A Wayward Woman Read online

  ‘Oh, yes, miss. But your grandmother … Oh, miss,’ she said, shaking her mob-capped head, ‘she’ll have my hide if I don’t take them back—and her with one of her heads coming on.’

  The anxiety in the maid’s voice broke Belle’s reverie, and she looked at the terrified girl as she wrung her hands nervously. ‘And you will, Daisy. I can promise you that. But not until after the banquet at Carlton House—and if Grandmother is suffering one of her headaches, then she may be so preoccupied that she won’t notice.’

  ‘But she will see them when it is time for you to leave. She will never allow—’

  ‘What my grandmother sees and what she will allow is neither here nor there, Daisy,’ Belle said sharply, standing up, the transparency of the material of her chemise making no pretence of hiding the softly veiled peaks of her firm breasts. ‘The necklace will be concealed beneath my cloak, and not until we reach Carlton House will she see them. By which time it will be too late to do anything about it.’ Seeing Daisy’s anxiety, she smiled confidently. ‘Trust me, Daisy. Everything will be all right.’

  She looked at the bed where the gown she was to wear had been carefully spread to await its donning, thinking how the vibrant turquoise silk would enhance the jewels and bring out the lights in her rich, mahogany-coloured hair. ‘Now, please help me into my gown.’

  With the gown setting off her figure to perfection, Belle turned this way and that in front of the dressing mirror to survey her reflection. ‘There, what do you think, Daisy? Will I do?’

  Daisy stood back, taking pride in her handiwork—although Miss Belle was already beautiful. She looked positively breathtaking, daring, elegant and special. ‘Indeed you will, Miss Belle. Any man, even one in his dotage, who sees you tonight, looking as you do, will surely find his heart going into its final palpitations—as will Prince George himself.’

  Belle laughed happily. ‘I don’t think so, Daisy. The Prince has so many ladies buzzing about him, he will fail to notice an unknown American girl.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure about that, miss. Prince George may not be as handsome as he once was—his gargantuan appetite has seen to that—but he cuts a fine figure in his military uniforms and the sumptuous clothes he wears. He is still charming and amusing and has an eye for a pretty face.’

  The preparations complete, when the summons came from her grandmother and Daisy had carefully folded her velvet cloak about her shoulders, concealing the necklace, Belle proceeded down the stairs where her grandmother awaited her.

  Belle was excited about going to Carlton House and meeting English royalty. Prince George was a splendid host, at his happiest when entertaining on a grand scale. The whole of society aspired to be invited to his fêtes. According to Belle’s grandmother, the banquets were always glittering occasions, the point of the proceedings to admire, for the Prince, who spent weeks planning the setting of his next event, liked to show off his aesthetic taste and imagination.

  Feeling decidedly gay and definitely light-hearted, Belle had been looking forward to the party for days, and she intended to enjoy every minute of it.

  Having arrived early and trying to work up some enthusiasm to attend Prince George’s banquet, which he imagined would be tedious and infinitely dull, Lord Lance Bingham lounged in the shade against the wall to await his good friend, Sir Rowland Gibbon. He idly watched the long line of carriages—a solid block of 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 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 fashiona
ble 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?’