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A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess
Helen Dickson
Anne Herries
Diamonds, Deception and the DebutanteBelle Ainsley’s arrival in London has already caused somewhat of a stir. Tarnished with scandal, she knows her reputation is in tatters. But can falling from grace be so utterly terrible when wickedly handsome Lance Bingham seems more than willing to catch her?Fugitive CountessMarietta is fleeing for her life. With the accusation of witchcraft hanging over her head, she must protect her infant son. It’s not the first time she’s turned to dashing knight Anton of Gifford. But this time he’s sworn not to lose his head, or his heart, over her. . .



Tainted with scandal …
Undone by passion …
Can he truly win the heart of

A
Wayward Woman
Helen Dickson

and

Anne Herries
bring you two sparkling and sensational all-new historical romances

A
Wayward Woman
HELEN DICKSON ANNE HERRIES


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante HELEN DICKSON

Author Note
Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante is set in the Regency period. It is one of the most turbulent, glittering and romantic times in our history, when rakes and dandies, outrageous gambling and scandals abounded. It is a period enjoyed by both readers and writers alike. I am no exception.
Every one of my books is special to me, but the one I am working on at the time is always the most important. When I finish a book I always intend having a break from writing to catch up on things I set aside until the story is finished before embarking on another, but invariably my imagination begins to stir and in no time at all I’m off again.
History has always held a fascination for me—it was one of my best subjects at school. I am interested in how people lived, how different everything was from today and how much one can learn from the past. My inspiration is drawn from many things. I am an avid reader and I enjoy music and walking. My characters are not based in any direct way on anyone in particular and I use my own brush to paint things in a fictional way. I do home in on certain traits and embody them in the characters in my books. I love seeing the people I create come to life and develop personalities of their own.
Writing is something I enjoy tremendously and it gives me a great deal of personal satisfaction. I hope you enjoy reading Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante as much as I enjoyed writing it.

About the Author
HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that led her to write historical fiction.

Prologue
June 1815
As the rain lashed down to compound the misery of the troops, the scene was set for battle. The British troops had been engaged by the French and forced to retire after a sharp engagement lasting the afternoon and they had to struggle to hold their position. The following morning Wellington drew back, establishing himself at the posting inn at the village of Waterloo.
It was here that one of Colonel Lance Bingham’s staff officers brought him a note. It was crumpled and stained, as if it had passed through many hands.
‘A lad brought it, sir,’ the staff officer said. ‘It’s urgent, and he said I had to deliver it to you personally.’
Colonel Bingham tore the missive open and read it quickly. He spoke one word, ‘Delphine.’ Apart from a tightening of his jaw, his expression did not betray even a flicker of reaction. ‘There is something I have to do.’
‘But, sir, what if General Bonaparte …’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Take me to the lad.’
Knowing he risked being court-marshalled for leaving his post on the eve of battle, Colonel Bingham rode away from the encampment. With rain beating at his face, following the lad on a small but swift-footed nag, he prayed to God that he was right and that Bonaparte wouldn’t attack before dawn, for it was his way to fly at his opponents without waiting to be attacked.
The farmhouse to which he had been summoned was down a dirt track. It was a humble dwelling, the stench of animals and their dung as strong inside the house as it was in the farmyard. The lad, who was the son of the farmer and his wife, hung back, pointing to a room at the top of a rickety staircase. Climbing up, Colonel Bingham paused in the doorway. It was dimly lit, hot and fetid with the stench of childbirth. A man stood next to the bed on which a woman lay, and in a corner of the room a young woman nursed an infant.
The man turned to look at the stranger, who seemed to fill the room with his presence. He saw an officer in military uniform, tall and with broad, muscular shoulders, deep chest and narrow waist, his handsome features ruggedly hewn.
‘Colonel Bingham?’
He nodded, removing his hat, his face set and grim.
‘I am Reverend Hugh Watson—attached to His Majesty’s army,’ he said, stepping back from the bed to allow him to approach. ‘Thank goodness you have come. Miss Jenkins hasn’t much time left. When the midwife who attended the young woman at the birth of her child realised she would not pull through, when Miss Jenkins requested a clergyman to be absolved of her sins, she summoned me.’
Giving the clergyman, who had a prayer book open in his hands, a cool glance, taking note of his crumpled dark suit and grimy neck linen and that he was in need of a shave, never had Colonel Lance Bingham seen a man who looked less like a clergyman.
Seeming reluctant to approach the bed, his face hardened into an expressionless mask, Lance observed the woman from where he stood. Not having seen her these seven months gone, he did not recognise her as the attractive, vivacious young woman who had kept him happily entertained throughout most of his years as a soldier in Spain. Drenched in sour sweat, she was lying beneath the covers, her lank brown hair trailed over the pillow. Her face was waxen and thinner than it had been, and dark rings circled her deep brown eyes.
As if she sensed he was there they fluttered open and settled on his face. Her heart beat softly inside her with love and wonderment that he had come. A smile lifted her tiredly drooping mouth. ‘Lance—you came.’ She tried to raise a hand to him, but sapped of strength it remained where it was.
Dropping to his knees beside the bed, Lance took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Delphine, what in God’s name are you doing here? I told you to go back to England.’
‘I did, but then I followed you to Belgium—as I followed you to Spain, remember? I—haven’t been well. I didn’t think I would survive the birth. I did, but I know I haven’t much time, Lance—but it gladdens my heart to see you again.’
‘Miss Jenkins has just been delivered of your child,’ the clergyman informed him.
Colonel Bingham stiffened and for the briefest of moments, shock registered in his eyes. ‘My child? Is this true, Delphine?’
She nodded. ‘A girl. You have a daughter, Lance. A beautiful daughter.’
Lance knew he would never again feel the shame, the guilt, the absolute wretchedness that seized him then, as he looked at what he believed to be the dying spirit of the woman who had taken his fancy when he had seen her perform on the London stage, this woman who had followed him to Spain, from one battlefield to the next, without complaint, without demanding anything from him, and was now slipping away.
When they had met, her freshness and vivacity were something his jaded spirits had badly needed. Delphine had proved to be a thoroughly delightful mistress. She had been there to satisfy his craving for carnal appeasement. They had talked and laughed and kissed and shared sweet intimacies. But knowing nothing could come of their affair, he couldn’t let her waste one moment of her precious life loving him or waiting for him, and so he had ended it, telling himself that he had done the right thing, the noble thing. But nothing had prepared him for the days and nights of missing her, of the sweet softness of her in his arms.
‘Delphine, I have to ask …’
‘The child is yours,’ she uttered forcefully. ‘Never doubt it. There has been no one else. No one was good enough—after you.’
He bent his head over her hand. ‘Dear sweet Lord, this is the cruellest thing you have ever done to me. Why did you not write and tell me? I would have come to you, Delphine. I would not have let you endure this alone.’
‘I am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I—I thought you might hate me—that you would turn me away—but I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t go home and I had to do something, which was why I came to Belgium—to find you.’
‘You were afraid of me?’ His voice was soft with compassion. ‘You were afraid to tell me? Am I such an ogre, Delphine?’
‘No …’ She trembled and clutched his hand, a great wash of tears brimming in her eyes.
Lance felt his heart jolt for her pain. He would give anything to know how to comfort her, to reassure her that he would not leave her. He was an arrogant bastard, he knew that himself, a man who liked, demanded, his own determined way, but the emotion this woman aroused in him, the sweetness that flowed through him from her, could be matched by nothing he had ever known before.
‘Don’t cry, my love,’ he murmured. ‘I’m here now. You’re safe with me and always will be.’
‘Go and look at your daughter, Lance. You will see she is yours.’
Lance did as she bade and went to look at the flesh-and-blood evidence of the result of their loving. His heart began to beat against his chest wall. The wet nurse pushed away the cover shielding the infant’s face. This was his child and he was almost too afraid to look at her because he did not know how he would feel when he did. He forced himself to look at the babe’s face, compelled by some force he did not recognise. As he looked she yawned and turned her face towards him, before settling herself to sleep against the woman’s breast.
It was his mother’s face and his own he saw, the line of her brow with the distinctive widow’s peak, the way in which her eyes were set in her skull, the black winging eyebrows, and the tiny cleft in her round chin. On her head her hair swirled against her skull, a clump of curls, coal black like his own, on her crown.
Turning from her, he went back to the bed. ‘She is a fine girl, Delphine.’
‘Yes, a fine baby girl. I’ve named her Charlotte—after my mother. As her father you will—look after her, won’t you, Lance, be responsible for her—care for her and protect her? She has no one else.’
Lance nodded, a terrible constriction in his throat, for she was so weak, so defenceless against what was to happen to her. He damned all the fates that prevented him from righting the wrong he had done her by casting her from him, the cruel fates that prevented him from having this warm and lovely girl in his life once more.
‘You have my guarantee that she will be supported in a manner suitable to her upbringing. But—is there anything I can do to ease your suffering? Anything at all?’
‘You could do the honourable, gentlemanly thing and marry Miss Jenkins, sir,’ the clergyman suggested stoutly, almost forcefully. ‘The child is a bastard and the stigma of being born out of wedlock will follow her all the days of her life. As your legitimate daughter her future will be secure.’
Lance was momentarily lost for words. Before this it would have been impossible, unthinkable to take her for his wife for he had a position to consider and a wife such as Delphine would not have been tolerated, but, by heaven, this changed everything. Lance knew a man’s rightful claim to being a gentleman was not something one could inherit. Compassion, honour and integrity were just three of the characteristics. Certainly a man had a responsibility and an obligation to protect those who were close to him, those who depended on him, from the cruelties of the world. Looking from Delphine to the child, never had he felt the weight of that responsibility as he did now. He could not in all conscience and honour cast Delphine aside along with their child like something worthless.
Without any visible emotion, he said, ‘Is this what you want, Delphine?’
She nodded, a tear trickling out of the corner of her eye and quickly becoming soaked up in the pillow. ‘For our daughter’s sake. I am dying, Lance, so I will not be a burden to you and you will be free to go on as before. It won’t be long. Will you do this—for me?’
‘I shall be proud to make you my wife, Delphine,’ Lance said hoarsely. He looked at the clergyman. ‘Very well. Get on with it.’
After summoning the farmer and his wife to bear witness to the proceedings, they spoke their vows, the infant beginning to wail lustily when the clergyman pronounced them man and wife.
Delphine smiled and closed her eyes. ‘You can go now, Lance. There is nothing more to be done.’
That seemed to be so. With a final sigh her head rolled to one side.
Lance stared at her, unable to believe this dear, sweet girl—his wife for such a short time—was dead. Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus, he prayed as he bent his head, the agony he felt slicing his heart to the core.
The clergyman went to Delphine and placed his head to her chest. Straightening up, he shook his head solemnly. When he was about to pull the sheet over her face, Lance stayed his hand.
‘Wait.’ He looked at her face one last time, as if to absorb her image for all time. It had taken on a serenity absent before death, so calm and untroubled he felt his throat ache. The eyes were closed, the lashes long and dark in a fan on her cheek. The skin, no longer the almost grey look of the dead, had taken on a soft honey cream.
Not one to show his emotions, after taking a moment to compose himself, Lance signed some papers and then handed the clergyman some money for the burial, telling him to have Delphine interred in the graveyard of the local church. His face stony, his eyes empty, he turned his attention to the woman holding his child.
‘You are English?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What are you called?’
‘Mary Grey, sir. My own baby died—six days now—and the midwife who attended your wife asked if I would wet nurse your daughter.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I have no husband, sir. My man died before I gave birth.’
‘I see.’ He thought for a moment, considering her. At least she was clean and quietly spoken. ‘Will you continue to wet nurse the child and take her to an address in England? You will be well paid for your trouble. I will send someone to accompany you—along with a letter for you to give to my mother.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The clergyman moved from the bed. ‘Don’t feel you have to remain, Colonel. I will take care of things.’
‘Thank you. I do have to return to my regiment. Battle is imminent. Tomorrow many will die. Your services as a priest will be needed, too.’
The child began to whimper. He looked at it and quickly looked away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, trying to defend himself against the rising and violent tide of anger directed against this tiny being—this infant whose entry into the world had taken the life of its mother. Angry, relentlessly so and unable to understand why he should feel like this, his face absolute and without expression, without a backward glance Colonel Bingham left the farmhouse.
Mary Grey had noted the look on his face and recognised it for what it was. He blamed the child for its mother’s death, this she understood, but she was confident it was a problem that would solve itself. But in this she was to be proved wrong.
In silence the clergyman watched him go. What could he say? How could anyone—man or woman—recover from such pain and the agony of such grief?
Lance rode back to his regiment, eager for the battle to begin so that he could lose himself in the fray and forget what had just transpired—and the fact that he had a daughter.

Chapter One
‘Miss Belle, I simply do not know what to do with you. Your grandmother is waiting for you in the dining room, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Now hurry. You look fine, you really do.’
Isabelle ‘Belle’ Ainsley spun round from the mirror, the bright green of her eyes flashing brilliantly as her temper rose. ‘For heaven’s sake, Daisy. I am nineteen years old and will not be hurried. And I will not look fine until I am satisfied with how I look.’ She twisted back to the mirror, scowling petulantly at her hair, which, as usual, refused to be confined. Daisy had arranged it in twists and curls about her head, but a curl as wayward as the girl herself had sprung free and no matter how she tried to tuck it away, it defiantly sprang back.
Daisy shook her head in amusement, unperturbed by her new mistress’s outburst of temper. ‘We both know that could take all night and that would never do. You certainly have your grandmother’s temper, but she’s older and if I were you I wouldn’t delay any longer or you’ll feel the rough edge of her tongue.’
Belle groaned with exasperation and then in a fit of pique she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off the offending curl. In a swirl of satin and lace she flounced across the room and out of the door, not deigning to look at Daisy’s bemused face.
Belle’s descent of the grand staircase was not in the least ladylike and brought a combination of smiles, raised eyebrows and frowns of concern from the footmen who paused in their duties to watch her. She was certainly a wondrous sight to behold, was Lady Isabelle. In the tomb-like silence of the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s stately home, the arrival of her granddaughter from America ranked as an uproar and had not only the servants scratching their heads, but the countess as well. And now the countess was in high dudgeon over being kept waiting.
Entering the dining room, Belle steeled herself for the unpleasant scene that was bound to occur. Her grandmother rose stiffly from the chair where she was reclining, her hand gripping the gold knob of her cane. At seventy-two she was still a handsome woman with white hair, elegant, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakeable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life. Despite the stiff dignity and rigid self-control that characterised her every gesture, she had known her share of grief, having outlived her husband and two sons.
‘Good evening, Isabelle,’ she said, looking with disapproval over her granddaughter’s choice of dress, which had seen much wear and was not in the least the kind a young lady of breeding would wear in a respectable English drawing room. The sooner her dressmaker arrived to begin fitting her out for a new wardrobe the better. ‘You are inordinately tardy. What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘I’m so sorry, Grandmother. I did not mean to upset you. I simply could not decide which dress to wear. I chose this because it is such a pretty colour and looks well on me. You could have started dinner without me. You didn’t have to wait.’
The Dowager gave her an icy look. ‘In this house we dine together, Isabelle, and I do not like being kept waiting. How many times must I tell you that I demand punctuality at all times? Thank goodness we do not have guests. You have grieved cook, who has been trying unsuccessfully to keep our dinner warm and palatable.’
‘Then I shall make a point of apologising to cook,’ Belle said, unable to understand why her grandmother was making such a fuss about nothing. ‘I have no wish to put anyone out. I could quite easily fetch my own food from the kitchen.’
‘And that is another thing. You will not do work that is best left to the servants.’ She sighed, shaking her head wearily. ‘You have so much to learn I hardly know where to begin.’
‘But I like to be kept busy,’ Belle answered, smiling across at the agitated lady.
‘I shall see that you are—with matters concerning your future role in life, although I realised from the start how difficult and unyielding is your nature.’
‘Papa would doubtless have agreed with you. He ever despaired of me.’ Thinking of her father, dead these two months, a lump appeared in Belle’s throat and the lovely eyes were shadowed momentarily. ‘I miss him very much.’
‘As I do.’ The faded blue eyes never wavered, but there was a hoarseness in the countess’s voice that told Belle of her grandmother’s inner grief over the death of her second son. ‘It was his wish that you come to England, where you will be taught the finer points of being a lady—and I shall see that you do if I expire in the attempt.’
Belle swallowed down the lump in her throat. How difficult her life had suddenly become and how difficult the transition had been for her to leave her beloved Charleston and come to London. She missed it so much. Would she ever fit in here? she wondered. How she hated having to live by her grandmother’s strict rules when her father had allowed her to roam as free as a bird back home. The task of learning to be the lady her grandmother intended her to become was both daunting and seemingly impossible.
She looked at her grandmother, her green eyes wide and vulnerable. ‘I’m sure I must be a terrible disappointment to you, Grandmother, but I will try not to let you down. Despite what you think, I am only foolish, not stupid. I am ignorant of your ways, but I will learn.’
‘Then you will have to work very hard.’
The countess knew she had her work cut out with her granddaughter. Her manners were unrefined and she knew nothing about genteel behaviour. She was a wild child, as wild as they come. At first sight they had regarded each other, two fiercely indomitable wills clashing in silence. That her granddaughter was proud and strong and followed her own rules was obvious, but the countess would not concede defeat.
Belle crossed to the long table and waited until Gosforth, the butler—who had a habit of appearing and disappearing seemingly from nowhere—had seated her grandmother properly, before pulling out her own chair and seating herself, which earned her another condemning frown from the elderly lady.
The dowager looked at Gosforth. ‘We are ready to start, Gosforth, now my granddaughter has deigned to join me. I suppose we might as well see how cold the beef has grown.’
Belle sighed, folding her hands demurely in her lap. The evening was definitely off to a bad start. If only there was some distraction. Anything would be preferable to an evening at home alone with her grandmother, who would endeavour to teach her unsophisticated American grand daughter how young English ladies behaved. All Belle’s attempts to try to curb her restlessness and be demure were unsuccessful.
Already—and unbeknown to her grandmother—on her daily rides across Hampstead Heath, Belle had garnered the favours of several curious local young beaux—one with raffish good looks and much sought after, apparently. His name was Carlton Robinson. On occasion he had watched for her when she rode out, and when she had managed to shake off her accompanying groom—who despaired of trying to keep up with her since she could ride like the wind with the devil on her tail—he had joined her.
Carlton Robinson had never met anyone quite like this American girl and he had soon turned to putty under the assault of her big green eyes and stunning looks. Out of boredom it was all a game to Belle, and when she had captured him completely, the game had soured and she had sent the young man packing—blissfully unaware of the consequences of her liaison with this particular gentleman.
She sighed, taking a large, unladylike gulp of her wine, already wishing the evening would end so she could escape to her room—and to make matters worse the beef was overdone.

The following morning, standing at her bedroom window overlooking the gardens, the countess watched her granddaughter as she cantered up the drive—hatless and astride, her long legs gripping her mount, her hair blowing loose in the wind, and having left the groom somewhere on the Heath.
That very morning one of the countess’s acquaintances had hastened to inform her of a scandal that was beginning to unfold concerning Isabelle—a scandal that was entirely of Isabelle’s making, if it was to be believed. The countess was incensed by her granddaughter’s behaviour. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that the lovely, inexperienced young woman would form a liaison with a young man whose exploits were the talk of London as soon as she arrived. And Carlton Robinson! No man but he would dare, would have the temerity, the sheer effrontery to interfere with the granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth. She summoned Isabelle to the salon immediately.
Daisy had heard the gossip and told Belle she could expect no mercy from her grandmother. Belle’s naïvety and inexperience had not prepared her for a young man of Carlton Robinson’s reputation. Not to be made a fool of by an ignorant American girl, he had let his tongue loose to do its worst and turned the tables on Belle. He had laughingly told his friends that the American girl was an amusingly peculiar, pathetic little thing from the backwoods of America, and when she was launched, he had no intention of plying his suit.
An inexplicable premonition of dread mounted the closer Belle got to the salon. After listening to what her grandmother had to say, making no attempt to conceal her anger and disappointment, Belle was swamped with remorse and shame.
‘Well? What have you to say for yourself?’ the countess demanded of the wretched girl.
‘I’m so sorry, Grandmother. It was nothing, please believe me. We—met when I was riding on the Heath. We only met three times. He—said he liked my company. I didn’t like him, so I ended it. Daisy has told me that the odious man has said some dreadful, wicked things about me that simply are not true.’
‘Carlton Robinson says objectionable things about people all the time,’ the countess answered drily.
‘I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t know.’
‘There’s a great deal you don’t know. A girl newly arrived from America—ignorant to our ways—he saw you as easy prey.’ She shook her head wearily, blaming herself for allowing Isabelle too much freedom. ‘I accept that you are ignorant of how things are done in England, Isabelle. Carlton Robinson is a conceited braggart and the most lascivious reprobate in town. Resentful of your rejection, he has tried to destroy your reputation in the most alarming manner—to make you a hopeless social outcast before you have even made your début.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandmother,’ Belle whispered brokenly, truly repentant. ‘You risked a great deal taking me into your home. Little did you know you would be risking disgrace.’ She looked at her grandmother, her eyes wide and vulnerable and shining with tears. ‘I’ve a hideous disposition and I haven’t a feminine accomplishment to my name. What is to be done?’
The countess’s heart melted for the lovely, spirited, bewildered girl her younger son had borne, and in a moment her old loyal heart had her fighting in defence of her granddaughter, at whose door the blame had been unfairly laid. ‘We shall do as the Ainsleys have always done, Isabelle,’ she said on a gentler note, ‘and weather the scandal. By the time you make your début, hopefully it will have blown over.’

And so the Dowager Countess of Harworth began to shape the artless, unsophisticated girl from America into a respectable English young lady. Isabelle hadn’t a grain of sense or propriety in her, but her determination not to be restricted or confined had to be curbed. She knew nothing of fashion and cared even less, but Isabelle had been well tutored in most subjects. She spoke perfect French, read Latin and Greek, and she had a good head for numbers.
Miss Bertram, a woman of unimpeachable character, was to arrive today to begin instructing her on the refinements of etiquette. No one would dare to question the acceptability and character of any young lady in her charge. The Season would begin in just a few short weeks. Hopefully it would be enough time for Isabelle to learn everything she needed to know to make a full-fledged début and to outfit her for the full Season. Until then the countess would begin by taking her to the theatre, where she could be seen but not approached, but apart from that, she must be kept locked away from everyone.

Her grandmother’s house, situated close to Hampstead Heath, was unlike anything Belle had imagined. She had been mesmerised by its splendour—imposing without being austere. This was where her grandmother lived when she came to London, preferring the relative peace and quiet of living just outside the city, where the air was cleaner. The ancestral home, Harworth Hall, was in a place called Wiltshire.
On her arrival in England, at first Belle had objected and fought against all her grandmother’s efforts to make her conform. Her grandmother was hard to please, overbearing and possessive, whereas Belle was a free spirit and used to doing as she wished, and she wasn’t ready to be buried alive by protocol and the traditional English customs. But now her ‘hysterics’, as her grandmother called it, had cooled to an acceptance of her situation and a steely determination. Admitting her lack of knowledge about English protocol, Belle was sensitive enough to realise that she was lacking in certain social skills—and she was her own harshest critic. She accepted that her grandmother was the only family she had, and, like it or not, this was now her home, so she had best conform and make the best of it.
Miss Bertram had the formidable task of teaching her social graces, and under her relentless and exacting tutelage, Belle began to settle down and worked diligently to learn anything that might help her win favour in her grandmother’s eyes.
Madame Hamelin, her grandmother’s personal dressmaker, arrived, accompanied by two seamstresses to fit her for an extensive wardrobe, and Madame Hamelin was full of praise for the beautiful American girl, complimenting her on her natural grace and excellent posture. Belle allowed herself to be pushed, prodded and poked and scolded if she did not stand still for the fittings, and sometimes praised—for she was excited, and what girl would not be?—the centre of attention, admired and exclaimed over.
Next came the dancing instructor, who had her whirling around the room to the imaginary strains of a waltz and to the countess’s relief announced that her granddaughter had a natural ability and was far from hopeless.
And so Belle learned how walk properly, how to curtsy, how to open and close a fan, and learned that it had other uses—for flirting and to occupy the hands—other than for cooling oneself. By the time of her début, although she still had much to learn and her wilfulness was far from curbed, her grandmother was confident that she would be ready to be introduced into society. Hopefully the scandal of her brief and completely innocent association with Carlton Robinson would be completely forgotten.

Lance Bingham groaned and pushed himself out of the bed. Reaching for the water pitcher he poured the contents over his hair before raising his dripping head and looking at his face in the mirror. He felt terrible and he looked it. His eyes were bleary, and dark stubble covered his chin. He forced himself to breathe deeply in an attempt to clear the alcoholic fog from his head. Towelling his head dry, he went to the window, shoving it open and breathing deeply the sharp air of a Paris morning.
Today, his life with the army over, he was to return to his home in England, an event he viewed with little joy when he thought what awaited him there. When Delphine had died part of him had died too. Never again would he let his emotions get the better of him. His heart was closed to all women—including his daughter, whose birth had taken away the only woman who had touched his inner being.
Throughout the years with his regiment, he had been motivated by the adventure of being a soldier and driven by the excitement of battle, but the battles’ images and the loss of his friends had left their scars. It was going to be no easy matter settling down to life as a civilian. He had every-thing—breeding, looks and wealth—and however much he would regret its passing, his military career and the manner of Delphine’s death and the guilt that would hound him all the days of his life, had made him world weary, restrained and guarded.
The voluptuous French redhead in the bed stirred and lifted herself upon an elbow, her body stiff and aching deliciously from her companion’s prolonged and energetic love-making. She studied the darkly handsome man, his brooding looks marred by cynicism. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the window frame, looking out. Gazing with admiration and a fresh stirring of desire at the lean, hard lines of his body, her eyes roving down past the rigid muscles of his chest and flat stomach, every inch of him positively radiated raw power and unleashed sensuality.
His latent animal sensuality swept over her. ‘Come back to bed,’ she murmured huskily, aching for ful fil ment, hoping he would, but Lance Bingham seemed not to hear. ‘Please,’ she persisted, slowly, languidly, running her hands through her hair.
He turned and looked at her dispassionately. ‘Get dressed and go.’
‘What? Did I not satisfy you, my lord?’ She smiled seductively, letting the sheet slip to reveal her swelling orbs, hoping the sight of them would entice him back into her arms. ‘You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?’
The voice was lazy and full of promise. A soft smile played about her mouth, inviting him to her, but he remained unmoved. He hated loose women, but she exuded a rich aura of passion and the full, ripe figure and smouldering eyes promised an obvious knowledge of the art of exciting men. Last night he had invited her to his room and she had come gladly. Now the mere sight of her sickened him and he was coldly telling her to get out.
‘That was last night. I was drunk and now I’m sober and not bored enough to want to sleep with you again.’
The woman scowled at him. ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you?’
‘No. I do not believe in the inherent goodness in anyone—including myself. If you don’t mind, I would like you to go.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed and anger kindled in their depths. ‘Why—you—you bastard,’ she hissed.
The look he gave her was one of mild cynicism. ‘If calling me names makes you feel better, I’ll let it go. For my part I apologise if I’ve given you grief. I could put it down to your being an attractive woman and me being a long way from home and pretty damn lonely. Whatever it was, it’s over. Now get out.’
About to argue, the look on his face made the woman afraid of him for the first time since she had come to his room. Strange and explosive emotions lurked in the hard eyes glittering in the dim light of the room and rendered her speechless. Last night under the effects of drink and full of lust, she had thought him completely malleable, but she now read a hardness of purpose and coldness of manner beyond any previous experience.
Paying no more attention to her, Lance turned away to watch the teeming mass of humanity scurrying along the wide, rainswept boulevards. The woman threw back the covers and reached for her clothes. Even before she had flounced out of the room he had put her from his mind as if she had never been.

Having sat for what seemed to be hours before her dressing-table mirror, watching as Daisy had painstakingly arranged her heavy hair into an elegant coiffure, deftly twisting it into elaborate curls and teasing soft tendrils over her ears, Belle now fingered the diamonds Daisy had just fastened around her throat—drop diamonds that danced in her lobes and a double row of diamonds with a single, enormous oval-shaped diamond pendant that rested just above her breasts. They were hard and cold and absolutely exquisite in their beauty. They belonged to her grandmother and were famous for their chequered history, and had not been worn for fifty years.
Belle smiled at her reflection in the mirror, a mischievous, calculating smile, a smile those who knew Isabelle Ainsley would know to be wary of.
‘Shall I take them off now, miss?’ Daisy asked. The countess had agreed to her granddaughter looking at the famed jewels. After handing them over to Miss Belle, the countess had been called away, telling her to put them back in the box and return them to her before they left for the Prince Regent’s party at Carlton House.
‘No, Daisy.’ Belle’s eyes were sparkling with defiance, her concentration unbroken as she continued to finger the diamonds. ‘I think I shall wear them for the party tonight. After all, what is the point of having beautiful things if they are to be kept hidden away? A necklace of such beauty should be seen and appreciated, and tonight is such a grand occasion, don’t you agree?’
‘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 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.’
He grinned. ‘You’re outspoken.’
‘None of your business. Why don’t you just go away?’
‘Hostile, too. I don’t often encounter hostility from young ladies.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘You’re not impressed?’
‘Not a bit.’
Those seductive blue eyes settled on her. ‘Well, Miss Isabelle, I find you quite challenging.’
‘You do?’
‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re quite lovely?’
‘All the time.’
‘And you’ve got lovely hair. You’re got a provocative mouth, too.’
‘Save your breath. I am not interested.’
‘No?’ He arched a brow.
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘You are very convincing. You actually make a woman believe you are speaking the truth—but then you have undoubtedly had a great deal of practice.’
He grinned. ‘True, but I am sincere.’
Belle could feel her cheeks warming as she met those smiling blue eyes. ‘You seem terribly sure of yourself, my lord.’
‘And I can see you’re not easily taken in, but can you not understand what a man like myself experiences in the presence of such a beautiful woman?’
Belle peered at him frostily. ‘And I can see you’re all talk.’
Leaning forwards, Lance ensnared her gaze and carefully probed those dark green eyes as a slow smile curved his lips. ‘You’ve got me all wrong. You’ve awakened emotions within me that I was sure I was incapable of feeling—some of which are appreciative—others I’m simply struggling to restrain.’
‘Then you will just have to curb your emotions, my lord, for I am not interested.’
He cocked a sleek black brow. ‘No?’
‘Conceited, aren’t you? Conceited and arrogant.’
He pretended offence. ‘You do me a terrible injustice. In fact, you make me feel quite downcast and disconsolate. Here I am, complimenting you on your beauty, and you start casting aspersions on my character. You think I’m insufferable?’
‘Quite,’ she agreed heatedly.
‘That’s quite a temper you have,’ he said, shaking his head in teasing, chiding reproof. ‘And here I was thinking that you wanted me to ask you to dance.’
Her eyes flared. ‘Do you actually think I was waiting for you to ask me?’
Her show of outrage bestirred his hearty laughter. Thoroughly incensed, Belle glowered at him until his amusement dwindled to nothing more than a slanted grin. ‘You can’t fault a soldier recently returned from the wars for hoping that such would be the case. You really are quite the most enticing female I’ve met. So, what do you say? Will you dance with me?’
‘No. Like I said, you are insufferable. I don’t think I like you very much.’
‘A little would do. Actually, I’m quite delightful once you get to know me. I do have a reputation, I admit it frankly—but I’ve been dreadfully maligned. You shouldn’t believe all you hear about me.’
Belle gazed at him with a cool hauteur. After a moment he smiled a devilishly engaging smile, offended demeanour gone.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to dance?’
‘Quite sure,’ she retorted.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Sore feet, probably.’
‘It’s a long time since I trod on a lady’s toes, Belle.’
Her heart lurched at his familiar use of her name. ‘Maybe so, but I will not risk it. I did not invite you to ask me to dance.’
He grinned unrepentantly. ‘I know. I took it upon myself. Always was impetuous.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? If you will excuse me, I see my grandmother beckoning to me.’
Lance Bingham gave her a mock-polite nod, eyelids drooping, a half-smile playing on his mouth. Lowering his head, he spoke softly into her ear, his warm breath fanning her neck. Mingled with an underlying essence of soap, the pleasantly aromatic bouquet of his cologne drifted into her nostrils and twined amazingly through her senses, and she found the manly fragrance intoxicating.
‘Go if you must, but I will not give up.’

True to his word, Lance Bingham didn’t. His mind never wandering far from the diamonds around her neck, Belle Ainsley’s delectable form fully visible to his hungry eyes was an inducement he was unable to resist.
The Dowager Countess of Harworth had watched him throughout the evening carefully. She had seen him approach Isabelle and noted her rejection. However she was unsettled by it. Countless young women surrounded him all the time, all vying for his attention. Lord Bingham, she noted, treated them with amused tolerance, for his attention was on the only female at Carlton House who seemed immune to his magnetism—her granddaughter.
Having serious cause to doubt that he had never seen such perfection before and tempted to dally with the lady to his heart’s content, half an hour after he had spoken to her, Lance threw caution to the four winds and approached Belle once more.
From where she sat conversing with two elderly ladies who were friends of her grandmother, glancing up, Belle saw his head above the crowd and instinctively knew he was looking for her. When he turned his imperious head his eyes locked on to hers and he smiled, a lazy cocksure smile. When he strode arrogantly towards her, she was not in the least surprised when the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
Belle lifted her eyes to look into his face. He was smiling down at her, the bright blueness of his eyes catching her breath. She was used to male admiration, but this one was the first to rouse her hostility while at the same time stirring her senses and capturing her imagination. Not that she’d let him see it, for that was not her way, but she had never reacted like this before to any man.
‘As you do not appear to be taken for this dance, I wonder if I might—’
Belle raised her chin haughtily. ‘Thank you, but I am not dancing at the moment.’
‘I can see that, which is why I am here. Now, if the ladies will excuse us …’
Bowing in the direction of the open-mouthed ladies, Lance took Belle’s hand, pulled her out of the chair and whisked her into the middle of the swirling dancers where he took her into his arms. Belle was so unused to anyone forcing her to do something against her will that she went with him, automatically falling into the right steps of the waltz before she realised what she was doing.
Her astonishment at his outrageous audacity was short lived and anger took over. For two pins she would walk off the floor and leave him standing, but she was acutely aware that almost everyone was watching them and she could not do that. To do so would be a slight to him, and she could not do such a thing to him in front of all these people. Nor could she shame her grandmother by creating a scene, even though she did not hold a high opinion of Lord Bingham and had told her in no uncertain terms that she must have nothing to do with him. So she made up her mind not to speak to him and leave when the dance ended
They danced in silence for a few moments, a silence in which Lance noted the strange lights dancing in her shining hair, and her slender shoulders gleaming with a soft, creamy lustre. ‘This is pleasant, is it not?’ he said at length, and there was a touch of irony in his mocking tone.
Feeling his arm tighten about her, Belle stiffened and for an incredulous moment she was speechless. Looking into his eyes, she forgot her intention not to engage in conversation with him. ‘I would be obliged if you would not hold me so tightly. I am only dancing with you because you dragged me on to the floor,’ she said with an effort, in the coldest and most condescending manner. ‘Do you usually snatch your partners away from their chaperons so ungallantly?’
He raised one thick, well-defined eyebrow, looking down at her. A faint half-smile played on his lips as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind. ‘Only when I think they might refuse to dance with me—or need rescuing.’
‘I did not need rescuing, as you well know, Lord Bingham,’ she retorted, resenting his effect on her, the masculine assurance of his bearing. But she was conscious of an unwilling excitement, seeing him arrogantly mocking, and recklessly attractive. Here they were, together in the middle of the dance floor, in an atmosphere bristling with tension. ‘I was perfectly happy where I was.’
‘I don’t believe you. Besides, it’s not every day I get to dance with an American girl.’
Belle looked at him condescendingly and gritted out a menacing smile. ‘Lord Bingham, I am curious about your name. You see, I knew some Binghams in Charleston. Scurvy lot they were—thieves and cutthroats. Are you perhaps related, sir?’
The sweetness of her tone did not hide the sneer she intended. He met it with a flicker of amusement showing upon his lips. ‘It’s not impossible. I have distant family scattered all over the place. Who knows? Some of them may quite possibly have settled in the Carolinas. You dance divinely, by the way,’ he murmured, spinning her in an exaggerated whirl that made her catch her breath.
‘Will you please behave yourself?’ She spoke sharply, jerking away from him.
‘I do,’ he murmured, his warm breath fanning her cheek as he pulled her back to him. ‘We are partners. How else should I behave?’
‘Do not hold me so tightly. Be a gentleman—if that is not too difficult for you.’
‘A gentleman?’ he said, flashing his white teeth in a lazy grin, his gaze dipping lingeringly to her soft lips. ‘How can I do that? I am but an ignorant soldier, unschooled in the postures of the court, trained only to fire a gun and fight the enemy.’
‘Do not play the simpleton with me. It won’t work. Why have you singled me out from all the other ladies to dance?’
‘Is it so very strange for a man to want to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room? You are a very beautiful—enough to drive a man to madness.’
‘I really had no idea,’ she apologised sarcastically. ‘Perhaps you would like to prove your words.’
‘Prove? ‘
Calmly Belle met his gaze. How she yearned to erase that smirking grin from his lips. ‘Your madness!’ She sounded flippant and casual. ‘But you need not burden me. A few flecks of foam about your mouth would serve as well to prove the claim.’ She ignored the amusement that shone from his eyes and was sure her remark would have had him laughing out loud had they not been in the middle of a crowded dance floor. ‘Am I the first female you’ve ever met who didn’t want to dance with you?’
‘I confess to being somewhat spoiled by women who seemed to enjoy dancing with me. And you,’ he added, knocking back her momentary sense of triumph, ‘have been too long surrounded by besotted beaux who would willingly kiss the ground on which you walk, begging your permission to be your lord and master.’
‘Heaven forbid! I will never call any man my lord and nor will I allow a man to be my master. When I marry it will be a partnership. I will not be a dutiful little wife expected to behave like an obedient servant.’
Lance glanced down at her with an odd combination of humorous scepticism and certainty. ‘No I don’t suppose you will. You have quite a following of admirers,’ he commented, his eyes skimming over the bachelors who had been among her audience earlier. They were now eyeing him enviously and with keen attention. ‘I must say that I’m relieved you didn’t walk off the floor and leave me standing.’
‘Had I done so, I would have put my own reputation in jeopardy.’
His eyes, sweeping over her face and coming to rest on the sparkling gems around her throat, narrowed. ‘Even so. You should know that if I want something I take it, whatever the consequences.’ He lowered his head as he spun her round, his lips close to her ear. ‘I’ve never seduced a girl from Charleston before.’
Deeply shocked by his remark, Belle had the urge to kick his shin and leave him standing, regardless of the consequences, but instead she controlled her expression and met his look head on. ‘No? Then might I suggest you go there and find one. I am not so easily seduced,’ she retorted, too angry to be humiliated.
‘No?’
‘A very definite no. I wouldn’t let you touch me to save me from drowning.’
He looked down at her with mock disappointment. ‘I am mortified to hear that—but it’s early days. I always enjoy the chase. You will think differently when you get to know me.’
Belle looked at him with withering scorn. ‘Why, of all the conceited, arrogant—what a thoroughly selfish, insufferable individual you are, Lord Bingham. Do you make lewd remarks to all the women you dance with?’
‘And do you treat every gentleman who dances with you with such animosity—or only me?’
‘Lord Bingham, in the first place, you are no gentleman—which I have already pointed out. In the second, I don’t like you. And in the third, you should not be speaking to me at all.’
‘I shouldn’t?’ Her hostility didn’t offend him in the slightest. In fact, it added to his determination to get to know her better.
‘We have not been properly introduced.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘No—not really,’ she confessed honestly, hating the protocol that now ruled her every waking moment, tying her in knots lest she do or say the wrong thing.
‘Good. Neither do I. I would like it if you would call me Lance,’ he said, his gaze settling on her face, ‘since I intend for us to become better acquainted.’
‘Forgive me, but that would go against the basics my grandmother has tried to teach me since coming to this country. I have been taught to show proper respect for gentleman of any standing.’
Lance considered her at length and had to wonder why she refused to be so informal with him after he had invited her to be. ‘I must assume by your answer that you’re averse to the familiarity.’
‘It is what my grandmother would demand of me.’
‘Does that mean you insist on me addressing you in like manner?’
‘Whether you adhere to the strict code of gentlemanly conduct is entirely your affair.’
His eyebrow quirked with some amusement. ‘Come now, Belle—and in case you’re wondering, I know that is what you are called since I have made enquiries—’
‘I wasn’t,’ she cut in crossly.
‘—but your grandmother is stuck in the past,’ he continued. ‘Times are changing—at least I hope they are.’
Belle had never known her name could sound so very different, so warmly evocative when spoken by a man, or that she could feel as if she were dissolving inside when those soft, mellow tones caressed her senses.
‘Can you not agree that if we are to get to know each other on more intimate terms,’ Lance went on, lowering his head so that his mouth was very close to her ear, ‘it should allow us privileges above the usual stilted decorum of strangers?’
His husky voice and the closeness of his mouth so that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek was almost her undoing. She blushed scarlet. There was still so much of the girl in her at war with the young woman, and this man had the knack of bringing it quickly to the surface. Yet for all her annoyance with him, she was aware of everything about him—of the handsome face above the scarlet jacket, tanned and healthy. She was surprised to see, at close quarters, faint lines of weariness about his face as silently, reluctantly, she felt drawn once more towards him. Recollecting herself, she tried to change her thoughts, finding her emotions distasteful.
‘But that is precisely what we are, Lord Bingham, strangers—and I intend for us to remain that way. I am convinced you have plied many light o’ loves with similar persuasive reasoning. I can well imagine that you have become quite adept at swaying besotted young girls from the path their parents have urged them to follow.’
His eyes twinkled down at her. She was right. Apart from Delphine, there had been temporary light o’ loves—and one or two had lasted longer than others—but he had never considered his involvement with them of any consequence. ‘You are very astute, Belle, but if you think you have the measure of me, then you are very much mistaken. I saw you the moment you arrived and I’ve wanted to speak to you all evening.’
‘And now you have,’ she said, staring into those eyes that had ensnared her own. ‘And don’t get any high-minded ideas that you’re any better than the other gentleman I have partnered tonight, because if you do you will be wrong.’
Belle thought he was too much aware of her physically, and that the banter was leading to something. He made her uneasy and yet at the same time he stimulated and excited her. He did seem to have a way about him and she could not fault any woman for falling under his spell, for she found to her amazement that her heart was not so distantly detached as she had imagined it to be. To her amazement his voice and the way he looked at her evoked a strangely pleasurable disturbance in areas far too private for an untried virgin even to consider, much less invite, and she didn’t quite know what to make of them. They seemed almost wanton. But she didn’t intend making it easy for him.
‘Clearly I didn’t make my aversion to conversing with you plain enough,’ she retorted hotly.
He chuckled low. ‘I thought you were merely playing hard to get.’
‘I don’t play those sorts of games,’ she retorted hotly. ‘My pleasure would be to walk off the floor and leave you standing, so be thankful that I’ve let you retain some of your pride. My grandmother will reproach me most severely for dancing with you.’
‘That is for you to deal with, Belle, but heed my warning. I do not run from fierce old ladies, no matter how hard or how loud they huff and puff. Her dislike of me is quite unfounded.’
‘My grandmother has never said that she dislikes you, and she never says anything about anyone without good reason. And, of course, you’re the poor innocent and undeserving of any condemnation.’
His eyes glowed in the warm light as he gave her a lazy smile. ‘I never claimed to be an innocent—in fact, I am far from it.’
‘I would hardly expect you to admit it if you were,’ she retorted crisply.
‘I could show you if you like.’ His eyes seemed to glow, laughing at her, mocking her.
‘Not a chance.’
‘Are you enjoying the Prince’s hospitality?’
She looked at him boldly from beneath her long eyelashes, her lips parted, her tongue visible between 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 especially honoured by this opportunity to renew our acquaintance.’
The countess considered it prudent to ignore his remark. ‘You are back for good?’
‘Indeed.’
‘You have been to Ryhill?’
‘I have, but pressing matters of business brought me back to London for the present.’
‘Wellington and Prince George have sung your praises often during your campaigns. From all reports, your regiment was a shining example of a well-disciplined force, which proved itself as valiant in battle as any in the British Army—in particular the battle at Waterloo. You are to be congratulated, Lord Bingham.’
‘No more than any other. Waterloo was a great victory for Wellington. Any officer would have deemed it a privilege to serve under his leadership. You kept up with what was happening?’
‘I read the newspapers,’ the countess replied, her tone stilted.
‘Of course you do.’ Lance’s eyes flicked to Belle. ‘I should be honoured if you would permit me to partner your granddaughter in another dance, Countess.’
‘I imagine you would be. However, I believe her dance card is full. I’m sure you will find some other young lady willing to partner you.’
Her face became alarmingly shuttered and without expression and her eyes darkened until they were almost black. That this impertinent man, whose family had done her so much harm in the past, should have the effrontery to try to ingratiate himself with her granddaughter was insupportable.
Lance nodded, understanding perfectly, but he was quite ready to be summarily dismissed. ‘I’m sure I shall, Countess.’ He looked at Belle and bowed his torso in a courtly gesture. ‘I enjoyed dancing with you, Miss Ainsley. Should one of your partners be unavailable, I am at your service. The night is still young. Who knows? Anything might happen.’ Without another word or so much as a glance at Belle, he bowed and walked away.
Determined to dedicate herself to keeping Lance Bingham away from Isabelle, and having planned to leave for the Ainsleys’ ancestral home in Wiltshire at the end of the Season, the countess considered it might be as well to leave in the next few days. Although even in Wiltshire it couldn’t be guaranteed that Isabelle would be safe from the officer if the wily rascal had a mind to see her.
She was pleased with the way Isabelle had turned out—even if she had enjoyed frustrating all her tutors’ efforts to correct any part of her like some precocious child out to tease her elders. However, her demeanour was much improved. She was at ease and content fraternising with affluent aristocrats with lofty titles and well respected. But there were still times—like tonight and her disagreeable and defiant behaviour over the necklace, and her refusal to send Lance Bingham packing when he’d asked her to dance—when the old Isabelle surfaced to remind her that the spirited, wilful hoyden was still present.
‘If Lord Bingham approaches you again, you will have nothing to do with him, Isabelle. The man believes he can talk his way into, or out of, any situation and I have no wish to see him do you harm. He has charm in abundance, but you will have nothing more to do with him. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Grandmother,’ Belle replied dutifully, knowing that if Lord Bingham had a mind to approach her again, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

As the evening progressed, from a distance Lance watched Belle Ainsley, making no attempt to approach her for the present, though this had nothing to do with her grandmother’s displeasure. No matter how he tried to clear his mind of her, the more difficult it became, for the woman was entangling him in desire and he hadn’t even kissed her yet, never mind possessed her. But he would. Yes, he would. Although Lance considered himself an experienced ladies’ man, with justification he knew when to take a step back. His senses were giving him that message right now.
However, his attention never wavered from the provocative sensuality of her as she danced with more men than she would be able to remember. There was a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating liveliness that drew men to her, and he took pleasure in looking at her, at the vibrancy of her, her laughing face, his gaze shifting now and then to the glittering diamonds resting against her creamy flesh that brought a quiet, secretive smile to his lips.

The festivities were drawing to a close when he saw her standing by a pillar alone. He lazily regarded her, his eyes following her, snapping sharply. Going to stand behind her, he lightly trailed his skilled fingers down the soft nape of her neck, reassured when she did not move away.
Belle recognised the scent of his cologne. She gasped and quivered, a warmth suffusing her cheeks. Though she commanded herself to move, her legs refused to budge. She felt it so strongly, it was as if her whole body was throbbing suddenly and in her head her thoughts were not orderly—just odd, strong responses. And in her breasts—how could a touch, a caress, reach her breasts? Yet it had; it was making them desperate to be touched and it was all she could do not to reach for one of his hands and place it there.
And the sensation moved on, lower, sweetly soft and liquid; small darts of pleasure travelled as if on silken threads to her stomach and inner thighs as the infuriating man continued his rhythmic stroking, with Belle unaware as he did so that he was giving particular attention to the clasp of her necklace. The heat of his hand seemed to scorch her cool flesh and she licked her dry lips. Recollecting herself, she shrugged away from his caress, but not too forcefully.
‘You overstep yourself, sir,’ she murmured, a little breathless.
‘But you enjoy me touching you, Belle, do you not?’ Lance breathed in a tight, strained voice. ‘Would you deny either of us the pleasures of being together?’
Oddly feeling no grudge against him, Belle turned and looked at him surreptitiously. His bold gaze stirred something deep within her, and the sensation was not unpleasant. ‘You go too fast. I hardly know you at all.’
Lance’s eyes gleamed with devilish humour, and his lips drew slowly into a delicate smile. ‘You’re quite right. You must allow us to get to know each other. You could be the light of my life. Have mercy on me.’
Belle lifted her chin. ‘I am hardly the first or the only one. It passes through my thoughts that you are a rake, Lord Bingham, and have probably said those very words to so many women you have lost count.’
‘I cannot deny any of what you say—but then I had not met you. You impress me. You attract me. It is a long time since I said that to a woman.’
Confused by the gentle warmth of his gaze and the directness of his words, Belle was moved by what he said. It was impossible to determine whether he mocked her or told the truth. He was not like any man she had ever met. When she had spoken to hurt him, to insult him, he had taken it in his stride or with humour, with patience, and still he complimented her.
‘You must forgive me if I appear confused. You confuse me.’
The softening in her manner enhanced her beauty, and Lance boldly and appreciatively stared, encouraged by it. He leaned closer so that his mouth was close to her ear. ‘At least we have something in common.’
His warm breath stirred shivers along her flesh, and a curious excitement tingled in her breast. She had to fight to keep her world upright. What was the matter with her? Had she consumed too much wine and was now feeling its effect?
‘Is it too hard to imagine that we could become lovers?’ he asked softly. ‘I find you absolutely fascinating, and yet you suddenly seem afraid. Is it me you fear—or something else?’
The endearment spoken in his rich, deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as his finger on the back of her neck. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said, trying to control herself and the situation, ‘and nor do your words sway me. I realise that this is merely a dalliance to you.’
‘Liar.’ A seductive grin swept across his handsome face. ‘Admit it. You are afraid—afraid of the things I make you feel.’
‘Lord Bingham,’ she gasped breathlessly, ‘I am not a woman of easy virtue and certainly do not intend giving myself to you. Now please go away before my grandmother sees us together. You have no idea how angry she can be.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you should take heed and leave me alone.’
He moved round her to stand in front of her, his eyes hooded and seductive. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’
With trembling effort Belle collected herself, and, as he stared at her, she drew a deep, ragged breach. ‘She says I must have nothing to do with you. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’
He chuckled softly. ‘Is she afraid I will lead you astray? Is that it, Belle?’
She gave him a level look. ‘I believe she does, but that isn’t the only reason, is it? My sixth sense tells me there is some other reason why she dislikes you.’
‘Your sixth sense does you credit.’
‘So I am right.
He looked at her, his eyes amused, a smile curving his full mouth, and when Belle met his gaze she was struck by the sheer male beauty of him. And then she was struck by something else, very strongly indeed—it shocked her with its violence, a great blow of emotion, emotion for him.
She wasn’t quite sure what it was even, but she acknowledged it—it was startling and unexpected and absolutely new. The evening—the privilege of being at Carlton House, the build up to it, of being with so many people, the music, the laughter, the champagne, all far removed from what she knew—had heightened her emotions, made them raw, even a little reckless and dangerous. She knew quite clearly—they both did, for she could see in his eyes that he acknowledged it too—that this was a new and important thing, only just beginning. And yet she knew she must not accept it, not let it happen. That she must fight it.

Chapter Three
When their coach finally arrived at the front of Carlton House, Belle was glad to climb in. Her feet ached and she was tired and couldn’t wait to get into her bed. She was travelling alone in the protection of the grooms, for her grandmother’s headache had become much worse. She was feeling so poorly that Lady Canning, a close friend, had invited her to spend the night at her house in town. She was expected to return home the following afternoon.
With two armed footmen travelling at the back of the coach, the coachman urged the horses forwards. The Dowager Countess of Harworth took no chances when travelling after dark.
Not only did one have to beware of highwaymen, but discontented soldiers—soldiers once loyal to the country, who had been cashiered from their regiments to eke out a miserable existence in the slums. Many of them took out their spite on the gentry as they travelled the quiet roads after dark to their elegant residences, robbing them of valuables before retreating back into the dark city streets.
A light wind blew, sending heavy rain clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the moon so that it shone through in a pale, diffused glow. The Ainsley conveyance lurched through the London streets and headed north. The house was close to the picturesque suburb of Hampstead. It stood high outside London, where the air was fresher. Beyond the orange glow of the carriage lamps, the trees all around them seemed to have taken on strange, moving shapes.
Suddenly a gunshot sounded ahead of them, startling the occupants of the coach. The coachman was heard to shout, ‘Robbers up ahead.’
Belle leaned out of the window, but could see no assailant, and in an urgent voice ordered the coachman to set the horses to a faster pace. But it was too late. The footmen had no time to load and cock their pistols. There was a sudden movement to the side of them, as if the trees had come to life, and they found themselves confronted by a menacing, ominously cloaked rider who called upon the driver to bring the coach to a halt.
The driver pulled on the brake lever and hauled at the reins to bring the team to a halt. Belle heard a muffled voice ordering the footmen and the coachman to climb down. Belle was beset with alarm. After what seemed like an eternity, but could not have been longer than a minute, the door was pulled open and the muzzle of a pistol appeared in the doorway held by a man in full cape and a tricorn low over his brow.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘If you mean to rob me, I have no money on me.’
‘Step outside, if you please,’ the man said from behind a concealing scarf half-covering his face, his voice low and rough sounding. ‘I will see for myself. I will be on my way when you’ve handed over your valuables. Be kind enough to oblige without causing me any trouble.’
Struggling to gather her wits about her and trying to quell the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, with great indignation, Belle said courageously, ‘I most certainly will not! You’ll get nothing from me, you thieving rogue.’
The pistol was raised, its single black eye settling on Belle where it stared unblinkingly for a long moment. Beneath the threat, even that brave young woman froze, as the man growled, ‘Then I’ll just have to take it. Get out of the coach—if you please, my lady,’ he added with mock sweetness.
With the pistol levelled on her, she knew there was nothing for it but to comply with the thief’s demands. He was ominously calm and there was an air of deadliness about him. Stepping down, she gasped with concern on seeing the footmen and the coachman all bound helplessly together. Unconcerned for her own safety, she turned her wrath on their assailant. The cold fire in her eyes bespoke the fury churning within her. She held herself in tight rein until the rage cooled. What was left was a gnawing wish to see this highway robber at the end of a rope.
‘How dare you do this? Please God you haven’t harmed them. What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded.
The robber scorned the words and would heed no argument. ‘Quiet, lady,’ the tall, shadowy figure rasped.
Belle’s eyes were glued to him. This was not how she had imagined highwaymen to be—fearless cavaliers, carefree, chivalrous, romantic knights, in masks and three-cornered hats, adventurers, ‘Gentleman of the Road’. Reluctant to submit to this footpad’s searching hands, she stepped back and looked around her, considering the idea that she might be able to disappear into the confines of the trees.
He read her thoughts. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he rasped. ‘It would be foolish to think you could get away. You could not escape me if you tried.’ He swaggered closer. ‘What have you got, pretty lady, hidden beneath your cloak? A well-heeled lady like yourself must have something. Show me. Come now,’ he said when she shrank back, ‘it’s not worth dying for, no matter how much your valuables are worth. Are they so concealed that my fingers may have to forage?’
She shook her head, taking another step away from him. ‘Keep away from me. You are nothing but a thieving, unmitigated rogue out for easy money.’
‘True,’ he agreed almost pleasantly. ‘Come now—a bracelet, a brooch, a pretty necklace—a rich lady like yourself will not miss a bauble or two. I must ask you to hurry. I find myself getting impatient and that causes my finger to twitch on the trigger of my pistol.’
When he reached out to her with his free hand, incensed with his boldness and at the same time terrified of what he might do to her, Belle slapped his hand away. ‘Get away from me, you lout.’
He uttered a soft curse. ‘For a wench who has no help at hand, you’re mighty high minded. Do you think you can stand against me with your impudence? You’ll come to heel if I kill you first.’
‘I’ll shred your hand if you dare to touch me. I swear I will. Leave me alone,’ she cried, her body trembling with fear. ‘You have no right to touch me.’
‘Stop your blustering.’ In the blink of an eye he had reached out and flicked open the frogging securing the front of her cloak, which slid from her shoulders to her feet. Catching the light of the carriage lamps, the necklace sparkled. The man emitted a low whistle of admiration.
‘So, milady, you say you have nothing of value. Those sparklers look pretty expensive to me. Remove it.’ When she made no move to do so, he bowed his head in mock politeness. ‘If you please.’
‘You can go to hell,’ she hissed.
‘I shall—and very soon, I don’t doubt, for my chosen profession usually includes death at an early age.’
‘And well deserved,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘Hanging’s too good for the likes of you.’
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound feeding Belle’s anger. ‘You think you’re not afraid of me, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You sneer at me with your pretty face and big monkey eyes. When I take to the road I feel like a king and I’d like to think tonight is to be my lucky night and come daybreak I shall be as rich as one. Now turn around,’ he ordered, ‘if you value your life. If you try anything rash, I have no qualms about shooting your coachman.’
Afraid that he might carry out his threat, Belle reluctantly turned her back to the robber, who moved to stand directly behind her and, using one hand, his fingers reached to the back of her neck. A deadly sickness came upon her and she flinched when she felt the cool contact on her flesh. It only took him a second to unclasp and whip the necklace away.
Shoving the precious gems inside a pocket of his cape, the thief backed away, keeping the pistol levelled at her. ‘There, that wasn’t too painful, was it?’
‘You have what you want,’ Belle uttered scornfully. ‘Now what do you mean to do with us? Shoot us?’
‘Nothing so dramatic.’
‘Then you can leave us. I have nothing else to give.’
The man laughed. ‘’Twill be more than your jewels I’ll be having my fun with, your ladyship.’
When he moved closer Belle took a step back. Reaching out, he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, amused when she drew back. Tiny shards of fear pricked Belle’s spine while a coldness congealed in the pit of her stomach. She was wary of angering him and bringing him to a level of violence that would destroy her. She had heard tales of how highwaymen sometimes killed those they waylaid—and a lone woman wouldn’t stand a chance against the strength of such a powerful man.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she whispered, almost choking on the words.
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘And don’t look at me like that.’ She could feel his eyes devouring her, and could well imagine the lascivious smile on his lips behind the scarf. A shudder ran through her, and it was not because it was cold. ‘You’ll hang for sure.’
He placed the pistol beneath her chin so that the barrel touched her throat and tipped her face up to his. ‘Madam, if looking is a hanging offence, then I’d rather fulfil every aspect of my desire and be strung up for a lion than a lamb.’
She stared back at him in horror—the colour drained from her face. After a moment, which seemed like an eternity to Belle, he removed the pistol and stepped back.
‘Please don’t touch me again.’
He cocked a brow. ‘Please, is it? So the lady has remembered her manners. But worry not. I have neither the time nor the inclination, lady. I have what I want—you have been most generous. I thank you for your co-operation.’
‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this—you—you devil.’ Belle cried, unable to contain her fury. ‘I’ll find out who you are and see you hang. I swear I will.’
The thief laughed in the face of her ire. ‘Dear me, little lady. You have a strange preoccupation with seeing me hang. I’d dearly like to see you try.’
Having got what he wanted, without more ado the man took the reins of his horse and leapt into the saddle with the agility of an athlete. Turning about and giving her a farewell salute and a cheeky, knowing wink—a playful, frivolous gesture that infuriated Belle further—he galloped off into the night.
Seething with rage, her heart pounding in her chest, Belle watched the animal speed along, matching the wind over the narrow road. His hooves flashed like quicksilver in a brief spot of light, and his coat glistened as the muscles beneath it rolled and heaved. She did not move or utter a sound until the thief’s muffled laughter and the hoof beats could be heard no more.
Quickly releasing the footmen and the coachman and assured that they had not been molested in any way—while concealing her anger at their incompetence, for to her mind their pistols should have been loaded and cocked in the likelihood of such an event occurring—her face as hard and expressionless as a mask, she ordered them to take their positions on the coach.
Picking up her cloak, quivering with outrage and deeply shock by what had happened—and slightly bewildered, for something about the robbery and the highwayman did not make sense—Belle climbed inside the coach. The consequences of the theft of the jewels were too dreadful to contemplate.
How was she to tell her grandmother? They meant so much to her, not to mention their value. Dear Lord, this was a calamity—a disaster. Her grandmother would be livid, and rightly so. She should not have been wearing them in the first place. Even if the robbery was reported first thing in the morning, the thief would be far away by then so it would be difficult to apprehend him. And if he was apprehended, he would already have disposed of them.

They arrived home without further incident. Not until Belle was in bed did she give free rein to her thoughts. She was relieved her grandmother was still in town and had not been party to the ordeal she had suffered. Grandmother didn’t intend returning until the following afternoon, so she had a reprieve until then. But she would have to be told eventually. There was no way of escaping that.
Tossing and turning and unable to sleep, she went over and over in her mind what had happened. There had been something about the thief that was familiar. But what? It bothered her and she couldn’t shake it off. Then a strangled gasp emitted from her and she shot bolt upright as a multitude of thoughts chased themselves inside her head—a pair of familiar blue eyes glinted down at her as he danced her about the floor. A deep voice tinged with laughter as he lowered his eyes to her neck and said if I want something, I take it.
In the space of five seconds, all these memories collided head on with the reality of what had happened on the road. And something else. The scent the thief wore—the faint smell of his cologne when he had stood directly behind her to remove the necklace—was the same scent that had assailed her earlier, when she had been dancing with Lance Bingham.
Flinging herself out of bed in a tempestuous fury, she paced the carpet, unable to believe what she was thinking, unable to contain it. She remembered the moment when he had stood behind her and caressed her neck, when she had thought … What? What had she thought? That he wanted to touch her, that he desired her?
Oh, fool, fool that she was. Why, that arrogant lord had merely been checking the clasp on the necklace, familiarising himself with it, to make it easier for him to remove. He had set out to use her to get the necklace. Why he should want to eluded her for the moment, but she would find out.
The blackguard! The audacity and the gentlemanly courtesy with which he had demanded that she part with her valuables was astounding. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the thief. The man she had met at Carlton House had turned into the Devil when determination to steal the necklace had removed all semblance of civility from him, frightening her half to death. But he wouldn’t get away with it. Oh, no. She would see to that.
Every nerve in her body clenched against the onslaught of bitter rage. She continued to pace restlessly. After allowing the tide of emotion to carry her to the limit, nature took command of her again and she was strengthened, something of the old courage and force returning. She stewed. She seethed. Never had she been this angry before in her life. She had to decide on what course of action to take, ways she could make him pay for this outrage, how she could retrieve the stolen necklace before her grandmother returned—and she would, even if she expired in the attempt. Nothing could stop her doing anything once her mind was made up.
But beneath it all was the hurt when she remembered the tender words Lord Bingham had spoken to her on their parting at Carlton House, words she now knew to be empty, without meaning. How could he have said all those things to her and then do what he did—terrify and threaten her at the point of a gun?
The man was cold and heartless and without a shred of decency. She wanted to hurt him, to hurt him badly, and she would find a way to do it without letting him see how much he had hurt her—without letting him see how much she cared.
But why had he taken the necklace? She was utterly bewildered by his actions. And why did bad feeling exist between the Ainsleys and the Binghams? Whatever it was, she suspected it had something to do with the past.
Belle had always been self-willed, energetic and passionate, with a fierce and undisciplined temper, but her charm, her wit and her beauty had more than made up for the deficiencies in her character. She hadn’t a bad bone in her body, was just proud and spirited, so determined to have her own way that she had always been prepared to plough straight through any hurdle that stood in her path—just as she was about to do now.
But what was she to say to her grandmother?

As it turned out she was granted a welcome reprieve. The following morning a note was delivered to the house from Lady Channing, informing her that the countess had taken a turn for the worse and that the doctor advised her it would be unwise for her to leave her bed to make the journey to Hampstead until she was feeling better.

Later that day, with a groom in attendance, Belle rode from Hampstead to visit her grandmother. She did indeed look very ill when Lady Channing showed her to her room—too ill to be told about the theft of the necklace. Before returning to Hampstead, she joined a large gathering of fashionable people riding in Hyde Park, struck forcibly by the noise and colour and movement and wanting to feel a part of it. It was a glorious day, hot and sunny. Roses bloomed profusely and she could hear a band playing a jolly tune.
Serene and elegant atop her horse, she looked striking and stood out in her scarlet riding habit. Daisy had brushed her hair up on her head in an intricate arrangement of glossy curls, upon which a matching hat sat at a jaunty angle. She was greeted and stopped to speak to those who recognised her, who expressed their distress when told the dowager countess was unwell.
Suddenly she felt a small frisson of alarm as all her senses became heightened. Ahead of her a man atop a dark brown stallion had stopped to speak to an acquaintance. She did not need to see his face to know his identity. He was dressed in a tan jacket and buff-coloured breeches. He sported a tall hat and a snowy white cravat fitted snug about his throat.
As he turned slightly, and not wanting to be found looking at him, Belle averted her gaze, but not before she had seen a world of feelings flash across his set face—surprise, disbelief, admiration—but only for an instant.
Lance nudged his horse forwards, eager to introduce Rowland to this vision in scarlet.
Watching them ride towards her through the press of people, Belle braced herself for the encounter.
Lance bowed very coolly before her, his gaze calmly searching her face. ‘Miss Ainsley. I had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, but I did not think to find you here. Allow me to compliment you. You are exquisite.’
Aware that every person in the park seemed to be watching them, Belle straightened her back and lifted her head, unaware that she had been holding herself stiffly, her shoulders slightly hunched, as though to defend something vulnerable. She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Why—I—thank you,’ she said, having decided to be tact and patience personified. She had also decided to play him at his own game and give him no reason to suspect she had identified him as her highwayman of the night before. ‘For myself, your presence took me wholly by surprise. I did not expect to see you again so soon.’
Belle studied his features, looking for something that would give her some hint of what had happened on her way back to Hampstead last night, but there was nothing to suggest he had been the thief. But there was something different in him today. His manner was subdued and his tone of voice made her look more closely at him. She detected some indefinable, underlying emotion in it as his brilliant blue eyes gleamed beneath the well-defined brows. Belle was not shaken from her resolve that he was the one, and before she had finished she would prove it.
‘May I introduce you to this gentleman?’ Lance gestured to his companion. ‘This is Sir Rowland Gibbon, an old and valued friend of mine. Rowland, this is Miss Ainsley—the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s granddaughter. Rowland wanted to meet you, Miss Ainsley, having recently returned from America, where he travelled extensively.’
‘You exaggerate, Lance.’ Rowland bowed to her. ‘Although I did find the country interesting and exciting and hope very much to return there one day. I believe you are from America, Miss Ainsley.’
‘Indeed,’ she answered, liking his easy manner and trying not to look at Lord Bingham. Sir Rowland was not a handsome man by any means, but he had obviously spent a goodly amount of coin on his attire, for, completely devoid of prudence, he was garbed in a flamboyant fashion in dark-green velvet coat with a high stiff collar, frothing neck linen and skintight white trouser that clung to the line of his long legs above his black riding boots. He sat his horse with an easy swagger and the dashing air of a romantic highwayman.
Highwayman? Belle sighed. Highwaymen were very much at the forefront of her mind just now. ‘I was born there—in Charleston. And you are right to say it is exciting. I too wish to return there one day, but I can’t see that happening in the foreseeable future.’
At that moment someone caught Rowland’s eye and he excused himself to go and speak to them.
Lance’s unfathomable eyes locked on to Belle’s. ‘Ride with me a while, will you, Belle? I should like to hear more about America,’ he said, reverting to a quiet informality.
Belle hesitated. She was aware of the curious stares and of a hushed expectancy from those around them.
‘Is it my imagination, or is everyone watching us?’
‘It is not your imagination. In the light of the bad feeling that exists between our two families, it is hardly surprising. Ride with me and I will show you just how inflamed the gossip is.’
‘You are extremely impertinent and I do not think I should. The last thing I want to do is to create a scandal that will upset my grandmother.’
Lance’s eyes darkened and his gaze was challenging. ‘What’s the matter, Belle? Afraid of a little gossip? Your grandmother isn’t here to see—and by the time she hears of it it will be too late.’
Something of the man she had met at Carlton House resurrected itself when he suddenly grinned wickedly, and despite Belle’s resolve to remain unaffected by him, she could not quell the small shiver of delight that ran through her. His teasing eyes were so lovely and blue, so blissfully familiar and admiring.
‘Very well,’ she murmured, forcing an uninterested politeness into her voice. ‘But instead of riding in the park, perhaps you would care to ride with me a little way back to Hampstead.’
‘Gladly.’
Together they rode out of the park, her groom following at a discreet distance. Belle could feel the fascinated stares of everyone in the park as they left. As they rode up Park Lane, the steady pace of their mounts eased their tensions and they began to unbend, each filled with the other’s presence.
Just like the night before when they had danced together, they drew attention from passers-by. Isabelle’s beauty and Lord Bingham’s tall, lean handsomeness made them unique. And he was handsome, perhaps the most handsome man Belle had ever seen, so there was little wonder he attracted attention, she thought, smiling to herself as she quietly admired her partner. In his broadcloth jacket, which fit his wide shoulders perfectly, his dark hair beneath his hat shimmering in the sunlight, he was devastating. She had to keep her eyes away from his, or at least she tried to, because it was so easy to get lost in his gaze and forget what he had done.
Lance turned his head and looked at Belle. She was like a magnet to his eyes, and now he felt an odd kind of possessiveness. Not the kind one felt on owning material things, but something else. There were different types of possessiveness, and he didn’t even want to think of the more common form, which had no place in his emotions.
‘I see you’ve dispensed with your military attire, my lord,’ Belle commented airily at length, the cut and seam of his coat evidence of the tailoring only noblemen could afford. ‘Your tailor must delight in the opportunity to clothe such an illustrious hero of the wars with Napoleon. Why, a gentleman with such expensive and stylish apparel will be the envy of every roué in London.’
Lance met her cool stare. From all indications it seemed she was none too pleased with him, which did much to heighten his curiosity. ‘I count myself fortunate in my tailor, who has made my wardrobe for a good many years—military uniforms, mainly. Now I have retired from army life he is delighted at the opportunity to finally outfit me with all the clothes of a gentleman.’
‘Indeed, I think even that master of style and fashion Mr Brummell will have to sit up and take notice.’
‘My tailor is a man of sober tastes and it would go against the grain to kit me out in garish garb—and I have no desire to emulate the overdressed Beau Brummell. Besides, that particular gentleman has fallen out of favour with Prince George and it is rumoured that he is heavily in debt and no longer as stylishly garbed as he once was.’ He frowned across at her. ‘Was your comment about my attire because you find it flawed in some way?’
‘Not in the slightest. In fact, I must commend your tailor’s abilities, although I imagine you must feel strange in civilian attire after wearing a uniform for so long.’
‘It will be something I shall have to get used to—even to tying my own cravat. Thankfully my valet is a master.’ After falling silent while they negotiated a congested part of the thoroughfare, he said, ‘Your grandmother is well?’
Belle glanced at him, wondering what had prompted the question. Was he curious as to how she had reacted on being told about the theft of the necklace? She answered carefully. ‘No—as a matter of fact my grandmother is not feeling herself.’
He glanced at her sharply. ‘She is ill?’
‘Indisposed,’ Belle provided, not wishing to divulge too much. If he thought her grandmother was so distressed over the loss of the diamonds that she had taken to her bed, so much the better—although if a man as cunning as he could rob people at gunpoint and scare them witless, then she doubted he would be moved over the plight of an old woman grieving her loss.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he sympathised, his gaze searching. ‘I hope she will soon recover.’
‘I doubt it—that she will recover soon, I mean. She really is quite distraught over the loss of something that was close to her heart.’ Apart from a narrowing of his eyes, Lord Bingham’s expression did not change.
‘She is? And was this item—valuable?’
‘You might say that—but then—’ she smiled, tossing her head and urging her mount to a faster pace ‘—it is a family matter and I am sure it will be resolved very soon.’
Although she hadn’t objected to riding with him, Lance was a little taken aback by the courteous, but impersonal smiles she was giving him. He decided it prudent to let the matter of her grandmother drop.
‘I am giving a supper party tonight. There will be a large gathering. I would very much like you to come, but I realise you would encounter difficulties with your grandmother.’
‘Yes, I would. You know she would never allow it—but I thank you for the invitation all the same.’ They had been riding for some time and on reaching the place where she had been accosted last night, she drew her horse to a halt and faced him. If he thought there was any significance in her stopping in the exact spot, he didn’t show it. ‘I can manage quite well from here. I’m sure you have more important things to do than play escort to me, Lord Bingham. I shall be quite safe with my groom.’
Lance frowned across at her. ‘What’s wrong, Belle? You weren’t like this when you almost melted in my arms before we parted at Carlton House last night. ‘
Belle’s green eyes widened in apparent bewilderment. ‘Did I really almost do that? Goodness, I must have imbibed more champagne than I thought. I danced so many dances with so many different beaux, I forget. I recall dancing with you and you were hardly the soul of amiability—unlike my other partners—and some of them were much more desirable than you.’
‘Really?’ he said frostily. ‘In what way?’
‘For one thing, they were younger than you,’ she replied, trying to seem cool and unemotional. She longed to slap this insufferable, arrogant lord down to size. ‘I have decided that you are much too old for me.’
Lance’s eyes darkened very nearly to black. ‘What the hell are you saying?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t play games with me, Belle, because you’ll find you are well out of your league.’
She looked at him in all innocence and said breezily, ‘Games, my lord? I don’t play games. If I said anything to mislead you, then I apologise most sincerely.’
Lance’s eyes hardened and his jaw tightened ominously. When he spoke it was with a cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low. ‘You’re nothing but a common little flirt. Take care how you try to bait me,’ he murmured softly. ‘I’m not one of the besotted fools who dance attendance on you night after night. I might want more from you than you are ready to grant—and when I want something, I do not give up until I have it.’
Drawing her horse away from him slightly, reminding herself not to let him annoy her and that she must carry out the charade to the end, Belle feigned innocence. ‘But—surely you have what you wanted?’
She saw something move behind his eyes and for a split second his gaze went to her unadorned neck before rising to her face. She waited, her eyes holding his, challenging him, aware of the sudden tension inside him, the stirring of suspicion behind his gaze.
‘I have?’ he answered, not without caution. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why, you asked me to ride with you—and here I am.’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled, her eyes questioning. ‘Why, were you referring to something else?’
He studied her carefully before saying coldly, ‘I think this unpleasant encounter has gone on long enough. I bid you good day.’ With that he rode away.
Without a backward glance, Belle headed for home, a sense of triumphant jubilation in her heart, for Lord Bingham’s invitation to his supper party had given her an excellent idea as to how she might recover the diamonds.

At nine o’clock Belle, dressed in breeches and a jacket and a low-brimmed hat, with no time to lose and with much chiding from Daisy, who knew all about the missing necklace and what her mistress had in mind, left the house and climbed into the waiting coach.
The driver knew it was not his place to ask questions—although he did look startled at Miss Isabelle’s male form of attire. She gave him the address of Lord Bingham’s London residence, which had not been too difficult to procure, since he was so well known that the servants had been able to provide her with the address. Settling into the upholstery, in an attempt to still her wildly beating heart she took a deep breath. There was so much depending on this night. She could not expect everything to go well and doubt thwarted her attempt at calm.

By the time she reached her destination—a fine Palladian mansion located close to Hyde Park on Park Lane—she had worked herself up into such a knot of anticipation and foreboding that she was tempted to tell the driver to return to Hampstead. Quickly she recollected herself and, sternly determined, fought to bring her rioting panic under control, thinking of the immense satisfaction and triumph she would feel if her plan succeeded, which would have very little to do with retrieving the necklace, and everything to do with outwitting Lord Bingham.
Belle left the coach some distance from the house, telling the driver to wait, that she hoped not to be long. She avoided the front of the house, where several smart equipages were lined up. Quickly becoming lost in the dark, she found her way to the back of the house and into a yard with buildings that housed Lord Bingham’s carriages and horses. Standing in the shadows she carefully surveyed his town residence.
Lights shone from the windows and people could be seen strolling about the rooms and sitting about. Thankfully several of the upstairs rooms were in darkness and it seemed quiet enough. Suddenly she was overcome with a sense of urgency, for there was a need for haste if she was to find what she was looking for without being seen. Letting herself in by a door that led into a passageway, she paused and listened. Sounds of domesticity and cook issuing orders to the kitchenmaids could be heard from a room on her right—the kitchen, she thought. Fortunately the door was only slightly ajar and she managed to creep by. A narrow staircase rose from the passageway and gingerly she made her way upwards. With a stroke of luck she found herself on a landing, on the top floor of the house, off which were several rooms.
With her ears attuned to every sound—conversation and laughter from Lord Bingham’s guests and the clink of glasses—she went from door to door, pressing her ear to it before opening it a crack and peering inside. They were bedrooms mostly—though not one of them gave the impression of belonging to the master of the house. Undeterred, she crept along another landing, peering into each room until eventually she found it. Looking through the slightly open door she waited, afraid Lord Bingham’s valet might be in an adjacent room. After a few moments when nothing happened she stepped inside and closed the door.
Only one lamp was lit, giving off a dim light. She could have done with more, but decided she would have to manage. She set to work, starting on a tall bureau beside the door. Thankfully the drawers slid open soundlessly. After rummaging inside and being careful to leave things as she found them, she went on to the next piece of furniture, working quietly, admiring the expensive quality of everything her fingers touched.
She glanced at a rather ornate clock on the mantelpiece as it delicately chimed ten o’clock. Wondering where the time had flown and disappointed that her search had produced nothing as yet, she knew she would have to hurry. Looking about her, she saw a door that she assumed must lead into a dressing room. Slipping inside, she searched the chests of drawers and among racks of clothing, but all to no avail.
Feeling crushed and extremely disappointed, she emerged into the bedroom once more. She was about to admit defeat when her eyes lighted on the bedside tables. She paused to listen. Had she heard a noise on the landing, or was it the noise of the wind that had risen? Whatever it might have been, she decided to get on with it. She had no wish to be caught red-handed.
With one last desperate attempt to locate the jewels, she looked inside the first bedside table, almost shouting out in triumph when, on opening a small velvet pouch and seeing its sparkling contents, she realised she had found what she was looking for.
‘Got you, you thieving rogue,’ she whispered, pocketing the pouch. Quickly she closed the drawer and then halted abruptly. This time she could not mistake the footfall on the landing as someone came towards the bedroom. Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Belle flew to the lamp and blew out the flame, placing it on the floor so it could not be lit in a hurry—although there were others in the room to light, so she needn’t have bothered. The room was now in almost total darkness. Belle stood in the middle, turning about indecisively. She had to find a place to hide. Her eyes lit on the dressing screen and she flew behind it just as the door handle turned.
Lance came in, uttering an oath under his breath when he found his room in darkness, and an even louder oath when his foot made contact with the lamp and it toppled over.
‘What the devil has happened to the light?’ His voice bore an edge of sharpness that bespoke of vexation. Without more ado he picked up the lamp and, striking a sulphur match, soon had it lit. He stood for a moment in puzzlement. His eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Seeing that everything appeared to be in place, he removed his jacket and threw it on to the bed.
From behind the screen Belle listened to him moving about, wondering why he had come to his room and how she was going to get out without being seen. Her heart racing in confused fright, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapid pulse and to peer through a crack in the screen. She saw him loosen his neck linen and remove his waistcoat—and what was that dark stain? It looked like wine. So that was it. He’d clearly spilled some on his clothes and come up to change. Hopefully he would do it quickly and go. Seeing him disappear into his dressing room, she waited in trembling disquiet, horrified when, having changed his clothes, he came back into the bedroom and approached the screen.
Lance was just reaching to fold it back when it was shoved towards him by a decisive force. He was almost toppled over by its weight and was momentarily stunned as a shape leapt past him and ran towards the door, pausing for a split second to blow out the lamp. Angrily Lance tossed the screen aside and with quick long strides reached the intruder before he could escape, snatching a handful of his coat and pulling him back.
A rending tear preceded a startled cry and then a booted foot kicked at his shins.
‘Dammit, who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my house?’ Lance ignored the hands that flailed the air, hitting out at him, and jerked the figure around roughly.
Belle stumbled against the bed and in great trepidation scrambled across it to the other side.
Angered beyond bearing, Lance lunged after what he thought to be a man, since the figure was wearing breeches and the face was concealed by a low-brimmed hat.
Making a concerted effort to escape, Belle picked up his jacket and threw it at him, but swinging round the bedpost, Lance tossed it aside, his fingers again reaching out to ensnare the shadowy figure. Belle side-stepped and darted about the room, but the vague blur of bodies in the dark room gave away their movements. When he was near her, Belle abruptly changed directions and scurried to the door. Lance was faster and leapt after her in time to catch her full against him, clamping a hand over her mouth when she opened it to scream.
‘Be still. If you continue to fight me, I’ll knock you senseless. Do you understand me?’ His captive nodded, in which case he began loosening his grip slightly.
The moment he did, Belle sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm and flung herself away from him. He grabbed her before she had taken two steps and held her prisoner in his arms.
‘So, you want to draw my blood, eh?’
The sudden contact of their bodies brought a gasp to Belle’s lips.
Lance continued to hold her, finding the form too slender, too light to be that of a man. A youth, perhaps?
Taking her with him to the door, he turned the key before releasing her and lighting the lamp. Giving all his attention to his captive, who continued to squirm against him, he reached out and tore the hat away, his mind rebelling in disbelief at what he saw—the dark brown hair, with highlights of red and gold, framing a creamy-skinned visage. The lips were soft and sensuous, the eyes a clear, sparkling shade of green.
‘What the hell … Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘Belle!’
Belle turned from him, but he caught her wrist. Blindly, insanely, she fought him, wildly twisting and writhing and clawing at him in an attempt to get away from him.
‘Will you be still?’ he growled, pressing her back against the wall and trying to still her frantic threshing with the weight of his own body. When she wouldn’t he increased the pressure of his grip upon the delicately boned wrist. Stubbornly Belle resisted the pain until Lance finally loosed his hold, not wishing to hurt her unduly. Feeling what little fight she had left drain away, slowly she quieted, breathing heavily, very much aware that his thighs were crushing her own quaking limbs.
‘Stop fighting me, Belle, and I’ll step away. Then I will listen to what you have to say. You owe me that much at least.’
‘I owe you nothing,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, open mutiny in her tone, her eyes hurling daggers at him. She sidled away from him, rubbing her wrist. ‘I swear I’ll break your hands if you dare touch me again.’
Lance stepped away from her. A wave of anger that she could be so reckless, that she had put herself in danger like this, washed over him. ‘Do you realise I could have killed you, you stupid girl?’
Belle tossed her head in defiance, her expression indignant. ‘Desperation leads me to do stupid things.’
‘Desperate? You? Don’t make me laugh,’ he uttered sarcastically. ‘How nice of you to drop in to my party. Do you mind telling how you got past my butler—looking like that?’
‘I came in through a door at the back of the house. It wasn’t difficult.’
‘Are you going to tell me what the hell you think you’re playing at?’
‘Do I really have to tell you—thief?’ she hissed accusingly, looking at him with withering scorn.
He looked at her very calmly now, everything beginning to fall into place. ‘Thief? Now, that’s debatable.’
‘Not to me.’
‘You know, if you’re going to take this defensive attitude, we’re not going to get anywhere. I take it that you have found what you were looking for?’
She nodded.
‘So, you saw behind my disguise.’
‘That wasn’t too difficult when I had time to piece things together. It was your cologne that gave you away.’
His lips twitched with the hint of a smile. ‘How astute of you. Trust a woman to notice that—and it certainly explains your attitude towards me at the party.’
‘What you did, holding up a coach on the King’s highway and forcing—at gunpoint, I might add—a woman to part with her valuables, is a criminal offence—one you could be hanged for.’
‘As you took great pleasure in informing me last night. Please don’t go on,’ Lance drawled in exaggerated horror. ‘You will give me nightmares.’
His ability to mock his fate and ignore his crime was more than Belle could bear. Her voice shook with angry emotion, and she stared at him as if he were something inhuman and beyond her comprehension.
‘And my grandmother? Did you not spare a thought to how your actions might have affected her had she been in the coach? She might have suffered a seizure on being confronted by a violent highwayman.’
‘I doubt it. Your grandmother is made of sterner stuff than that. However, I heard it mentioned that she wasn’t feeling well and was to remain in town with Lady Channing.’
‘And if she had been in the coach?’
‘I would not have held you up.’
‘How perfectly noble of you,’ she scoffed. ‘My grandmother could bring charges against you for what you did.’
‘And who would believe a high-ranking lord of the realm—as well as being a highly respected and decorated officer in Wellington’s army—would stoop so low as to take to the road as a highwayman?’
Belle glowered at him. ‘Is there no limit to what you will dare?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No limit whatsoever. If you suspected it was me who took your necklace, didn’t it occur to you to simply ask me about it when we met earlier today, instead of taking matters into your own hands and sneaking into my home to look for them?’
Belle shrugged. ‘It’s no worse than what you did to me—you—you wretch. Besides, what was the point in asking you? You would have denied it.’
‘And you know that, do you?’
‘Don’t you feel any guilt at all about stealing the diamonds?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘I don’t suppose you would. One has to have a conscience to feel guilt,’ she said, shrugging out of her coat to examine the tear in the back.
‘If I were guilty of taking something that didn’t belong to me, maybe I would deny it. But I didn’t.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘The diamonds belong to me—to my family. I was merely retrieving them.’
Belle stared at him, surprised by his revelation and clearly shocked. ‘To you? But—they are Ainsley diamonds—my grand mother—’
‘Told you they belonged to your family, I know. Maybe after all these years she has come to believe that. Is the loss of the diamonds the reason why she has taken to her bed?’
‘No. You were right. She wasn’t feeling too well at Carlton House last night and stayed with Lady Channing. She is still not well, so I thought it wise to wait until she is feeling better before I tell her the diamonds were stolen.’
‘One cannot steal something that legitimately belongs to them.’
‘But why go to all that trouble of pretending to be a highwayman?’ Belle demanded.
At that moment Lance preferred not to think about the bet he had made with Rowland. ‘Because I wanted you to think the person who took your valuables was nothing more than an ordinary thief. Would you have given them to me if I’d asked?’
‘Of course not.’
‘There you are, then. You have your answer, but I cannot believe you planned this—to come here dressed as … you are,’ he said, contemplating her attire, thinking that in her white silk blouse, long and shapely legs encased in buff-coloured breeches, she really was a wonderful sight to behold, ‘and that you were foolish enough to come to my house to steal them back.’
Suddenly Belle felt suffocated by his nearness. Her whole being throbbed with an awareness of him, but she knew that if she gave any hint of her weakness, it would only lead to disaster. She saw where his gaze was directed and, glancing down, realised the twin peaks of her breasts were standing taut and high beneath her blouse. Her cheeks grew suddenly hot with embarrassment, and she folded her arms across her chest, glowering at him.
‘I never would have, if not for the fury I was beset with at the time—and there’s a confession for you. I have a temper—I can’t help it, and I’m rarely able to control it once it snaps.’
‘I’d already figured that out for myself,’ Lance said drily. By his actions he had woken a sleeping dragon.
‘Then perhaps you’ll think twice about provoking it in future.’
His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I, too, have a temper, Belle. You would do well to remember that.’ He stared at her for a moment, his jaw tight and hard, and then he sauntered to the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantelpiece.
‘If I were a man, I’d call you out for what you did to me last night.’
‘That would not be wise, Belle.’
‘No? After threatening my life and the men whose duty it was to protect me, nothing would satisfy me more that to put a bullet between your eyes.’
‘What? You can use a gun?’
‘Of course I can—I’m a very good shot, as it happens. Where I come from it is not unusual for women to learn how to shoot. I can hit a target with the best of them.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I suppose you will say my vanity is showing itself.’
‘No, I’m impressed. Not one of the ladies of my acquaintance would know which end of a gun to fire.’
‘Then you should become more selective in the ladies you associate with.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied drily. ‘To become intimately acquainted with a woman whose skill with any weapon might exceed my own, could prove to be dangerous.’
‘Then that lets me off the hook,’ Belle retorted flippantly.
‘How so?’
‘Last night you let me believe you were as enamoured of me as the rest—just to get your hands on my grandmother’s diamonds. You certainly know how to dent a girl’s pride.’
Lance would like to have told her that she had jumped to the wrong conclusion, and that he was enamoured with both her and the necklace. The truth was that she was too beautiful, too sensational for a man not to be enamoured of her. But he refused to feed her vanity more than it already was by the doting swains who trailed in her wake.
‘I have every confidence that your pride will soon recover.’
Belle was disappointed that he wasn’t attracted by her, but didn’t show it. Why had she to say that? How absolutely embarrassing. He probably thought she’d been making advances toward him, fishing for compliments. She should have known that her remark would be pointless. But damn it all, why did he have to point it out?

Chapter Four
For the first time since the diamonds had been taken, Belle had a feeling of self-doubt. Carrying her jacket, she moved towards Lord Bingham, confused as to what she should do. If the diamonds really did belong to him, then by rights she should give them back.
‘So, Belle. What are we to do? You have the jewels. Will you return them to me?’
‘I think I should wait and see what my grandmother has to say about that.’
‘Belle, they really do belong to me. If you don’t give them to me voluntarily, then I shall have to take them from you. Is that what you want?’
‘What?’ she uttered, her eyes flashing with scorn. ‘Will you threaten to shoot me like you did last night—and I seem to recall there was a moment when you implied that you would. What kind of man are you, Lord Bingham? What was it that drove you to play such a despicable game? Is there some quirk in your nature that you enjoy doing that to people? Why should I believe anything you say?’
‘Because I am a fairly honest person. Trust me. Something happened between our families concerning the diamonds when our grandmothers were in their prime. My grandmother kept a journal. Everything explaining proof of ownership and what happened at that time is written there. I will show it to you if you like, but there isn’t time now. I have to return to my guests.’
Belle turned to the door. ‘I think I should go. I told the coach driver to wait for me at the corner of the street.’
‘Belle …’ She turned and looked at him. His eyes were steadfast. ‘The diamonds.’ Slowly he walked towards her, holding out his hand.
Belle knew he wouldn’t let her out of that room unless she gave them to him. Reluctantly she fumbled in the pocket of her coat and took out the pouch and handed it to Lord Bingham.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it.
‘What do you advise me to tell my grandmother?’
‘The truth. She’ll understand. Come, I’ll take you back to the coach—although I can’t think what your driver was thinking of bringing you here, dressed like that, in the first place.’
‘I can be quite persuasive when I want to be—even with coach drivers when I use my best smile on them.’
She didn’t need to elaborate. The effect of her smile was highly predictable. Lance could well imagine the driver’s dilemma, how dumbstruck and willing to do her bidding he had been when she had flashed her pearly white teeth and fluttered her eyelashes.
‘What a truly vain creature you are, Belle Ainsley.’
‘You may see it as a flaw, but at times it can be useful.’
Lance shook his head. The way the female mind worked sometimes was beyond his comprehension. ‘There are some things that would tempt a man beyond good sense. Your smile is one of them. However, the ease with which you have managed to get into my house tells me that I must have a word with my butler about increasing the security. Any miscreant from the street could enter. You encountered no one?’
‘No—and I can find my own way to the coach.’
‘I’ll make sure you leave the house without being seen. I insist. I certainly don’t want any of my guests confronting you looking like that.’ Taking her jacket from her, he held it while she thrust her arms into the sleeves. ‘I apologise for the rip. A good seamstress should be able to repair it.’ Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her round to face him. ‘I would like to apologise for last night,’ he said calmly. ‘I can’t remember the last time I apologised for anything, so you must forgive me if I appear awkward.’
Belle was not to be so easily mollified. ‘What an arrogant man you are to think that after what you did to me last night and the violence that you threatened, I can be placated with a few words of apology. You can apologise all you like, but it still does not absolve you or solve the problem I shall have explaining what you have done to my grandmother.’
His face darkened with annoyance, and Belle could almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. ‘I could say that your own behaviour—by coming here tonight and breaking into my home, is not beyond reproach either. However, I am truly sorry if I frightened you last night. Despite how it looked, it was never my intention to hurt you.’
‘You didn’t hurt me. I was simply furious that you should have the audacity to do what you did. And now if you don’t mind I would like to leave.’
Turning on her heel, she went to the door. Lance followed, halting her by catching hold of her arm and speaking close to her ear from behind. ‘Of course you must go, but before you do, Belle, I will give you a warning. Just one,’ he enunciated coldly. ‘Call it advice, if you prefer.’
‘If I wanted advice,’ Belle retorted, spinning round, her eyes sparking green fire, ‘I would not come to you.’
‘I don’t normally receive guests in my bedroom—but then, you are not my guest, are you? If you break into my house again and come to my room and search through my personal belongings, I will lock you in and not release you until you are well and truly ruined. Do you understand me?’
Belle felt a sudden stillness envelope them. Vividly aware of the heat of his body and the spicy scent of his cologne, she was overwhelmingly conscious of the man behind her. She was irritated by the way in which he had skilfully cut through her superior attitude. She knew she had asked for it, but the magnetic attraction still remained beneath all the irritation.
‘I’m sure you would like nothing more, but I will not give you that satisfaction. Now, can we go?’ He was far too close and Belle was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. The tight tension of regret was beginning to form in her chest that she had dared to come here.
Lance continued to hold her arm. Now the issue of the necklace was out of the way he was reluctant to let her go, and to his way of thinking it was time she received her comeuppance and realised the danger of coming uninvited to a man’s bedroom.
‘Not yet. I have not quite finished with you.’
‘Are you saying I am in danger?’
Black brows arched above gleaming blue eyes. ‘Of the worst kind, I fear. Tell me, Belle, have you ever been kissed?’
The tension in her chest was tightening. ‘No man kisses me except the man I want.’
An almost lecherous smile tempted his lips as his eyes did a slow perusal of her lips before travelling to the slim, erect column of her neck, to the beckoning fullness of her breasts straining beneath her blouse. The all-too-apparent womanliness of her and the heady scent of her perfume evoked a strong stirring of desire, and he felt a familiar stirring in his loins.
‘Then I will have to make you want me, Belle.’
He moved closer, close enough so that she was trapped and could not move without coming into contact with him. He braced his forearms against the door and gazed down at her face. He ached to caress the womanly softness of her, to hold her close, and ease the lusting ache that gnawed at the pit of his belly.
His nearness threatened to destroy Belle’s confidence and composure, but only threatened. This man was far too bold to allow even a small measure of comfort. She lifted her head imperiously, and her eyes glinted as they glared into his.
‘I don’t want you to show me. I don’t want you to touch me, so kindly step back and let me go at once.’
‘Not a chance,’ he drawled. Gripping both her upper arms, he pulled her to him, holding her tightly against his chest, his fingers digging cruelly into her soft flesh.
Resolutely she squirmed against him. She saw his eyes darken in the dim light, his lean and handsome features starkly etched. A strange feeling, until this moment unknown to her, fluttered within her breast, and she was halted for a brief passing of time by the flood of excitement that surged through her. With renewed determination she forced it down.
‘I asked you to release me. I really must go.’
‘What’s the rush?’ he murmured against her ear and brushed warm kisses along her throat. ‘I’d like to show you that I in no way resemble those fancy bucks who dance attendance on you night after night, pouring flatteries and endearments into your ears they do not mean.’
‘Leave me be. And don’t get any high-handed ideas that you are any better than they,’ she stated shortly.
‘Say what you like, Belle, but I suspect that you’d prefer a real man to warm your bed than any of them.’
His statement brought a bright hue creeping into Belle’s cheeks. ‘I find that remark extremely insulting and uncalled for. The conduct of the men I meet at the affairs I attend has been exemplary and I have no complaints. You speak as if you are some great gift to womankind, whereas you could learn a lot from them. And now I wish to leave. Anything is preferable to this. At least they are gentlemen and wouldn’t take advantage of a woman as you are doing.’
‘Don’t you bet on it, but relax, Belle. I’m not going to hurt you.’
An iron-thewed arm slipped about her waist and brought her against that broad chest. Belle thought to remain passive in his embrace and did not struggle as his mouth lowered upon hers, but they flamed with a fiery heat that warmed her whole body. That was when she realised the idea was ludicrous and a gross miscalculation of her power to deny him, for the kiss went through her with the impact of a broadside.
Her eyes closed and the strength of his embrace and the hard pressure of his loins made her all too aware of the danger she was in, that he was a strong, determined man, and that he was treating her as he would any woman he had desire for. Her head swam and she was unable to still the violent tremor of delight that seized her, touching every nerve until they were aflame with desire. Her world began to tilt, and she was lost in a dreamy limbo where nothing mattered but the closeness of his body and the circling protection of his arms.
Moments before she had thought herself knowledgeable about men, but now, as Lance slid one hand down to her buttock and pressed her to him, she became acutely conscious of her innocence.
His lips caressed and clung to hers, finding them moist and honey sweet, and for a slow beat in time, hers responded, parting under his mounting fervour. She leaned against him, melting more closely to him, as though the strength had gone from her. Aware of her weakening, he raised his head and lifted her in his arms.
‘Put me down,’ Belle panted breathlessly, panic rising. ‘This is not at all what I want.’
‘To hell with what you want, lady,’ Lance muttered thickly. ‘I can feel your need, Belle. It is the same as my own.’
‘Please,’ she cried. ‘This game has gone on long enough.’
‘Games are for children. But this is something more between a man and a woman.’ His eyes burned into hers as he strode purposefully to the bed with her. Kneeling on the mattress, he lowered her to its softness and before she could move his arms came down on either side, trapping her between them.
‘You beast,’ she hissed. ‘You filthy beast. How dare you lay your hands on me.?’
He silenced her with his lips, kissing her long and deep and hard. She struggled, but her physical resistance was useless against his strength and his unswerving seduction. Lowering his weight on to her body, he cradled her head between his arms. He was strong, muscular, savage even and very determined, and for a moment Belle felt her insides lurch—she didn’t know why—and in the pit of her stomach flared a spark of something, and again she didn’t know what or why.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he breathed against her throat. ‘I won’t hurt you. Let yourself enjoy it.’
‘I can’t,’ she argued.
‘Yes, you can.’
Again he found her lips and parted them. Shuddering excitement passed through her, and the strength ebbed from her limbs. Not for a moment did Lance break the kiss that was inciting her. His mouth was hungering, turning to a heated, crushing demand. Her anger had become raw hunger, cindered beneath the white heat of their mutual desires. It was sudden, the awakened fires, the hungering lust, the bittersweet ache of passion such as Belle could never have imagined.
His position gave him full access to her body. Pulling her shirt out of the waistband of her breeches, his hand slowly snaked its way up to the tantalising fullness of her naked breast, cupping it, teasing her nipple until it was a hard bud. She made a sound deep in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was a protest or merely a sound of pleasure she couldn’t contain, so wonderful did it feel. She was kissing him voraciously as the pleasure swiftly escalated, her entire body trembling with desire. She moaned again and wrapped her arms around his neck, shoving her fingers in his hair without even thinking about it, for she couldn’t seem to help herself and it seemed the most natural thing to do.
Lance closed his eyes, intense desire for this woman torturing him and making him acutely conscious of the celibate life he had led for some time now. As he caressed the sweet, young body, his flesh betrayed his need, rising up against his will. He was hungry for her and could hardly restrain himself to free her from her garments, possibly even tearing them if they resisted his fingers.
His hands slid from her breast and Belle felt him fumbling with the fastenings of her breeches. Instantly her sanity returned and with a horrified gasp, she broke away from him, her whole manner conveying her fury, which reappeared with shocking speed. With a tremendous effort of will she flung herself away from him and rolled off the bed. She stood glaring at him, breathing hard, her hair tangled in disarray about her shoulders, her green eyes burning, completely unaware of the vision she presented to his hungering eyes.
‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘How dare you do that to me? I will not be forced.’
Struggling for control, finding it with effort, getting off the bed, Lance straightened his clothes. ‘Come now, Belle,’ he managed to say, smiling, though he himself was shaken by the moment. ‘It was only a kiss—an innocent kiss, nothing more sordid than that.’ But he was not convinced by his words. With her long sleek legs encased in breeches, he was led to think that he had never caressed any that had evoked his imagination as much as those. The lingering impression of those trim thighs entangled with his own had done much to awaken a manly craving that had gone unappeased for some months.
He cursed himself for letting Belle Ainsley affect him in this way. He went from hot to cold, a sensation not normal for him, a man who had always had a woman at his whim, had enjoyed a woman casually and made love to her for his pleasure. Now this young woman needed to be taught a lesson and he could hardly keep his hands off her.
Belle’s anger was boiling. Every single word she uttered seemed to make it worse, as if it were feeding upon itself. And having no other outlet for this anger, it would continue to grow and fester.
‘A kiss that would have led to other things—which was what you had in mind you—you lecher—had I not had the presence of mind to end it,’ she flared, furious with herself for not only responding to it, but liking what he had done to her. ‘You forced your will on me, forced me to kiss you. I did not invite you to do that.’
‘I forced nothing,’ he said, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘You brought it on yourself when you decided to invade my bedchamber, don’t forget.’
He sounded entirely too smug in saying that. ‘Only because I thought it wouldn’t have you in it. I am here because I had no choice if I was to retrieve the necklace.’
‘Choice? Yes, indeed.’ He turned her angry words aside as he walked round the bed to stand before her, the burning heat back in his eyes. ‘Choice you are, my love.’ He ran his fingers down the soft curve of her cheek. ‘The very cream of the lot.’
His soft answer and soothing caress awoke once again tingling answers in places Belle tried to ignore. This betrayal by her own body aroused an impatient vexation. She had foolishly thought that all the quickening fires she had just felt in his arms had been thoroughly quenched by her anger. But she was becoming increasingly aware of the folly of that conclusion. Where his finger touched, she burned. It was a hard fact for her pride to accept. He was capable of scattering her wits in a thousand different directions. She wished she could deny it, for she realised he had a way of affecting her that made her uneasy of future encounters.
He stood before her, his wide shoulders narrowing her world to a dark, limited space. She glanced past him, but quickly dismissed the idea of darting for the door, for she strongly suspected he was as quick as he was strong. Shaking her head, Belle stepped back from him and pressed a trembling hand to his chest to hold him away.
‘You have been too long with the military and got too comfortable with the camp-followers to know how to treat a lady. I’ve heard how soldiers like to dally here and there at their leisure—I can’t imagine officers being any different.’
‘In some cases your imagination is correct, Belle. After years of soldiering, adjusting to civilian life is not an easy matter, and I, for one, intend to try.’
‘And I am not gullible enough to believe in miracles,’ she bit back. ‘I am not one of your common women. I will not be tumbled between the sheets and left to bear a child in shame. This was a mistake, a mistake you will have cause to regret.’ She walked past him, heading for the door.
‘A mistake for you, maybe, but not for me. You see, I know you now, Belle. I know how you react to my kiss, to being in my arms. The next time you may not be so eager to leave.’
She whirled in a flare of rage. ‘Why, you conceited—buffoon. There won’t be a next time. I would see you in hell first.’
Striding towards her, he bent his head, his laughing breath touching her brow as he chucked her playfully under the chin. ‘Your endearments intrigue me, but I did not fight with every measure of skill and wit at my command to preserve my life as well as my company of men on the battlefields of Spain and Waterloo, to have it taken away in peacetime by a mere slip of a girl.’
‘The slip of a girl you speak of I left behind in America, my lord.’
‘My eyes confirm what you say, Belle,’ he murmured, his eyes probing with flaming warmth into hers. ‘You are what any man would desire—softly rounded in all the right places, yet slender and long of limb. You have whet my imagination to such a degree that my pleasure would be to throw you back on to the bed and make love to you.’
She stepped back. Behind the pattern of her beautiful face, she was outraged. The red blushes on her cheeks had settled into a dark glow, the flush of sudden battle in her face. Her retreat was necessary to cool her burning cheeks, and to ease to some degree the unruly pacing of her heart. ‘Stop it. You should not be saying such things.’
‘Come now, Belle, believe me, after surrendering your virginity you will be amazed at the pleasures to be found in the arms of a lover.’
‘Lover? Ha!’ she scoffed. ‘The man I surrender my virtue to will be my husband. It is not something I shall give away in the weakness of a moment in the bed of the vilest of rakes.’
Lance did not seem surprised or insulted. Undaunted, he lifted his brows quizzically, a twist of humour about his beautifully moulded lips. But never had he looked more challenging. ‘This is indeed a crushing moment, Belle! I have been called some names in my life, but I must confess never to have been called—the vilest of rakes.’
Belle saw him struggling to hold back his deep amusement. Then, to her rising dismay, he threw back his head, letting out rich, infectious laughter. ‘This has really made my day—”the vilest of rakes”.’
‘You are insufferable,’ Belle cried angrily, her rage pouring out. ‘Let me out of this room this instant.’
‘You needn’t be distressed by what has just happened between us,’ he said, no longer laughing, but still quietly amused. ‘Making love can be just as pleasurable for a woman as for a man. Are you so fearful of losing your virtue, Belle?’
She thrust her face forwards to deliver her own angry rejoinder. ‘With you? Yes!’ she answered with a finality that brooked no discussion. ‘I will not allow myself to be sullied and then tossed aside by you, leaving me little hope of attracting a respectable husband. Rumours have a way of shattering lives, my lord. No man wants spoiled goods.’
Lance offered her a cajoling smile, appealing to her with all the charm he was capable of putting into play. He had not got to where he was in life without becoming aware that many women he had known had been intrigued and captivated by the smile on his lips.
‘I’ll have you know that right now you’re presenting a definite challenge to me,’ he accused, amusement gleaming in his eyes. ‘I’ve never before known a woman who seems to loathe me one minute and the next accept my attentions as you did just now on the bed. Can I not persuade you to relent?’
‘You certainly know the right words to entangle a gullible maid’s mind, my lord. But I am not gullible and certainly know the risks I would encounter if I allowed myself to be taken in by the likes of you. What woman would willingly invite such disgrace?’
Cocking a magnificent brow enquiringly, Lance peered down his noble nose at her. ‘Not all women who know me would consider it a disgrace.’
‘Just how many women have you addled with comments of that sort, my lord?’ Belle asked snidely. ‘If any of them believe you then they must be simple minded. You can say what you like, but any lady would be upset to be involved in a conversation such as this. It is hardly a topic to soothe one’s nerves.’
His eyes danced as he probed the bright green orbs. ‘I’ll allow the subject itself wouldn’t soothe your nerves, Belle, but the joining of our bodies in the ritual of making love would do wonders for relaxing you. I’d be more than willing to show you.’
‘I’m sure you would, but I’m not going to give you the chance. Now please stop it. You are far too persistent for my peace of mind.’
‘When I see something I want, I go for it.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It’s in my nature. At least the men under my command thought so.’
‘I’m not one of your men,’ she retorted, and had cause to wonder what would follow as his eyes gleamed tauntingly into hers.
‘Believe me, my lovely Belle, looking as you do, I would never mistake you for one of them—not even for an instant. None of my men ever looked even remotely appealing to me.’ Lance chuckled softly. Devilment shone in his blue eyes as he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. ‘Don’t be alarmed. Relax. I’m not going to kiss you again. At least not yet.’
Suddenly Belle found herself trying to gather the shattered pieces of her aplomb. His persuasive voice seemed to bombard her very being.
‘Just be thankful I’ve decided to let you leave.’
She met his warmly alluring eyes with a cool stare as she warned him crisply, ‘I should jolly well hope so. If you lay one hand upon me, my lord, I’ll scream the house down. That much I promise you.’
‘In which case, I shall comply with your wishes. Your presence in my bedchamber would take some explaining to my guests.’
Belle now had cause to regret her impulsive decision to come to his house. It was the kind of bad behaviour she had indulged in when she was a child—too hasty to jump in, too stubborn to draw back before it was too late, and suffering regret afterwards. There was more than just regret this time, however, much more.
She flung her head backwards so that more of her hair was loosed from its pins, coiling down her spine, so gloriously a shade of rich brown, now as dark as night. Her chin jutted dangerously and her eyes flashed.
‘How noble of you,’ she uttered sarcastically. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you will never lay hands on me again.’
Her lips curled back over her teeth in a snarl, and Lance thought she was like an animal on the defensive. Dear God, she was a magnificent creature, but heaven help the poor devil who got landed with her as a wife. He liked his women quicktempered, spirited and with fire in their veins. It made for a satisfying and exciting relationship, but Belle Ainsley with her bull-headed stubbornness would not only need a husband as strong-willed as herself, but with the patience of a saint.
‘As to that, Belle, I shall make no promises. Who knows what will come from our association? I will tell you now that I consider my independence of great importance. I am not necessarily anxious to give it up immediately now I have returned home, but I may just decide to forget the promise I made to myself to remain a bachelor and take you to wife just to show you what delights can be had between a married couple.’
Belle glowered at him and spoke with derision. ‘What subtle ploys you practise, Lord Bingham. If you think to get me into your bed with your liberal use of the word marriage, you will find I am not as gullible as you think.’
Lance laughed outright. ‘I get the message, Belle, so continue with your parties and concentrate on finding a husband—which is what the Season is all about. I’ve seen the many smitten swains following at your heels. I would think you’d find it difficult to choose among them. Although I can almost pity the man you eventually settle on. The poor man won’t have a moment’s peace.’
‘Like you I am in no hurry to wed, and Grandmother is not putting pressure on me to do so. I have only recently come to England and I am testing the water, so to speak. I am quite happy with my single state.’
‘Ah, but you will be caught and settle down to connubial bliss with one of your suitors ere long.’
Angry and humiliated beyond anything she had known in her life, as she watched him turn to retrieve his discarded jacket, Belle vowed to make him regret in a thousand different ways that he’d tampered with her. Her eyes settled on a small table where he had put the pouch and the smile that tempted her lips was one of cunning. Starting with the necklace.
So, he thought he had outwitted her, did he, by telling her some lame story about it belonging to his own grandmother? How easily she had swallowed it. How gullible she had been, but no more. She would not give him his victory. While picking up the pouch, which she slipped into her pocket, she grabbed hold of her hat, dropping it. She bent to retrieve it, and, turning round, Lance halted abruptly, for he found himself confronting a very fetching derrière stuck up in the air.
He emited a low groan with the gnawing hunger she aroused in him, for he had never seen anything quite so stimulating as those snugly bound buttocks, for the tight trousers left nothing to the imagination. Tempted to go to her and slide his arm around her waist and pull her back to him, to forget all logic and again sweep her down on to his bed, he halted, prone to wonder if he was having another lewd fantasy involving this precocious young woman, and it came as no surprise to him that she had sharply awakened his manly cravings like none other before. He stepped back as she straightened up, having retrieved her hat.
Aware of the pouch in her pocket, unaware of Lance’s lewd thoughts, her smile turned to one of triumph at her own cleverness. It was the perfect payback. Pulling her hat down over her ears, tucking her wayward locks beneath it, she turned to the door.
They were descending the stairs when Belle’s worst nightmare was realised. Rowland Gibbon emerged from the dining room without bothering to close the doors behind him. Some of Lance’s guests followed him into the hall. Cursing softly, Lance immediately took Belle’s arm and was already pulling her back up the stairs in an attempt to forestall a calamity, but too late. Rowland had seen them. He let out a loud gusto and started towards the bottom of the stairs, his heels clicking on the black-and-white tiled floor.
‘Ha! What’s this, Lance? Trying to hide from your guests. I won’t have it. Already Lady Marlow and the other ladies are feeling quite bereft and have sent me to find you.’
Realising the futility of trying to escape, Lance and Belle made a final descent of the stairs.
Rowland’s eyes shifted to Lance’s companion, whom he thought to be a youth hanging back. Rowland raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘And who have we here?’ he asked, bending over to peruse the face under the hat. He turned to Lance with a grin. ‘So, you had another engagement. Are you not going to introduce me?’
‘You’ve already had that pleasure.’
‘I don’t think so—although the lad does seem somewhat familiar.’ Without more ado he snatched the hat from Belle’s head, drawing a shocked gasp of furious indignation from her. Rowland uttered a soft whistle when her hair cascaded about her shoulders. His exclamation was one of disbelief and he chuckled softly. ‘Why, ‘tis no lad I see before me.’
The guests let out a collective gasp, and a few giggles came from the maids of the house, who had stopped in their tracks to gawp at the youth who had a definite feminine air about him, only to be shooed away by an irate butler.
‘Leave it, Rowland,’ Lance uttered through his teeth.
Rowland wasn’t going to let it drop. With Belle’s identity revealed, he turned his incredulous look on Lance and back to the slender, black garbed figure. ‘Good Lord! If it isn’t Miss Ainsley!’
Belle felt physically ill and glanced towards Lord Bingham’s guests. She recognised several of them as being elite members of the ton. The expressions on their faces ranged from amusement to icy condemnation. Knowing there was no help for it but to brazen it out, in a defiant gesture she thrust out her chin and squared her shoulders.
‘As you see, sir,’ she replied coolly. ‘Please don’t ask me to explain what I am doing here dressed like this. You would not believe it.’
Smiling broadly, Rowland laughed. ‘I might. I shall certainly enjoy hearing it.’
‘Miss Ainsley took the opportunity of me being otherwise engaged to steal into my house to retrieve the necklace I took from her last night,’ Lance told him, careful to keep his voice low. It was bad enough that his guests had witnessed Belle coming down his stairs with him attired as she was, without providing them with her reason for being in his house.
Comprehension dawned in Rowland’s eyes, quickly followed by astonishment. ‘Ah, she did?’
‘Indeed. My disguise didn’t deceive this clever young lady and she must be complimented on her success. She was about to walk off with the necklace when I returned home unexpectedly and took it back.’
‘Did she, now? Then she is to be congratulated, but I’m sorry you got it back. I would have been in order to demand my money back, for I would have considered I’d won the bet.’
Belle frowned, but what Sir Rowland was implying didn’t sink in immediately. Until she saw Lance cringe.
‘Take no notice of what Rowland says, Belle.’
But as if he hadn’t spoken, she said, ‘A bet? Am I to understand last night, when you posed as a highwayman and put me through hell, was all about a bet?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘No,’ Lance assured her. ‘I told you, I was simply retrieving my own property.’
‘That’s what you told me,’ she flared. ‘But now I am not inclined to believe you.’
‘It’s true. Believe me.’
‘And the bet?’
‘Was merely a reaction to Rowland’s scepticism.’
Belle glanced at Sir Rowland to see him somewhat shamefaced now. ‘You mean he didn’t believe you would succeed?’
‘I didn’t,’ Rowland said. ‘Not for a minute.’
Belle didn’t reply immediately. All she could think of was Lord Bingham and his friend laughing together at her when they’d made their bet. As the colour mounted high in her cheeks and warmed her ears, the people crowding in the doorway became a blur.
‘Well, I’m glad you had some fun at my expense—enjoying yourselves enormously, I don’t doubt.’ The look she turned on Lance was murderous. ‘You accost me in the early hours—at gunpoint, I might add—you steal my grandmother’s necklace, scare me half out of my wits by threatening to shoot me—and all because you had money riding on it.’ Moving to stand before him, she thrust her face close to his. ‘My God! My breaking into your house was nothing compared to that, you—you animal. I hope you enjoy your winnings.’
Turning on her heel, she strode past him, past a stupefied butler, who was standing with his mouth agape, her only thought being to get out and away from her tormentor and his astonished guests as quickly as she could.
‘Belle, wait. Your grandmother?’
She spun round. ‘What about her?’
‘She will have to be told.’
‘I don’t think so—you see, there is nothing to tell.’
‘Wait.’
‘Go to hell,’ she bit back, whirling round and hurrying to the door, unable to say more because she couldn’t get any more words past the lump in her throat.
Lance followed, but she rushed out of the door before he could stop her. With her coach waiting down the street, she was inside and on her way home within moments.
Lance stood in the doorway, watching her coach disappear.
After ushering the guests who had watched the whole scene back into the dining room and closing the door, Rowland came to stand beside him and casually remarked, ‘I take it she didn’t know about the bet?’
‘Of course not.’ Lance spun round. ‘Do you see stupid idiot written on my face, Rowland?’
He shrugged. ‘Why should it matter to her if we made a bet? You won, don’t forget—and besides, Miss Ainsley’s intrusion into your house was not the action of a respectably reared young lady, now, was it?’
‘She came here for all the right reasons.’
‘Well, I think you’ve come out of it pretty well. You have the necklace and two hundred pounds.’
Frowning, Lance closed the door. Something puzzled him—Belle’s parting remark about her grandmother. She had nothing to tell her, she had said. Why would she say that—unless …?
Lance looked at Rowland. ‘Wait here.’
‘Lance—what.?’
‘Wait.’
Rowland watched his friend bound up the stairs two at a time. Not a minute passed and he was back.
‘Well?’ Rowland asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
‘She’s taken them.’
‘Taken what?’
‘The diamonds.’
Rowland smiled, his face almost comical in its disbelief. ‘Do you mean to tell me that the delectable Miss Isabelle Ainsley has outwitted you?’
‘This time, Rowland—and it will be the last. When I get my hands on that green-eyed witch, I’ll.’
Rowland could clearly see that Lance’s pride had suffered a grievous blow. ‘You’ll what?’
A smile flickered into Lance’s eyes as he shot a wry look at his friend. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. But whatever I decide, she won’t like it.’
He stood and looked at the closed door through which Belle had disappeared, thinking of her in his arms, of her soft warm body curving to him, of her long, lovely limbs entwining with his. The hot blood surged through him and he chuckled to himself, amazed that one young woman could make him feel like this. He was worse than any rutting stag in her company.

In helpless misery Belle leaned back against the upholstery inside the coach, her heart filled with dread in anticipation of the condemnation she would ultimately receive from her grandmother. Had her departure from Lord Bingham’s house not been witnessed by his guests, she could have returned the diamonds to their rightful place and her grandmother would have been none the wiser.
She was confident the coach driver and the two footmen wouldn’t say anything about being held up. They were terrified she would accuse them of being irresponsible. After all, they were supposed to be taking care of her granddaughter. They were armed and should have been prepared for such a thing happening.
As it was there was nothing for it but to tell her grandmother everything. There would be no redemption for her, she knew that. People were too quick to judge and condemn. She had already tarnished her reputation with her liaison with Carlton Robinson when she had known no better, and there were those among the ton—ladies mostly, who saw her as an American upstart who outshone their own daughters, and deeply resented her popularity among London’s eligible bachelors and therefore reducing their chances of making a good match—who would take vindictive delight in her downfall. In their eyes she was a shameless wanton.
As for Lord Bingham, she could not see her actions reflecting on him, she thought bitterly. If there was a scandal, she doubted he would be embarrassed by it. The man was a complete and utter scoundrel and she hoped never to set eyes on him again—and yet she did wonder how he would react when he discovered she had taken back the necklace. She could only hope that he would concede defeat and not pursue it, but deep down she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to let it drop.

Her grandmother arrived home the following afternoon feeling much better, but insisted on going to her room to lie down, summoning Belle to follow her up.
From her bed where she was sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows, the dowager countess looked at her granddaughter perched on the edge of a chair next to the bed. ‘Did you enjoy yourself at Carlton House the other night, Isabelle?’
‘Yes, very much,’ Belle answered, putting off the moment to tell her of the awful thing she had done. ‘I always enjoy parties and the Prince Regent excelled himself.
The countess’s gaze became pointed. ‘Are you feeling well, Isabelle? You are very pale.’
‘Yes—I am quite well. I—I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
‘Then you must have an early night. I must say that I would have preferred you not to have had anything to do with Lord Bingham. I sincerely hope he has not approached you since?’ The countess noticed that a bright pink had swept into her granddaughter’s cheeks, a sure sign that the girl was guilty about something. ‘He has, hasn’t he—the scoundrel.’
‘I—I happened to encounter him yesterday after visiting you. He—he rode part of the way home with me.’ She quailed at the look that entered her grandmother’s eyes—a mixture of disappointment, hurt and anger. ‘I’m sorry, Grandmother. I know you asked me not to have anything to do with him, but I—I couldn’t avoid him.’
The countess rested her head against the pillows and closed her eyes, deep in thought. ‘That man is too persistent,’ she murmured at length. ‘I have decided we shall leave for Wiltshire earlier than I intended. I would like to think that at Harworth Hall you will not be so easily available to him. Unfortunately that may not be the case. The Ryhill estate borders Harworth Hall, so unless our neighbour remains in London—as I sincerely hope he will—then there is every chance that the two of you will meet some time. Hopefully it will be later rather than sooner, and in the meantime Lord Bingham will have found himself a wife.’
Belle fell silent. As relentlessly as she had tried to thrust that blue-eyed devil from her mind, regretfully he was still very much in residence. She remembered what it had felt like to be in his arms, how his kiss had made her forget everything but the two of them, how he had sent her emotions spiralling upwards, her passion mounting until she feared for her sanity. In fact, it was something of a shock to her that she was just as susceptible to his absence as she was to his presence.
It seemed far fetched to think that one man could move her to such extremes, yet when she compared her joy at the feelings he had awakened in her to the strange, inexplicable yearning that presently thwarted her mood, what else could she put it down to?
Anger stirred inside her, anger at her response to his seduction, at the betrayal of her body. Damn him, she thought. How dare he do this to her? And now her grandmother had told her his home in Wiltshire adjoined Harworth Hall, and she found herself in the vexing position of how to avoid him in the future. What could she possibly do to save herself now that he looked like some godly being sent to earth to play havoc with her mind and her heart?

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