it, had cooled to an acceptance of her situation and a steely determination. Admitting her lack of knowledge about English protocol, Belle was sensitive enough to realise that she was lacking in certain social skills—and she was her own harshest critic. She accepted that her grandmother was the only family she had, and, like it or not, this was now her home, so she had best conform and make the best of it.
Miss Bertram had the formidable task of teaching her social graces, and under her relentless and exacting tutelage, Belle began to settle down and worked diligently to learn anything that might help her win favour in her grandmother’s eyes.
Madame Hamelin, her grandmother’s personal dressmaker, arrived, accompanied by two seamstresses to fit her for an extensive wardrobe, and Madame Hamelin was full of praise for the beautiful American girl, complimenting her on her natural grace and excellent posture. Belle allowed herself to be pushed, prodded and poked and scolded if she did not stand still for the fittings, and sometimes praised—for she was excited, and what girl would not be?—the centre of attention, admired and exclaimed over.
Next came the dancing instructor, who had her whirling around the room to the imaginary strains of a waltz and to the countess’s relief announced that her granddaughter had a natural ability and was far from hopeless.
And so Belle learned how walk properly, how to curtsy, how to open and close a fan, and learned that it had other uses—for flirting and to occupy the hands—other than for cooling oneself. By the time of her début, although she still had much to learn and her wilfulness was far from curbed, her grandmother was confident that she would be ready to be introduced into society. Hopefully the scandal of her brief and completely innocent association with Carlton Robinson would be completely forgotten.
Lance Bingham groaned and pushed himself out of the bed. Reaching for the water pitcher he poured the contents over his hair before raising his dripping head and looking at his face in the mirror. He felt terrible and he looked it. His eyes were bleary, and dark stubble covered his chin. He forced himself to breathe deeply in an attempt to clear the alcoholic fog from his head. Towelling his head dry, he went to the window, shoving it open and breathing deeply the sharp air of a Paris morning.
Today, his life with the army over, he was to return to his home in England, an event he viewed with little joy when he thought what awaited him there. When Delphine had died part of him had died too. Never again would he let his emotions get the better of him. His heart was closed to all women—including his daughter, whose birth had taken away the only woman who had touched his inner being.
Throughout the years with his regiment, he had been motivated by the adventure of being a soldier and driven by the excitement of battle, but the battles’ images and the loss of his friends had left their scars. It was going to be no easy matter settling down to life as a civilian. He had every-thing—breeding, looks and wealth—and however much he would regret its passing, his military career and the manner of Delphine’s death and the guilt that would hound him all the days of his life, had made him world weary, restrained and guarded.
The voluptuous French redhead in the bed stirred and lifted herself upon an elbow, her body stiff and aching deliciously from her companion’s prolonged and energetic love-making. She studied the darkly handsome man, his brooding looks marred by cynicism. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the window frame, looking out. Gazing with admiration and a fresh stirring of desire at the lean, hard lines of his body, her eyes roving down past the rigid muscles of his chest and flat stomach, every inch of him positively radiated raw power and unleashed sensuality.
His latent animal sensuality swept over her. ‘Come back to bed,’ she murmured huskily, aching for ful fil ment, hoping he would, but Lance Bingham seemed not to hear. ‘Please,’ she persisted, slowly, languidly, running her hands through her hair.
He turned and looked at her dispassionately. ‘Get dressed and go.’
‘What? Did I not satisfy you, my lord?’ She smiled seductively, letting the sheet slip to reveal her swelling orbs, hoping the sight of them would entice him back into her arms. ‘You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?’
The voice was lazy and full of promise. A soft smile played about her mouth, inviting him to her, but he remained unmoved. He hated loose women, but she exuded a rich aura of passion and the full, ripe figure and smouldering eyes promised an obvious knowledge of the art of exciting men. Last night he had invited her to his room and she had come gladly. Now the mere sight of her sickened him and he was coldly telling her to get out.
‘That was last night. I was drunk and now I’m sober and not bored enough to want to sleep with you again.’
The woman scowled at him. ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you?’
‘No. I do not believe in the inherent goodness in anyone—including myself. If you don’t mind, I would like you to go.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed and anger kindled in their depths. ‘Why—you—you bastard,’ she hissed.
The look he gave her was one of mild cynicism. ‘If calling me names makes you feel better, I’ll let it go. For my part I apologise if I’ve given you grief. I could put it down to your being an attractive woman and me being a long way from home and pretty damn lonely. Whatever it was, it’s over. Now get out.’
About to argue, the look on his face made the woman afraid of him for the first time since she had come to his room. Strange and explosive emotions lurked in the hard eyes glittering in the dim light of the room and rendered her speechless. Last night under the effects of drink and full of lust, she had thought him completely malleable, but she now read a hardness of purpose and coldness of manner beyond any previous experience.
Paying no more attention to her, Lance turned away to watch the teeming mass of humanity scurrying along the wide, rainswept boulevards. The woman threw back the covers and reached for her clothes. Even before she had flounced out of the room he had put her from his mind as if she had never been.
Having sat for what seemed to be hours before her dressing-table mirror, watching as Daisy had painstakingly arranged her heavy hair into an elegant coiffure, deftly twisting it into elaborate curls and teasing soft tendrils over her ears, Belle now fingered the diamonds Daisy had just fastened around her throat—drop diamonds that danced in her lobes and a double row of diamonds with a single, enormous oval-shaped diamond pendant that rested just above her breasts. They were hard and cold and absolutely exquisite in their beauty. They belonged to her grandmother and were famous for their chequered history, and had not been worn for fifty years.
Belle smiled at her reflection in the mirror, a mischievous, calculating smile, a smile those who knew Isabelle Ainsley would know to be wary of.
‘Shall I take them off now, miss?’ Daisy asked. The countess had agreed to her granddaughter looking at the famed jewels. After handing them over to Miss Belle, the countess had been called away, telling her to put them back in the box and return them to her before they left for the Prince Regent’s party at Carlton House.
‘No, Daisy.’ Belle’s eyes were sparkling with defiance, her concentration unbroken as she continued to finger the diamonds. ‘I think I shall wear them for the party tonight. After all, what is the point of having beautiful things if they are to be kept hidden away? A necklace of such beauty should be seen and appreciated, and tonight is such a grand occasion, don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, yes, miss. But your grandmother … Oh, miss,’ she said, shaking her mob-capped head, ‘she’ll have my hide if I don’t take them back—and her with one of her heads coming on.’
The
