A sudden thought occurred to her. What if he knew who she was, even with her mask?
No.
No, that could not be.
He believed her to be dead.
The implication of what it meant for her if he had indeed returned was too horrid to contemplate. If he discovered that she was still hearty and very much alive, he’d hunt her down and…crush her.
Belle clutched a hand over her midriff, where the long ragged scar marred her flesh. Sweat formed across her brows. The only thing keeping her from shattering was the knowledge that she was nothing like she’d been four years ago. If he was indeed searching for her, he would be searching of a weak, awkward and easily-deceived nitwit. She wasn’t that nitwit any longer.
Hovering by death’s door had changed her. In thosepainful moments when she’d believed she was to die, she’d known all she wished to be and everything she’d desired to accomplish, and she’d known it all would perish with her.
It had been unacceptable.
And in her refusal to die with so much undone, she survived. She’d since become stronger, less ignorant and more resolute. Perhaps she was mistaken, perhapshedid not darken these halls as she suspected.
Still, the panic edged its way up her spine.
Before it could burst through her, dampen her skin or God forbid, compress her lungs, shetook a few deep breaths to tamp down her alarm. When she turned back to the crowd, she spotted Evelyn’s brother, the Earl of Westfield, enter the room.
Relief made her knees wobble. The frantic beat of her heart sped up even more—not because of some fanciful notion that her heart raced to match the steady beat of his andnotbecause Belle held some minor, misguided affection for him. Oh no, none of that. It was only because Westfield represented a beacon of safety.
He’d been her constant shadow for months on end due to his misguided notion to protect her from…well, whatever he thought she required protection from. With him in attendance, she was as safe as safe can be.
And there was no mistaking that it was him. He stood tall, taller than most, with his blond hair styled to its usual perfection. A handsome face with strong features hid behind his plain black mask. But it was his expressive eyes that affected one most—they were the kind of eyes that at a glance could hold you spellbound or turn you into a puddle.
Yet, he also wore his heart in his eyes. It was why Belle had imagined him a total bore when she first met him. No mystery. And for Belle, it was mysterious, evasive men that held all the appeal. How else was a lady supposed to spend her time other than with a bit of intrigue? Who didn’t love peeling away the layers of hidden treasures?
Westfield, however, did not deserve such an obvious display of flirtation. She could just imagine him dropping to one knee at the bat of an eyelash—he was that much of a gentleman. Except, it seemed, when it came to her. It appeared that he reserved all his scowls for her.
Belle considered him from a distance, her earlier distress nearly forgotten. His black eyes raked over passing gentlemen and ladies alike as he waded through the throng of people, immediately dismissing anyone that held no appeal. The ladies darted him hopeful glances and waved their colorful fans in an attempt to gain his attention, but he appeared oblivious to their ministrations.
Even so, his always-ready smile sat plastered on his face. He was just so dratted happy all the time. Often, it grated on Belle’s nerves, and by “often,” she meant more often than not.
It gave her immense pleasure to know that she, at least, possessed the means to ignite his temper. Though specifically why his laughing eyes always seemed to shoot daggers her way, she did not understand.
Lost in thought, she had little warning her privacy was about to be disturbed until a big shadow fell over her.
“It would not surprise me if your names are engraved on every damn potted plant in England.”
Belle’s surprised gaze flew to that of James Shaw, who came up beside her. She craned her neck to catch the slight display of amusement on his lips. He did not bother to glance down at her but continued to watch the crowd. Alas, he was correct. If notorious plant lurkers were ever identified in such a way, there was little doubt that it would be she, Josephine and Evelyn who received the honor.
“What an utterly ridiculous thought, Mr. Shaw, but how lovely of you to join my potted plant watch-keeping.”
He snorted before murmuring, “You looked troubled, Lady Belle.”
Was that his way of explaining his presence here with her? She shrugged. “I am wearing a mask. How would you know what I look like?” she pointed out.
“Perhaps you are not aware that I’ve made it my utmost goal to decipher the workings of the female mind, especially of those who lurk beside plants.”
“And what have you discovered?”
“I’ve only ever found trouble brewing, which is exactly why I’m here.”
“Just as well, you would never do as a plant lurker.”
James’s boisterous howl caused Belle’s lips stretched into a smile. His laughter was contagious. A mountain of a man, plants would lurk behind him and not the other way around—if plants could lurk, that is. It was troubling, however, that he’d deduced something was amiss even with most of her features concealed. She’d have to do a better job at hiding her fear.
