A Wayward Woman

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 Rowland Gibbon, grateful for the distraction, Lance tore his gaze from the delectable Isabelle Ainsley and turned to the man next to him. ‘I see that you have still not had a shave,’ he commented casually, drawing his friend to a quiet spot beside a rather large exotic oriental plant. ‘How long is this rebellion against the fashionable world going to last?’

Rowland grinned, proudly rubbing his whiskers. ‘As to that, I’ve not yet decided. My valet chastises me about it daily. I fear that one night when I crawl into bed deep in my cups, he will take a razor to it and shave it off. If he does I shall have to get rid of him, for I am determined to bring back the fashion for beards. Damn it, Lance, the London beaux need someone to keep them in check.’

Rowland, tall and lank and seeming rather disjointed in his gangling limberness, was too untidy to be described as a beau. His mane of light brown hair looked forever in need of a brush and his clothes often looked as though they had been slept in—which they often had on the occasions when he was too drunk to remove them and his valet had gone to bed. Wild, disreputable and outrageous, he was also warm hearted and possessed an enormous amount of charm, which endeared him to everyone and was the reason why he was invited to every fashionable party. The two had been close friends since their days at Oxford.

‘It’s good to have you back, Lance, and that you’ve assumed your earldom. Have you been to Ryhill?’

‘I’ve just got back.’

‘Your mother will be relieved you’re back. Is she well?’

He nodded. ‘She visited me at Ryhill prior to leaving for Ireland to visit Sophie. My sister is expecting her first child and naturally Mother insisted on going over to be with her.’

‘And your daughter—Charlotte?’ Rowland enquired cautiously. ‘You have seen the child, I take it?’

Lance’s face was devoid of expression as he avoided his friend’s probing gaze. ‘No, but I have it on good authority that she is thriving and being thoroughly spoilt. She is with Mother in Ireland.’

Rowland knew not to pursue the matter of Lance’s daughter. It was a subject he would never discuss. ‘And you’re finished with the army for good?’

Lance nodded, looking down at his uniform. ‘The old uniform will have to go, but it’s the best I have until my tailor provides me with new clothes—tomorrow, I hope. After Waterloo I had intended carrying on with my military career, but on learning of the death of my uncle, as his heir I had a change of heart. So I left the army, casting my sights towards home. I swore an oath to do my duty to my newly acquired title. Even to think of the estate being bestowed upon another went against everything I hold dear.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly set tongues a wagging since you got back, with every mama with daughters of marriageable age setting their sights your way. There’s one right now,’ he said, indicating a young woman standing close by with her mother.

Lance casually glanced their way and acknowledged first the older, then the younger woman with a slight inclination of his head. The mother smiled stiffly and the daughter blushed and giggled behind her fan.

‘There you are. You always did have women falling over themselves,’ Rowland remarked casually. ‘You were always viewed as the biggest fish in a very small pond. Every time you’re in town they begin casting nets in hopes of scooping you up.’

‘I’m particular as to which bait I nibble at, Rowland, and that particular morsel is not tasty enough for me.’ Lance withdrew his gaze from the young woman and fixed his eyes once more on Isabelle Ainsley, who wandered back and forth in admiration of her surroundings.

Rowland followed his gaze to the source of his distraction. ‘You look at that particular young lady with a good deal of interest.’

‘You are too observant, Rowland,’ Lance replied shortly.

Rowland raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, out with it, man. Am I to know the identity of the lady?’

‘Isabelle Ainsley, the granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth, recently come from America.’ Lance didn’t turn to look at Rowland, but he could sense his surprise.

Rowland made a sound of disbelief. ‘You have been involved too long in the wars, my friend. See a pretty face and you lose your wits over her. Good Lord! You’ve only recently returned from France, and already you know who she is.’

Lance grinned. ‘You know me, Rowland—always one to keep ahead of the rest.’

‘You know how to live dangerously, I’ll say that.’

‘Who said anything about living dangerously? I have not laid eyes on her until tonight.’

‘You wouldn’t since you’ve been out of the country fighting those damn Frenchies. The American girl has certainly hit the London scene by storm and is no nitwit, that’s for sure. Wherever she goes men are dazzled by her. She received countless marriage proposals before she came out, and countless since. The dowager countess is aiming high—the greater the title the greater the chance for the suitor.’

‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ Lance murmured drily. ‘Nothing but the best for the great lady.’

‘Yes, only the best. The real test for any man is fairly simple. All he has to do is win the lady’s heart, for by winning it, he will then gain her grandmother’s approval—maybe. Foolish logic indeed, for they will soon learn that many a pompous lord, after striving to gain the young lady’s favour, has toppled from their plinth with scarcely an excuse from the young lady herself. As a consequence she has been dubbed the Ice Maiden and I have to wonder if she is as cold and haughty as those rejected suitors have claimed. I’d say her beauty is unparalleled. I wonder if she’s as beautiful on the inside.’

‘That, my friend, is immaterial to me,’ Lance said quietly. ‘It’s what she has around her neck that counts.’

‘I did notice that she had some rather pretty sparklers adorning her equally pretty neck.’

‘The famous diamonds.’

Rowland looked at Lance, realisation dawning on him. ‘Ah, how interesting—those diamonds. I think this needs further examination, old chap. I thought they were under lock and key, never to see the light of day again. Now I understand. It certainly explains the attraction—although after all that has happened in the past between your two families, I doubt the Dowager Countess of Harworth would consider a Bingham suitable for the hand of her granddaughter.’

‘Who said anything about wedding her?’

‘Then it’s time you gave it some thought. Besides, you do realise that not a woman in town will spare the rest of us a glance until you have been claimed. You’re not getting any younger, you know. If you intend to sire a dynasty, then you’d better get started.’

‘I have already started, Rowland, and after my tragic marriage to Delphine I am not looking for another wife, and won’t be doing so for a good many years.’ Lance grinned, a hint of the old wickedness in his eyes that Roland had not seen in a long time. ‘I have a few more years of grand debauchery to enjoy before I settle for one woman.’

If he had thought to convince his friend he failed, for although society thought otherwise, Lance’s days as a debauchee were long and truly behind him. Lance was the stuff ladies’ dreams were made of, fatally handsome and with the devil’s own charm. Having spent several years as a soldier, his daring and courage in the face of the enemy had won him praise from the highest—from Wellington himself. His skill and knowledge in numerous bloody battles added to his reputation as a clever strategist and an invincible opponent.

The Lance Bingham who had returned to England was very different from the one who had left. The changes were startling. In contrast to the idle young men who lounged about the clubs and ballrooms with bored languor, Lance was full of energy, deeply tanned, muscular and extremely fit, sharp and authoritative, and although he laughed and charmed his way back into society, there was an aura about him of a man who had done and seen all there was to see and do, a man who had confronted danger and enjoyed it. It was an aura that women couldn’t resist and which added to his attraction.

‘I wonder why the old girl’s suddenly decided to show the diamonds off,’ Rowland mused.

Lance shrugged. ‘I have wondered myself.’

‘Have you never tried to get them back? After all they are right fully yours.’

‘No—at least not lately.’

‘And now you’re back in England, will you attempt to get them back? Although I don’t see how you can. Getting the great lady to part with those precious diamonds will be like getting blood out of the proverbial stone. I’d stake my life on it.’

‘I wouldn’t want your life for a gold pot, but I am always game for a friendly bet. A hundred pounds says you’re wrong. I will have the diamonds in my possession by dawn tomorrow.’

Rowland chuckled, happy to pick up the gauntlet. ‘Make it two hundred and you’re on. I love a sure bet. But the fascinating young lady will be returning to Hampstead after the ball, so how will you be settling this bet?’

Lance shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

Rowland smiled smugly. ‘I doubt you’ll succeed. I’ll call on you tomorrow to claim my winnings. Now, as much as I would like to stay and chat, right now I see the delectable Amanda, the daughter of Viscount Grenville, has just arrived. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and secure a dance or two before her card is full.’

Left alone, Lance considered the amazing bet he had made, and he knew he would have to act quickly if he were to see it through. Normally he would have kept his money in his pocket, but there were reasons why he’d impulsively made the bet. There were benefits to be obtained from securing the diamonds, for not only were they were worth a fortune, by rights they belonged to him.

Lance continued to watch the two Ainsley women as the dowager countess greeted those she knew. There was insolence and arrogance written into every line of Belle Ainsely’s taut young body, but its symmetry was spellbinding. She was exquisite and he had already made up his mind to be formally presented to her. If her dragon of a grandmother objected, then with the inbred arrogance and pride of a man who is not accustomed to being denied, which of course he did not expect to be, he would find a way of introducing himself.

At some point during the evening he was confident that he would succeed in separating her from the laughing, chattering throng and whisk her away to some quiet arbour, where they would drink champagne and engage in the dalliance that was the stuff of life to him.

Chapter Two

Nothing had prepared Belle for the splendour that was Carlton House, which faced the south side of Pall Mall; its gardens abutted St James’s Park.

Following her grandmother past the graceful staircase and through the spacious, opulent residence, which was packed with hundreds of people—nobility, politicians, the influential, the wealthy, the elite of London society—admiring the superb collection of works of art hung on the walls of every room, ornate fireplaces, crystal chandeliers—dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals and ablaze with blinding light, marble busts in niches, mirrors and gold leaf—Belle, finding it all magically impressive, absorbed every detail.

The dowager countess smiled at her mixture of fascination and bemusement. ‘Wait until you see the rest of the house—and the table. The food will be delicious—even though it does have so far to travel from the kitchens that it invariably arrives cold. The Prince shows great imagination in planning these parties and one always enjoys his hospitality.’

Belle stopped and closed her eyes, dizzy with the incomprehensible sights of so much dazzling splendour. Quickly recovering, she snapped open her fan and briskly fanned herself. ‘It would be impossible not to. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ the dazzled girl said. ‘How can all these people not be struck blind by all this beauty?’

‘The Prince stresses there is nothing in Europe that can compare with Carlton House. As for being struck blind, why, these people have seen it for so long that it’s lost all meaning to them.’

‘You mean they don’t appreciate it?’

‘Not as much as you evidently do. The Prince would be well pleased.’

Belle said not a word, merely drinking in every sight as though she had never before in her life seen such beauty. The supper table was covered with linen cloths and laden with delicacies far more numerous than Belle could ever have imagined. It glittered and sparkled and gleamed gold and silver on both sides, running the length of the dining room and into the conservatory beyond. The oriental theme the Prince had chosen for the table decorations was exquisite in every minute detail. At equal distances elaborate crystal fountains bubbled musically, the liquid in them not water but wine.

The atmosphere became electrified when the Prince arrived, looking larger than life and extremely grand in a military uniform heavily trimmed with gold braid. His eyes twinkled good-humouredly as he welcomed everyone and there was a great deal of bowing and dipping of curtsies.

While waiting to be seated, Belle looked about her, her eyes drawn to Lord Bingham, who stood across the room conversing with a group of young bucks. She studied him surreptitiously. His blue eyes glinted with a sardonic expression. Broad shouldered, narrow of waist, with a muscular leg, he gave the appearance of an athlete, a man who fenced and hunted. Yet, she thought, with that determined, clefted chin there was a certain air of masculinity, something attractive, almost compelling, about him, and certainly dangerous.

As Lance became tired of standing around, his eyes sought out the detectable Belle Ainsley, which, despite the house being almost full to capacity, wasn’t too difficult. He saw her surrounded by doting swains enthralled by her uncommon beauty, a premise that, curiously, strangely nettled his mood on finding himself observing her audience of aristocratic suitors. She was enjoying herself, laughing and at ease, a natural temptress, he thought, alluring and provocative and with the body of a goddess. He had to fight the insane impulse to disperse her personal entourage of admirers, carry her to a quiet place, take hold of that lithe, warm, breathing form, crush it beneath him and kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips.

Belle was seated next to her grandmother, Lord Bingham several places away from her on the opposite side of the table. She tried hard not to look at him, but found her eyes turned constantly in his direction. At one point he caught her glance and held her eyes with his warmly glowing blue orbs. His lips widened leisurely into a rakish grin as his gaze ranged over her, and he inclined his head to her in the merest mockery of a bow and raised his glass.

Considering the perusals she had been subjected to so far, Belle deemed his perusal far too bold. At least other men had the decency to size her up with discretion, but Lord Bingham made no attempt to hide his penchant for studying and caressing and feeding on every aspect of her person so that she felt she was being devoured.

Hot with embarrassment over being caught staring and the smug manner in which he’d acknowledged her, Belle curled her lips in derision and, lifting her chin in an attitude of haughty displeasure, looked away, aware that if she didn’t stop it and take more interest in the general conversation that was going on around her, her grandmother would notice.

It proved to be an especially fine banquet and, continuing to find herself the recipient of Lord Bingham’s careful perusal and feeling the dire need of its numbing effects, Belle imbibed more wine than she normally would have done. There was no protection from that rogue’s hungering eyes, and at times the warm glow she saw in them made her feel quite naked. She was not at all surprised when she realised her nerves were taut enough to be plucked.

Three hours later when the banquet had ended, Belle strolled through the lantern-lit gardens with her grandmother, who had become overcome with the heat and thought some fresh air might help alleviate her headache, which had become quite intense. She also strove to keep Isabelle in her sights.

People collected in groups to gossip while high-spirited young couples sought privacy among the shrubs. After she had excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room when her grandmother stopped to acknowledge an acquaintance, on returning and finding herself alone for the first time since she had entered Carlton House, Belle followed the sound of music and stood in the ballroom, watching dancers attired in satins and silks swirling around the floor in time to a lilting waltz.

Suddenly she got that unnerving feeling she got when someone was staring at her. The sensation was so strong she could almost feel the eyes on her, and then a deep voice seemed to leap out from behind her, and said, ‘Dance with me.’

Belle turned in astonishment as the officer materialised from the shadows. Belle recognised that mocking smile—it was identical to the one he had given her across the table, when he’d caught her inadvertently staring at him. His voice was deep and throaty, like thick honey. It was a seductive voice that made her think of highly improper things. It seemed to caress each word he uttered, and she knew there couldn’t be many women who could resist a voice like that, not if the man speaking looked like Lord Bingham. But she told herself she needn’t worry, for she was completely immune to that potent masculine allure.

‘That would not be appropriate. I don’t know you.’

Lance laughed at her. ‘Well, my fine lady, you should indeed know me—and if you don’t, I will tell you that I am Lance Bingham, at your service. Now does my name sound familiar?’

‘My grandmother has already told me who you are,’ Belle replied coolly.

‘I thought she might.’

She looked at him directly. ‘Why does she not like you?’

Instead of reacting with offence, he merely chuckled. ‘You should ask your grandmother. You may find what she has to tell you—interesting.’ He grinned, his mouth curving up at one corner. Beneath his heavy, drooping lids his eyes were filled with amusement, and idle speculation. ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’

She cocked a dark, finely arched brow above a baleful glare, which, with the chillingly beautiful smile, could have frozen the heart of the fiercest opponent. Woe to the man this woman unleashed her wrath upon.

‘I’m minding my own business. I suggest you mind yours.’