Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante
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Helen Dickson
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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 granddaughter 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, over-bearing 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 everything—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 lovemaking. 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 fulfilment, 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, rain-swept 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 speed-well 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 rightfully 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 spell-binding. 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.
