you may well be right. No doubt that is all it is.’ Comforted, Bel let herself go as he executed a complicated turn. ‘Oh!’ Her skirts swung, tangled for a moment in his long legs, and then they were gliding down the floor again. ‘You are a very good dancer, Ashe.’
The name was out of her mouth before she realised it. ‘I beg your pardon, Reynard, I…’
‘But I asked you to use my first name.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘That does not mean I should do so, however.’ Bel fixed her gaze on the top button of his waistcoat, which seemed the safest place to look.
‘I like it when you do. Do not stop.’ His voice was a coaxing rumble close to her ear. Far too close.
‘That is all the more reason for not using it!’ Bel’s vehement retort make him chuckle. ‘Do not laugh at me,’ she added crossly. ‘Just because I try to behave as convention demands, there is no need to mock.’
‘I am not mocking,’ Ashe said seriously. ‘I enjoy being with you, I do not find your modest demeanour at all amusing. But I do relish the serious way you keep reminding yourself to behave. It makes me sense some tendency to mischief beneath that very elegant exterior.’
Bel was not at all sure how to take that, it was a positive layer cake of a remark. There was some flattery, a somewhat backhanded compliment and a strong hint that Ashe would very much enjoy it if she were to give her mischief free rein. With him. It seemed he had seen the new wickedness that lurked within her. She contented herself with a sound which was supposed to be a disdainful humpf! and emerged regrettably like a giggle.
The dance ended and she stepped back out of his arms. Ashe bowed slightly, then, as his eyes met hers, she saw in them quite unmistakable desire. It was gone in an instant, his lashes sweeping it away to reveal nothing more than polite admiration. But it had been there, fierce, thrilling and utterly dangerous, and she had recognised it, even though she had never had a man look at her like that in her life before.
The sudden heat she had glimpsed called up an answering warmth in her. The disturbing pulse she was aware of, fluttering low in her belly whenever she was close to him, became insistent, flurrying her. Just that exchange of glances and they were both aware of his desire and her knowledge of it. In her inexperience it seemed incredible that such a thing was possible.
Then her glance flickered lower and hastily away. Her instincts were palpably correct.
The Dowager Duchess of Malmsbury, an outrageous old harridan, had once announced loudly in her hearing that the fashion for skintight, fine-knit, evening knee breeches was excellent as it allowed one to tell precisely what a young man was thinking. Bel had retreated blushing and had hardly dared look at a man below the waist for weeks after that. Now she knew exactly what her Grace had meant and even more exactly what Ashe was thinking about.
‘Th…thank you. That was a delightful dance.’ She sketched a curtsy and turned to walk off the floor. The sets were already beginning to form for the next dance.
‘Lady Belinda?’
‘Yes?’ She hardly dared turn round. She had fantasised about physical desire. Now she was so acutely aware of it vibrating between them that it terrified her.
‘Might I have one word in private?’
‘Um. Yes…of course.’
Ashe guided her towards the loggia overlooking the lawns. It had been opened up as a cooling promenade for the dancers, away from the heat of the ballroom. There was nothing to worry about, Bel assured herself. With so many young and inexperienced girls in the company, Mrs Steppingley had made sure all the curtains were pulled back and the arcaded walk was well lit. Several couples were already strolling up and down its marble floor amidst potted palms and baskets of orchids.
‘This is most pleasant.’ Bel unfurled her spangled fan, realised she was positively flapping it, and began to wave it languidly to and fro. What is he going to ask me?
‘Indeed, yes.’ Ashe took her free hand and placed it on his forearm. ‘I simply wanted to tell you that I should have returned your key, and I did not want to mention it where we might be overheard. I apologise for not having dealt with it sooner.’
‘My key.’ Bel stared at him blankly. Despite the relative cool of the loggia, she could sense the heat of his body as he walked so close beside her. And surely he could feel the hammering of her pulse where her wrist lay on his forearm? Of course, the key. She made herself say something sensible before he thought her a complete lackwit. ‘You overlooked it, no doubt. An easy thing to do under the circumstances.’
‘No. I did not forget.’ The denial took her completely by surprise. They had reached the end of the arcade and she turned to face him, her back against the balustrade as he stood close in front of her, one arm raised so his hand rested on the column, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the company.
‘I do not understand.’
Ashe nodded. ‘No, neither do I.’ He grimaced. ‘It has been lying on my dressing table in full view ever since that day, being pointedly ignored by my valet. I cannot pretend to have forgotten.’ He moved away from her as though he was uncomfortable with their conversation and went to lean on the balustrade. Bel glanced down at the strong ungloved hands as they curled over the carved stone, then up at his profile as he looked out over the garden: classical, handsome, unreadable. Vulnerable.
She blinked and looked again. Whatever it was she had glimpsed, it had gone, leaving only a sense of aloofness.
‘I will have it sent round tomorrow.’ Ashe turned to face her again, his hands at his back bracing him against the stonework, his long, lean body making an elegant black line against the grey background. ‘In a package so it is not obvious what it is.’
Thank you, that would be very thoughtful of you. The right words formed in her mind, polite and cool and correct. Bel opened her lips to articulate them. ‘Please keep it,’ she said.
What? Ashe almost said the word out loud. He must have misheard her. Keep her door key? ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Belinda. I thought you said—’
‘I said, keep it. The key.’ There was colour flushed across her cheekbones and her eyes were wide, apparently in shocked disbelief at her own words, but Lady Belinda’s voice was quite steady. ‘You may like to drop in one evening on your way home. For a nightcap.’ She might have been inviting him to afternoon tea. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, hardly able to believe what he was hearing, surprised that he could focus on such tiny details while he was being so amazed.
‘A nightcap?’
‘To drink, I mean.’ Ashe nodded, fascinated. ‘Not to wear,’ she clarified. Belinda’s slender fingers flew up to seal in what sounded like a gasp of horrified laughter at the image she had conjured up. Her wide grey eyes became serious again in a second. ‘My staff will always be in bed by one. There is no need to knock and, er…disturb anyone. Just let yourself in as you did the other night.’
This was not an hallucination. This was proper, respectable Lady Belinda Felsham, the widow of a man of paralysing respectability, suggesting that he come to her home at one in the morning—for a nightcap?
It was not unknown for married ladies or widows to make it clear to gentlemen that they would not be averse to an affaire. It had happened to him in the past on occasion and he was equally skilled at pretending not to understand what was being hinted at, or at taking advantage of the opportunity for some mutual pleasure, depending on how he felt about the lady, and how territorial her husband appeared to be.
But was this sheltered lady really suggesting what he thought she was? Perhaps Belinda genuinely expected him to drop in for a glass of brandy and a chat on his way home from the clubs. She did not appear to sleep very well, if it was her habit to be reading on the hearthrug at two in the morning. And she was most certainly inexperienced with men. It must be his own desire for her that was making him believe she was offering her body, not her company.
‘Lady