Dancing at Midnight

Belle stared at him, dumbfounded, until horror, hurt, and fury simultaneously rose within her. "You can rest assured," she bit out icily, "that the next man I 'throw' myself at will not be so lacking in breeding as to insult me as you have done."

"I am so sorry that my blood is not blue enough for you, my lady. Do not worry, I will try not to taint you with my presence again."

Belle raised a brow and stared at him disdainfully, her eyes hard. "Yes, well, we cannot all claim a relationship with a duke." Her voice was sharp, and her words were cruel. Satisfied with her performance, she turned on her heel and strode away, carrying herself with as much dignity as her limping body would allow.

Chapter 5

John 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?"