Chapter 9
The act of flirtation, Belle had come to learn, came much easier than the act of avoidance. Perhaps, she reflected on a sour note, because she was much better at one than the other. The act of avoidance, if one gave it some thought, required constant awareness, sneakiness and, at times, deviant forms of action. Flirtation on the other hand only required an easy smile, a wink of an eye and the soft sway of a hip.
Belle much preferred sticking to her strengths. Unfortunately, Westfield would not be ignored with her old enemy breathing his slimy breath down her neck.
“Double botheration,” she muttered as she poked at her breakfast.
She had lost her virtue in the garden at midnight with potential enemies lurking in the shadows. How utterly adventurous…if not for the unfortunate way the evening had ended.
The merging of two people in the act of intimacy inspired scandals, forbidden love and, in the past, even wars. Romantics wax poems of its carnal attachment, write songs of its dangers and declare mutiny in its name.
One would imagine that with such a reputation, the act itself would at least be pleasurable. Ugh. Her merging had only amounted to pain and horror. The horror being Westfield’s immediate grimace.
Should she not feel a touch of magic at the loss of something society held so high on a pedestal?But no. Belle did not feel any different.Perhaps it was not the act itself that had been disappointing, but Westfield’s priggishness. Neither Evelyn nor Jo had ever mentioned lovemaking to be lame. In fact, they enjoyed the act of love, even encouraged her to embark on an affair to experience it.
Perhaps that was the problem. She did not love Westfield, nor did he love her. Nothing about it had been magical, well, except maybe for the prelude. The sensation of him inside of her, filling her, had been nice enough. Yet he’d believed her to be a woman of easy virtue.
Deuced devil.
The problem with this blasted century was not a political or religious one. No, it lay solely with the men and their belief that they had a right to everything. Heaven forbid they did not receive what they imagined is in their right to possess. They’d retire into a fit of pique.
The most disturbing part was that Belle had never before felt such fire in a kiss, nor such immediate spark at a single touch. He was able to bring forth such an intense fire in her, it had set her ablaze. But with the single thrust of his hip, he managed to extinguish the glorious flames.
Such a pity.
“Perhaps I should put it to the test,” she muttered on an exhale as Charlemagne came trotting to her side. She patted the hound’s head.
It was preposterous of course, but once the idea formed it would not be pushed aside.What would the harm be in kissing another gentleman? If for nothing other than confirming her suspicions, Belle could see no wrong in testing the possibility.
She smiled for the first time that morning, glancing down at her beloved dog. “At the very least, my little experiment will show Westfield just what I think of his sudden duty-bound declaration of marriage. It may even prove some distraction from this other ghastly business. What say you, Charlemagne?”
The greyhound licked her outstretched hand and Belle took that as an agreement.
“And I know just the gentleman to test my experiment on.”
The deliciously handsome Earl of Craven.
The very same Craven they wagered Jo to entice a kiss from. He exuded power and was the embodiment of perfect male masculinity—handsome, virile, dangerous and with just the right amount of redeeming qualities to spark a lady’s imagination. Indeed, he possessed the unerring ingredients to set a woman’s blood on fire.
However, Craven was no fool. Luckily for her, he rarely passed up the opportunity to stir up some trouble.
With her plan in mind, Belle took a bite of her toast, pausing when she noted Charlemagne’s eyes following her movements with bated expectation.
“Oh fine, here you go,” she flicked her toast to the dog with a sigh. “You know, most hounds prefer rabbits, yet your favorite morning meal consists of buttered toast.”
Later that evening
Gold was the chosen color of the night. It shimmered in the light of the myriad of candles that were lit all across the room, highlighting her honey blond hair, and bringing out the vivid hue of blue in her eyes. As usual, her bun was loosely pinned to the side of her head and her lips have been painted the color of cherry red. Quite unsurprisingly, she demanded the attention of every man she passed, rake and gentleman alike. But her priority was to find one man in particular and avoid another.
She’d also broken Westfield’s rule to be escorted at all times, but to hell with the oaf and his stuffy rules. If De Roux wanted to finish what he’d started all those years ago, he’d have done so already. As it were, he enjoyed to sport with his victims first and until he made his move, Belle would not cower in fear.
No one even bothered to bat an eye at the fact that she’d arrived unescorted. Being a self-proclaimed spinster had its perks and while she’d always been able to catch the eye of gentlemen, they remained the distance at which she held them. All except Westfield, that was. And he could sink down to Hades as far as she was concerned.
She spied her prey leaning against the French doors across the ballroom, watching the happenings with a detached boredom and ignoring the giggling misses who stole glances at him.
Perfect.
Craven was a tall man, taller even than Westfield, darkly handsome, deliciously built and right where she required him. With purposeful gait, she waded through the crowd, smiling coyly at a gentleman here and there.
