along the route with the hope of gaining an introduction from her guardian.
It was quite a distinction to have been named as the most beautiful débutante of the London Season, and the most desirable to join the marriage mart, which was quite an achievement for a girl newly arrived in London from the Carolinas. She wished she weren’t so beautiful, because people, especially the young bucks, behaved like complete idiots around her.
But an interesting fact to some was, upon her marriage, the man who married her would become the recipient of a dowry generous enough to elevate his status considerably. Hardly a day passed without some new request for her hand being addressed to her grandmother.
Belle had met rich men, she had met handsome men, but she had not fallen in love. Disheartened and thoroughly disenchanted with the opposite sex, she scorned them all, much to her grandmother’s dismay, for she was eager for her to make a good marriage, and with so many eager young males of good families posturing about, she could have the pick of the bunch.
Adjusting one of her gloves that had slipped down her arm slightly, Belle looked up and found herself looking straight into the eyes of a stranger. There was an expression of utter boredom on his indecently handsome face, an expression that altered dramatically when his eyes met hers, half-startled, half-amused, and something else—something slightly carnal that stirred unfamiliar things inside her and brought heat to her cheeks. She was struck by two things: the man’s obvious good looks and some kind of arrogance in those eyes, an arrogance that told her he knew who she was, knew everything about her, which unnerved her slightly.
He was dark, dark as the American natives who roamed the plains. The expression on his face was calm and controlled—he was obviously a man much used to being looked at. His close cropped hair was black, like the smooth wing of a raven, but it was his eyes that held her attention. In a face burnt brown by a hot tropical sun, they shone vivid and startling, and as blue as the speedwell that carpeted the summer meadows. They were heavily fringed with thick black lashes above which his eyebrows swooped fiercely. His broad shoulders were adorned with gold epaulettes affixed to the bright red fabric of his military tunic, and narrow-fitting white breeches encased his legs.
Lance gave her the same inspection. Closer now he could see that this was no ordinary girl. He was drawn to the freshness and vitality with which she carried herself, looking at the setting with brilliant eyes and a playful tilt to her mouth. She was exceptionally beautiful, so beautiful that it was impossible not to stand and stare at her.
Her eyes were wide set and accentuated by wing-swept black brows; the patrician nose, the heart-shaped face, the fine texture of her skin, the haughty set of the queenly head crowned with a glorious mahogany mane, upswept and sporting a silk flower matching the vibrant turquoise of her gown, all bespoke aristocratic blood. In her low-cut bodice, revealing the top curve of her firm breasts and the satin smoothness of her bare shoulders, she was a beauty, he decided, simply beautiful—and the light from the chandeliers sparked the diamonds around her neck with a cold fire. His eyes narrowed as they settled on the jewels. Suddenly she had all his attention.
Belle stood in shock beneath his leisurely perusal, and was she mistaken or did his gaze actually linger on her breasts, or was it only her imagination? His close study of her feminine assets left her feeling as if she’d just been stripped stark naked. Indeed, she could almost swear from the way he was looking at her that he had designs on her person and was already deciding on the areas where he would begin his seducing. She was bewildered, embarrassed and insulted, all at the same time. The gall of the man, she thought with rising ire. He conveyed an air of arrogance and uncompromising authority which no doubt stemmed from a haughty attitude or perhaps even his military rank. Whatever it was, it was not to her liking.
Sensing her granddaughter’s distraction, the countess turned and looked at her, following the direction of her gaze. Her expression became one of severe displeasure when she saw the object of her attention.
Belle saw an odd, awed expression cross her grandmother’s face as she scrutinised the dark-haired man in military uniform and was both puzzled and troubled by the look in her eyes. She had no way of discerning what thoughts were being formed behind that hard mask of concern.
‘Isabelle,’ she reproached severely, her gaze swinging sharply to her granddaughter, ‘you look too long at that particular gentleman. Pull yourself together. We have an audience, if you hadn’t noticed.’
Belle had and she couldn’t suppress her amusement when the stranger gave her grandmother a mocking smile and affected an exaggerated bow.
The dowager countess was relieved to move on, away from the man who had looked at Isabelle with the hungry admiration of a wolf calmly contemplating its next meal. Lance Bingham was one gentleman she would prefer not to show an interest in her granddaughter. She had planned for too long to see Isabelle become just another conquest of the notorious Lord Lance Bingham, fifteenth Earl of Ryhill in a line that stretched back into the dim and distant days of the early Tudors, and whose reputation left very much to be desired.
For years gossip had linked him with every beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, and before he had gone to Spain to fight Napoleon’s forces, wherever he went he left a trail of broken hearts, for marriage was not what he offered. She was not at all happy to see him back in England. He was the last man in the entire world she wanted her granddaughter to associate with—but there were other reasons too, reasons that went far back in time, and when she glanced at the necklace adorning Isabelle’s neck, glittering in the light of the chandeliers, she shuddered at the painful memories it evoked.
It was all a long time ago now. The young people wouldn’t know what a fool she had made of herself over Stuart Bingham, the only man she had ever loved, but the older generation remembered and any kind of association between Stuart’s grandson and Isabelle would resurrect the old scandal.
‘Who was that gentleman, Grandmother?’ Belle ventured to ask as they passed into another room, where great arrangements of flowers filled the air with their fragrance.
The countess turned and gave her a baleful look. ‘His name is Colonel Lance Bingham—the Earl of Ryhill, or Lord Bingham as he is now addressed since the death of his uncle over a year ago—and I am amazed that a man could ignore his duties as prime heir for so long a period of time. He is only recently returned to London—not that it concerns you, since I would rather you did not have anything to do with him. I saw the way you looked at him, Isabelle; it is true enough that he is a handsome devil, but he’s a cold one.’
Belle remembered the warmth of those vivid blue orbs and doubted the truth of her grandmother’s observation. There was a vibrant life and intensity in Lance Bingham’s eyes that no one could deny.
The countess went on. ‘I remember him for his arrogance. I pity the woman who marries him. He may be a revered soldier, but before he went to Spain he was a rake of the first order, which young ladies such as yourself should be wary of, for I doubt things have changed now he has returned. I don’t want you to have anything to do with him, is that understood?’
Belle nodded. ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ she answered dutifully, shaking her head to banish the vision of the man who continued to occupy her mind, and hinted at what the strong, straight lips had not spoken. The memory of the way he had looked at her sent a dizzying thrill through her. Her face flamed at the meanderings of her mind and angrily she cast him out.
‘Sorry I’m late, Lance,’ a calm voice said beside him. ‘Had the deuce of a job getting away from my club—interesting game of dice kept me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Ye Gods, just look at this place. I think the Regent must have invited half of London.’
Recognising the voice of his good friend
