Page 47 of The Lyon Rampant

There was another sigh, and he ran a thumb over her lips. “I can’t tell if that’s a happy mouth or a dismal one. Would you rather I held you?”

“My mouth is neutral. As for being held, you were very kind to me in the churchyard, and I found comfort in your arms. But I’m afraid if I let you do it again, the dam will break, and my woes will pour forth in a torrent.”

“Right. I have an idea. I’ll retrieve your candle, and let’s get off the bed.”

As soon as the lighted candle was set in a sconce, Piers stoked up the fire and fed it enough wood to create a cheerful blaze.

“How much better a wood fire smells than a coal one.”

Belinda, rosy-cheeked and certainly not being a watering pot, gave him a quizzical look. “I’ve thought that myself.”

“Perhaps you are cut out to be a country lass after all, not a town one.”

“Oh, Forty Court is virtually rural, but with a good road to London. Can one not have the best of both worlds?”

He supposed that he already did. Would she enjoy his kind of life?

“Now, then, Mr. Darvill, what are we doing next?”

Gazing at her in the flickering light of the fire, with her hair flowing loose about her shoulders, and her tempting curves outlined in shadow, he knew what the answer ought to be. He bit back the words, and instead, brought his heels together and gave her a smart bow.

“May I request your hand for this dance?”

She stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck, then frowned.

“I am trying to amuse you, my sweet. And you have no idea as yet what your fiancé, Piers Darvill, is like as a companion, a suitor, or a dance partner. I shall hum a waltz tune—I assume you know how to waltz?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “You really are the most extraordinary man. How can I dance with a wounded ankle?”

“A compliment from you at last! And don’t worry—we won’t need your ankle.” He felt a heady satisfaction as he stepped toward her and lifted her into his arms. When her hands went around his neck, a surge of need buffeted him, unbalancing him with its impact. “Belinda, I—”

“You have bare feet. How can you dance with no shoes on?”

With an effort, Piers brought himself back to earth. “You have bare feet as well,” he pointed out, his breath catching. God forbid she should feel the trembling in his body—what had happened to all his masculine self-assurance?

“Let us begin.” He buried himself in the waltz, concentrating on remembering the tune, maintaining the tempo and managing the steps as well. Belinda felt perfect in his arms, and he knew if they’d had an audience, it would be applauding them, congratulating them on being the perfect couple.

“I suppose I ought to gaze into your eyes, if I’m meant to care for you.”

Not daring to answer lest he lose the tune, he nodded, and grinned. Unfortunately, Belinda’s acting was so convincing, it was all he could do not to clamp her against his chest and kiss her until she begged for breath.

He gazed down, losing himself in the blue depths of her eyes. Unable to help himself, he nuzzled against her cheek, and found her lips.

“To hell with waltzing.” He knew his kiss was not gentle, but she didn’t wriggle away. He drank from her mouth with a thirst that staggered him, and all the carefully erected barriers around his heart crumbled to dust. This was more than just lust . . .

Belinda squeezed his shoulder and pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Very convincing, Mr. Darvill. I quite understand why everyone in town has you down for a rake.”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Do you think I’m playing games with you, Belinda?”

“Of course. We both are, aren’t we? I hope we can make our falling out of love as convincing as our falling in love.’

The heat of the fire no longer reached him, and the shadows gathered closer. Not looking at her, he said, “It’s getting late and the room is chilly. Go back to bed. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

Not that he had any idea what he was going to say. But he had to get out of Belinda’s chamber now before he uttered any word that was likely to come back to bite him.

As he closed the door on an astonished-looking Belinda, he realized he’d had a very lucky escape. Had she not poured cold water on the flames of his passion, who knew what might have happened?

Perhaps this fake engagement wasn’t such a good idea, after all. He was going to have to think of something else. And he would no doubt think better, and more calmly, if he put a few hundred miles between himself and Miss Belinda Bellamy.

He would return to London at dawn.