the perfect white of her teeth, and a tell-tale flush having turned her cheeks a becoming pink. ‘Very much, and Prince George seems very charming—unlike some of his guests.’
‘Oh? Anyone in particular?’
‘I don’t think I need spell it out, do you? The Prince is awfully good at giving wonderful parties.’
He gave her a penetrating look through narrowed eyes. ‘So, Belle Ainsley, your grandmother has warned you about me?’
Belle leaned back in his arms and looked up at him. His taunting grin made her realise the folly of baiting him. He had all but stated he was no gentleman and did exactly what he chose to do. She felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self-assurance.
‘If she has, it’s because you have a certain reputation. She cannot bear me out of her sight, for in her opinion every male in London has designs on me. Not that she would object to it being the right man, you understand, since she’s forever reminding me that the Season is for young ladies to find husbands.’
‘Which is true. Otherwise what is the point of it all?’
‘Indeed, and I’m afraid that at present I have more suitors than I know what to do with. Grandmother sets great store by propriety and everything must be done according to the rules of courtship.’
‘And you? Did you want to leave America?’
‘No. It was my home, where I wanted to remain, but on my father’s demise my grandmother—who had become my guardian—insisted I come to England.’
‘Well, I for one am very glad she did.’
‘I don’t see why you should be, for since my grandmother seems to have an aversion to you she will see to it that we are never in the same company.’
The brief shake of his head dismissed her remark. ‘If I have a mind to get to know you better, Belle, your grandmother won’t be able to do a thing about it,’ he said in a deep, velvety voice.
Belle saw the look in his eyes, and her heart began to hammer uncontrollably while a warning screamed along her nerves, a warning she knew she should take heed of if she was to retain her sanity. He had set her at odds with his insolent perusal of her earlier, but she had to admit that he was the most exciting man she had met—and the most infuriating.
As the dance progressed, couples dipped and swayed, but Lance Bingham and Belle Ainsley were unaware of them. They made a striking couple. There was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair, he so handsome, she so lovely—so everyone thought, everyone, that is, but the Dowager Countess of Harworth. Sitting with a group of elegant men and women who composed her personal retinue, as she watched her wilful, headstrong granddaughter skim the ballroom floor in the arms of and in perfect unison with the notorious Lord Bingham, her expression was ferociously condemning.
Even the other dancers turned their heads to watch, making way for them as they circled the room. Guests, who had been chatting and laughing and drinking champagne, aware of the enmity that existed between the Ainselys and the Binghams—that there had been much strife and that emotions were still raw—grew watchful and quiet, glancing now and then at the dowager countess, so enormous was her consequence among the ton, to see what she would do.
The countess observed through narrowed eyes that the famous diamonds had created a lot of interest and drew a good deal of comment and envious glances—not least that of Lance Bingham. Already the air was buzzing with whispered conjectures and she knew the word would spread like wildfire that, by singling Isabelle out to dance, Lord Bingham was sending out the message that the age-old feud was over. This thought the countess found most displeasing and was not to be borne. The last thing in the world she wanted was for her granddaughter to capture the interest of this particular aristocrat, but it would appear she had done just that. By breakfast the affair would be being discussed in every household in London.
Belle was whirled around in time to the sweeping music by a man who danced with the easy grace of someone who has waltzed a million times and more. Lance was a good dancer, light on his feet, keeping in time to the rhythm of the music. Belle could feel the muscles of his broad shoulders beneath the fabric of his coat, and her fingers tingled from the contact.
And then the dance was over and he released her, but he was reluctant to part from her. Belle Ainsley intrigued him. She was the only woman who had dared stand up to him, and flaunting the diamonds that by rights belonged to the Binghams—the sheer injustice of it—was tantamount to a challenge to him.
‘Would you defy your grandmother and dance with me again?’
‘Why? Are you asking?’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘Yes, just to give me the satisfaction of saying no.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Belle.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. One dance with you is quite enough. Please excuse me. I think this brief encounter has gone on long enough.’
She turned from him, about to walk away, but he caught her arm. ‘Wait.’
She spun round. ‘What?’
‘Protocol dictates that I escort you back to your grandmother—or do you forget so easily what you have been taught?’
‘Are you sure you want to? Do you have the courage?’
‘After confronting Napoleon on the battle field, confronting your grandmother is mere child’s play.’
Belle elevated her brows in question. ‘You think so? Would you like to tell her—or shall I?’
‘I wouldn’t bother. Your grandmother might take offence to being compared to the mighty emperor.’
‘I don’t think so. Both are stoic and determined people, and unafraid of the enemy. I think they would get on remarkably well.’ She tossed her head haughtily. ‘I suppose you must return me to my grandmother—it will be interesting to observe the outcome.’
Taking her hand, Lance led her off the dance floor. He sensed that, in her belief she could do whatever she fancied, there was an air of danger about her. Nothing will ever beat her, he thought. He would wager she had teeth and claws. Determined too. What she wants she’ll go after—a girl after his own heart. But she was still young, still impressionable—trembling on the edge of ripe womanhood. Isabelle Ainsley would not be long without a husband. The Regent’s court possessed many handsome beaux, who would be willing to wed the beautiful granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth. She thought she had his measure. He smiled, confident in his own power over the female sex. She was only an apprentice compared to him.
He liked his women to be experienced, experienced in the ways of pleasing his own sexually mature body, and there was no doubt Belle Ainsley would make a perfect bed mate. But she must be shown that it was Lance Bingham who called the tune. However, Lance knew full well that though it was not in his nature to care what people thought of him—especially the Dowager Countess of Harworth—he must, for the time being, do the right thing and return this beautiful baggage with her reputation intact.
Lance bowed to the countess, his smile courteous. ‘Your granddaughter dances divinely, Countess. I hope you will forgive me for stealing her away. I was somewhat precipitate in rushing her on to the floor as I did.’
The dowager countess regarded him with an expression of acid tolerance for which she was known—and feared—by all the ton. A deep shudder passed through her and she felt as if she were being taken back in time, for Lance Bingham, with his lean, noble features, stunning good looks and tall, broad-shouldered frame, was so much like his grandfather. She was shocked by the likeness. He had the same mocking smile that she had always found so confusing. It had promised so much and yet meant so little.
‘Yes, you were. So, Colonel Bingham, you are back from France.’
‘As you see, Countess. I am