Emma’s eyes widened over the playful banter that was sailing across the table. “If I remember correctly,” Alex injected, “didn’t this quest also involve some poetry?”

“I’ve abandoned the poetry for now, I think. Poetry is so, well, poetic, don’t you think? Nobody actually talks that way.”

John quirked a brow. “You think not?” He turned to Belle, and when he spoke again, there was a certain fire in his brown eyes that she had never before seen there.

“What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.”

There was silence at the table until John spoke again, his eyes never leaving Belle’s. “I wish I always spoke with such eloquence.”

Belle found herself oddly moved by John’s short recitation and the warm tones of his voice. Something about his speech held her spellbound, and she completely forgot the presence of her cousins. “That was lovely,” she said quietly.

“Wordsworth. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Does that poem have particular meaning for you? Do you live by its sentiment?”

There was a very long pause. “No,” John said bluntly. “I try to, on occasion, but usually fail.”

Belle swallowed, uncomfortable with the pain she saw in his eyes, and searched for another topic. “Do you also enjoy writing poetry?”

John laughed, finally breaking his gaze away from Belle and facing the table at large. “I might enjoy writing poetry if I ever wrote some that was even halfway decent.”

“But you recited the Wordsworth with such passion,” Belle protested. “You obviously have a deep love of poetry.”

“Enjoying poetry and being able to write it are two very different endeavors. I imagine that is why so many would-be poets spend so much of their time with a bottle of brandy in each hand.”

“I am certain you have the soul of a poet, ” she persisted.

John merely smiled. “I am afraid that your confidence is misplaced, but I shall take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should. I shan’t be satisfied until I add a volume of your poetry to my library,” Belle said archly.

“Then I had better get to work. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“No,” she murmured quietly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”