Dancing at Midnight (14 page)

romancing a woman with whom he couldn't hope for

a future. He heard his older brother Damien's voice pounding in his

head. /"You are not a titled gentleman. You are not a

titled //gentleman." /John bit back a wry smile. Funny how life turned

out. He'd won himself a title, but his soul was black as sin.

"John?" Belle asked softly. "Is something wrong? You're so quiet."

He looked up and caught the concern in her eyes. "No, just thinking,

that's all."

"About what?"

"About you," he replied starkly.

"Good thoughts, I hope," Belle said, nervous at the dark tone of his voice.

John rose to his feet and offered her his hand. "Come, let's go for a

walk in the woods while the sun is still shining. We'll lead

the horses behind us."

Belle rose wordlessly and followed him to where they had left their

mounts. They set off slowly on foot, heading back through

the trees toward Westonbirt and Bletchford Manor. The horses followed

obediently behind, occasionally stopping to investigate one of the many

small creatures which darted through the forest.

After about fifteen minutes of ominous silence, John stopped short.

"Belle, we need to talk."

"We do?"

"Yes, this—" John fought to find the correct word but came up

empty-handed. "This thing that is going on between us—it has

to end."

A deep, dark pain slowly formed in the pit of Belle's stomach and began

to spread. "Why?" she asked softly.

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "It can't go anywhere. You must

realize that."

"No," she said sharply, her pain making her brave and just a little bit

shrill. "No, I don't realize that."

"Belle, I haven't any money, my leg is useless, and I've barely got a

title."

"Why do you say that? Those things don't matter to me."

"Belle, you could have any man in the world."

/"But I want you."/

Her impassioned reply hung in the air for a long minute before John was

able to say anything. "I'm doing this for your own good."

Belle stepped back, nearly blinded by pain and fury. His words rained

down on her like physical blows, and she hysterically wondered if she'd

ever again know a moment of happiness. "How dare you condescend to me,"

she finally bit out.

"Belle, I don't think that you've given this matter sufficient thought.

Your parents would never let you marry the likes of me."

"You don't know my parents. You don't know what they want for me."

"Belle, you are the daughter of an earl."

"And as I've pointed out before, you are the son of an earl, so I fail

to see a problem."

"There is a world of difference, and you know it." He knew he was

grasping at straws. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

"What do you want, John?" she asked wildly. "Do you want me to beg? Is

that what this is about? Because I won't do it. Is this some kind of

perverse search for a compliment? Do you want me to spell out all of the

reasons I wanted you? All of the reasons

I /thought /you were so kind and noble and good?"

John winced at her pointed use of the past tense. "I am trying to be

noble right now," he said stiffly.

"No, you're not. You're trying to be a martyr, and I hope you're

enjoying yourself, because I most certainly am not."

"Belle, listen to me," he implored. "I am—I am not the man you think I am."

The hoarse agony of his voice shocked Belle into silence, and she stared

at him openmouthed.

"I've ... done things," he said stiffly, turning away so that he would

not have to look at her face. "I've hurt people. I've hurt...

I've hurt /women."/

"I don't believe you." Her words came out low and fast.

"Damn it, Belle!" He whirled around and slammed his fist against the

trunk of a tree. "What will it take to convince you?

What do you need to know? The very blackest secrets of my heart? The

deeds that have stained my soul?"

She took a step back. "I-I don't know what you're saying. I don't think

/you /know what you're saying."

"I'll hurt you, Belle. I'll hurt you without intending to. I'll hurt

you—Christ, isn't it enough just that I'll hurt you?"

"You won't hurt me," she said softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking I'm a hero, Belle. I'm not—"

"I don't think you're a hero," she cut in. "I don't want you to be a hero."

"God," he said with a dark, sarcastic laugh. "That's the first realistic

thing you've said all day."

She stiffened. "Don't be cruel, John."

"Belle," he said raggedly. "I have limits. Don't push me past them."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" she asked irritably.

He grabbed her by the shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into

her. Dear Lord, she was so close, he could smell her.

He could feel the soft strands of her hair that the wind was whipping

against his face. "It means," he said in a low voice,

"that it is taking every ounce of my control not to lean forward and

kiss you right now."

"Then why don't you do it?" she asked, her voice a quavering whisper. "I

wouldn't stop you."

"Because I wouldn't stop there. I'd trail my lips down the soft length

of your throat until I reached those annoying little buttons

on your riding habit. And then I'd slowly slip each one apart and spread

your jacket open." Dear God, was he /trying /to torture himself? "You're

wearing some silky little underthing, aren't you?"

Much to her horror, Belle nodded.

John shuddered as waves of desire rocked through his body. "I love the

feel of silk," he murmured. "And you do, too."

"H-how do you know?"

"I was watching you when you got that blister on your heel. I saw you

roll off your stocking."

Belle gasped, shocked that he'd been spying on her, yet still strangely

aroused by the notion.

"Do you know what I'd do?" John asked huskily, his eyes never leaving hers.

Mutely, she shook her head.

"I'd lean down and kiss you through the silk. I'd take your dusky nipple

into my mouth and suck it until it was a hard little bud.

And then when that wasn't enough, I'd slide your silky little underthing

up along your skin until your breasts were free and exposed, and then

I'd lean down and do it all over again."

Belle didn't move a muscle, absolutely rooted to the spot by the sensual

onslaught of his words. "Then what would you do?"

she whispered, acutely aware of the heat of his hands on her shoulders.

"You want to punish me, don't you?" John asked harshly, tightening his

grip on her. "But since you asked ... I'd slowly peel off every article

of your clothing until you were gloriously naked in my arms. And then

I'd start kissing you, every damned inch,

until you were quivering with desire."

Somewhere in the back of Belle's passion-hazed mind, she dimly

registered that she was already quivering.

"And then I'd lay you down and cover your body with my own, pressing you

down against the ground. And then I'd enter you oh-so-slowly, savoring

each second as I made you mine." John's voice broke off, his breath

ragged as an image of Belle with

her long legs wrapped around him floated through his brain. "What do you

say to that?

Belle ignored his crude question, her body flooded with the sensual

images he had planted there. She was on fire, and she

wanted him, in every way. It was now or never, she knew that, and she

was terrified that she'd lose him completely.

"I still wouldn't stop you," she whispered.

Disbelief and desire crashed through John's body until he rudely pushed

her away from him, knowing full well that he'd be

unable to resist temptation if he remained touching her one moment

longer. "For God's sake, Belle, do you know what you're saying? Do you?"

He raked his hand through his hair, taking deep breaths as he tried to

ignore the painful hardness of his body.

"Yes, I know what I'm saying," Belle cried out. "You just won't listen."

"You don't know who I am. You've built up some romantic image of the

poor, wounded, war-hero. Wouldn't it be a lark to be married to a

real-life gothic hero? Well, I have news for you, my lady, that's not

me. And after a few months, you'd realize that I'm no hero, and it isn't

much of a lark being married to a lame pauper."

Rage unlike anything Belle had ever known poured through her, and she

launched herself at him, beating her fists mercilessly against his

chest. "You bastard!" she cried out. "You supercilious bastard. How dare

you tell me I don't know my own mind?

Do you think me so stupid that I can't see who you really are? You keep

saying you've done something bad, but I don't believe you. I think

you're making it up just to push me away."

"Oh, God, Belle," he said hoarsely. "It's not that. It's—"

"Do you think it matters to me that your leg is injured? Do you think I

care that your title is not centuries old? I wouldn't care

if you hadn't one at all!"

"Belle," John said in a placating voice.

"Stop! Don't say any more. You're making me sick! You accuse me of being

spoiled, but it is you who are the snob. You're so obsessed with titles

and money and social position that you won't allow yourself to reach out

for the one thing you really want!"

"Belle, we've barely known each other for a week. I fail to see how you

could have decided that I was the right man for you."

But even as John spoke the words, he knew he was lying, for he had

already reached the same conclusion about her.

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself," Belle said harshly, wanting to

wound him as he had done to her.

"I deserved that, I know, but you'll soon realize that I've done the

right thing. Maybe not tomorrow, but once you get over your anger,

you'll know."

Belle turned her head away, not wanting to let him see her brush away a

tear. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and it was several moments

before she was able to still her heaving shoulders. "You're wrong," she

said softly, turning back around to face him with accusing eyes. "You're

wrong. I'll never realize that you're doing the right thing because

you're not! You're destroying my happiness!" She gulped down a lump in

her throat. "And yours, too, if you'd only stop to look in your heart."

John turned away, unnerved by the unwavering honesty in her eyes. He

knew that he could not tell her the real reason he was pushing her away,

so he tried to appeal to her innate sense of practicality. "Belle,

you've been raised with every luxury. I can't

give you all that. I can't even give you a house in London."

"It doesn't matter. Besides, I have ample funds."  John stiffened. "I

won't take your money."

"Don't be silly. I'm sure I have a large dowry."

He whirled around, his eyes hard and deadly serious. "I won't have it

said that I'm a fortune hunter."

"Oh, is /that /what this is all about? You're worried about what people

will /say? /Dear God, I thought you were above all that."

Belle turned on her heel and marched back to her mare, who'd been idly

munching on some grass. Grabbing the reins, she mounted the horse,

harshly brushing away John's offer of assistance. "Do you know

something?" she asked, her tone cruel.

"You were absolutely right. You're not the person I thought you were."

But her voice broke on the last word, and Belle

knew that he could see through her false bravado.

"Goodbye, Belle," John said flatly, knowing that if he went to her now,

he'd never be able to let her go.

"I'm not going to wait for you, you know," Belle cried out. "And someday

you'll change your mind and you'll want me.

You'll want me so badly you'll ache from it. And not just in your bed.

You'll want me in your home and in your heart and

in your soul. And I'll be gone."

"I don't doubt it for an instant." John wasn't sure whether he'd spoken

the words or merely thought them, but either way it

was clear she hadn't heard him.

"Goodbye, John," Belle said, her voice choked with sobs. "I know that

you're friends with Alex and Emma, but I'd appreciate

it if you didn't come round Westonbirt until after I've left." Her

vision clouded by tears, she whipped her mare around and took

off for Westonbirt at breakneck speed.

John watched her depart, then listened to the sound of her horse's

galloping hooves after he could no longer see her. He stood

still for several minutes, his mind refusing to digest all that had

taken place. After years of shame and self-loathing, he had finally done

the right thing, the honorable thing, but he felt like the villain in

one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels.

John groaned out loud and then viciously swore as he kicked a rock out

of his way. It had been like this his entire life. Just

when he thought he had achieved something he wanted, some greater prize

was dangled before him—something he knew

he could never have. Bletchford Manor had been a dream to him, a dream

of respectability and position and honor, a way of showing his family