elegant equipages stretching all the way to St James’s Street, depositing the glittering cream of London society at the door.
Raising a lazy brow on seeing a sleek black coach with the Ainsley coat of arms emblazoned on its door come to a halt, his interest sharpened as the coachman lowered the steps to allow the occupants to alight. First of all came the Dowager Countess of Harworth, followed by a young woman. The woman took the coachman’s hand and allowed him to assist her.
‘Thank you, Denis,’ she said.
‘My pleasure, Miss Isabelle.’
Miss Isabelle! So, Lord Bingham thought, that was Isabelle Ainsley, recently come from America. Who else could it be? This was the girl whom London society talked about, a young woman who had lost no time in creating a scandal by forming a most unfortunate liaison with young Carlton Robinson—one of London’s most notorious rakes and a despair to his father.
Intrigued, Lance stared quite openly, unable to do anything else. A cool vision of poised womanhood, she was undeniably the most magnificent woman he had ever seen, though it was not the way she looked that drew his eye, since the distance between them was too great for him to see her features clearly. It was the way she tossed her imperious head, the challenging set to her shoulders and the defiant stare that did not see the lowlier beings about her.
He stood and watched her as she walked a few steps behind the countess—though walked hardly described the way she moved, for she seemed to glide effortlessly, her body eternally female in its fluid movements, her expensively shod feet barely touching the ground.
As they disappeared through a portico of Corinthian columns that led to the foyer, with a frown Lord Bingham resumed his pose, propping his shoulder against the wall. Where the devil had Rowland got to? he wondered, his patience beginning to wear a trifle thin. He stared into the verdant depths of the ruby on his finger. Gleaming with a regal fire, it seemed to motivate him into action. Slowly drawing himself upright, straightening the folds of his bright red officer’s coat, he walked with deliberate strides towards the portico.
Having discarded her cloak, Belle prepared herself for her grandmother’s wrath. The countess regarded her granddaughter with an attentive expression in her eyes. For a moment Belle regretted her impulsive action to wear the necklace and quailed at the storm that she knew was coming. She did not have to wait long. Her grandmother advanced on her, her expression turning to stone as she saw for the first time the necklace.
The countess’s eyes narrowed dangerously, for it seemed to her that her granddaughter had overstepped the mark. Isabelle’s green eyes, so like her own, were fearful and yet at the same time her face wore an expression of defiance.
‘Well?’ Her voice, which she kept low so as not to be overheard, was as cold as her face. ‘I left the necklace with you in good faith, Isabelle—that you would return it to me as I instructed you to do. I did not intend for you to wear it. How dare you disobey me? How dare you?’
‘Grandmother—I—I am sorry …’
‘It is most unseemly that you should embarrass me before so many.’
‘That was not my intention. I saw no harm in wearing it—it is so beautiful and the occasion seemed fitting.’ She raised her hands to the back of her neck. ‘Of course if it upsets you, I’ll remove it—’
‘Leave it,’ the countess snapped, her tone causing Belle to lower her arms. ‘It’s too late for that. Its removal—now it has been seen by all and sundry—will only give rise to unwelcome speculation. You may keep it on. This is not one of your finest performances. I am most displeased with you, Isabelle, most displeased.’ She turned away to speak to an acquaintance, pinning a smile to her face, but inside she continued to seethe at her granddaughter’s disobedience.
Relieved that the moment had passed and the necklace was still in place, Belle was very much aware that the moment she appeared all eyes turned to her. As usual the whispering began and she was surrounded by dozens of people, most of them young men, who obviously thought they might have a chance with the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s American granddaughter.
Belle always became the focus of everyone’s scrutiny, male or female, when she entered any room. The early scandal of her brief liaison with Carlton Robinson had given her a certain notoriety. Ever since she had made her début, she had become accustomed to the admiring looks of the young bucks, either at some society event or on those occasions when, having taken account of her customary rides with her grandmother through Hyde Park, they often waited for her somewhere 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