A Wayward Woman. Helen Dickson

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