Chapter 2: Memories I
Belinda sighed in relief when she made it to her coach, waiting in the mews of the Parliament building.
"Alrigh' milady?" Jeffries, her coachman, asked as she swung herself into the dark, plush interior. Glad of her veil, Belinda inclined her head. She had to be flustered.
"Perfectly. Home, Jeffries," she said brusquely, slamming the carriage door shut behind her. She hadn't bothered with footmen today, preferring secrecy to announcing who the mysterious visitor to the House of Lords was.
With a jolt, her team of matched chestnuts pulled the carriage out of the mews, and onto the roads of London. Settling back into her seat, Belinda felt once more Rathbone's lips claiming her, his hands firm around her waist.
Her breath caught, as she touched her lips through the clinging lace of her veil.
He had never kissed her like that before.
Not with passion and fire and voracious hunger. Oh yes, there had been tenderness, desire and love once before, so many years ago.
She didn't love him now. She couldn't, not now she knew he was planning something against Queen Victoria. She had her duty, she couldn't love him.
Could she?
She shook away that thought, staring absentmindedly at the velvet interior of her coach, a memory beginning to take over.
Ten years before…
"I don't see why I must go to this…ball, father, even if the Queen did invite us. We'll be returning to Tokyo, in three weeks. It's a waste of time," Belinda sighed, folding her gloved hands stubbornly. Across from her, Edward Sinclair, British Embassy to the Japanese, sighed impatiently.
"It was your mother's wish that one day you be presented to society. I would've thought you would enjoy the chance of female companionship," he said coolly. Belinda rolled her eyes, looking out of the window.
"You mean those wilting, vacuous excuses for women? I had enough of those in Tokyo," she said scathingly. Edward chuckled once, before leaning forward to grasp her gloved hands.
"It's just one ball. Besides, it shall be good for you to see some English society, my dear. One day, you must marry and return to a good life here. You cannot live in the Orient always," he replied calmingly.
"Why not? I prefer it there," Belinda said in quiet voice, looking down at their hands. When Edward spoke next, his voice was both sad and gentle.
"Because your mother's memory resides there. She would not wish you to live your life by her ghost,"
Belinda had no reply, but looked out of the window at the passing houses. Her father sat back, sighing once more. A devilish glint twinkled in his brown eyes.
"Perhaps you shall meet some young lord who will sweep you off your feet!" he joked, as Belinda turned flaming green eyes on him.
"Because that is the only thing a conventional young lady can do these days!" she scoffed scornfully, rolling her eyes. Edward chuckled.
His daughter had never been conventional. Six years before, Belinda's mother, Maria, had been murdered by Japanese bandits on the road from Tokyo to one of the mountain villages. Their convoy had been ambushed, and Maria had been killed.
Belinda and Edward were further behind on the road. He would never forget the look in Belinda's eyes when she saw her mother's dead body.
Determined he would not let his daughter become a mere passenger of fate, as her mother had been, he had brought in tutors for the ten-year old, to teach her in the art of pistol shooting, both long bore and short range, as well as Western fencing. The young girl had taken to it with alacrity, in a way she had never done in other, more conventional pursuits for little girls. Belinda preferred riding astride horseback wildly across the Japanese plains to playing with dolls and toy houses.
When the girl turned thirteen, of her own volition, she began to learn the way of the Samurai and the Ninja, to her father's slight worry. But she had refused to give up her instruction, vehemently protesting against her father. Edward soon realised that through her instruction, Belinda had found peace and solace from her mother's death, and so had left her alone.
The fact that he had a daughter who could throw a dagger accurately at twenty paces and break someone's neck with her bare hands didn't worry him at all.
Belinda struggled to hide an already bored yawn, as her father handed her down from the carriage at Buckingham Palace. Ahead of them, crowds of socialites and debutantes headed inside to the cotillion, all of them gowned in white. Belinda mentally rolled her eyes, glad she hadn't pandered to society. At least she wouldn't be one of those dummy wallflowers.
Edward sent her a conspiratorial wink, as he led her to the door.
Inside, the Palace was decorated with cerulean blue drapes and silver candelabras, the crystalline chandeliers sparkling overhead. The elite of society milled around, sipping from champagne flutes and gossiping quietly. A string quartet played a gentle waltz over the conversation.
Peeking her head from behind the velvet curtain, Belinda spotted the woman sitting in her robes of state, upon the golden throne, surrounded by her family.
Queen Victoria, Empress of India and Defender of the Faith.
Nervousness filled her, making her movement stilted as she slipped her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to a footman. Ahead of them in the queue a man in a ceremonial powdered wig and full Beefeater's costume announced the name of the debutantes to the company, as they descended with their fathers to be presented to the Queen.
Then it was their turn.
"Lady Belinda Sinclair and Lord Edward Sinclair, Ambassador to the Imperial Court of Japan."
Edward turned to Belinda, and smiled benignly at his sixteen-year old daughter.
"You're so beautiful, Belinda. Your mother would be proud of you," he whispered, just before they stepped into the harsh light of society. "You were born for this."
Belinda smiled at him, ducking her head, as she let him steer her into the light and down the stairs.
Heads turned at the names, as whispers and gasps sounded. Edward smirked to himself, fully aware why they were sounding so scandalised.
Belinda's cotillion gown was hardly conventional, but then again, it simply fitted who she was.
The simple, unfussy gown was off-the-shoulder, with short wispy sleeves, showcasing her ivory skin. The only flaw was one tiny birthmark, shaped like a wonky star on her collarbone, half-hidden by the corseted bodice. Her long skirts draped her legs, the bustle floating down the steps behind her, threaded through with seed pearls. Gold lace embroidery, as delicate as spider webs, covered the gown, in an obscure, Oriental design, a golden sash cutting from one shoulder to another completing the ensemble. Long white gloves hid the skin of her arms, almost as pale as the silk she wore. Her long, burnished mahogany hair was piled in tumbling curls around her neck and collarbone, the white pearls in her ears glimmering against the luscious darkness of her hair. Around her neck was a simple black velvet band from which hung a tiny porcelain cherub angel.
It was not in fashion, either her hair or her gown, but she looked breathtaking. She had Edward's dark hair, but her mother's skin and eyes and figure.
She was grace incarnate as they glided down the steps, a cool and confident glow in her eyes. He kept his eyes averted as they approached the Queen, until they halted before her.
"Your Majesty, allow me to present my daughter, the Lady Belinda Sinclair," Edward said, bowing at the waist. Belinda sank into a deep curtsey, inclining her head gracefully.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice demure but confident.
"Rise, Lord and Lady Sinclair. It is a pleasure to see you returned from Japan," the Queen murmured.
Belinda raised her eyes, meeting the wise, and twinkling old eyes of Queen Victoria.
"Thank you, your Majesty. It is good to be home," Edward said courteously. The Queen nodded benignly, before turning her attention to Belinda.
"And this is Belinda? I must say she has grown very quickly, and how much she looks like Maria! How do you do, my dear?" she asked. Belinda smiled calmly, conscious of someone's eyes on her face as she focussed on the Queen.
"Very well, Your Majesty. Although I fear I find the London surrounds are not to my liking," Belinda said boldly. There were titters behind her, as the crowd wondered at her comment.
"Oh? And why is that?" Victoria asked, interestedly. This one was not as awestruck as some of the others. The gaze of a tall, handsome young man of twenty, standing in a cavalry uniform sharpened with interest on the young girl.
"It is too confined. There is no space to ride, or to breathe. It's filled with life, but sometimes, it's suffocating," Belinda replied promptly. Victoria inclined her head.
"Quite. But surely Japan, for all its provincial charm, cannot compare to England and its glorious cities?" the Queen asked incredulously. Belinda's eyes narrowed.
"Japan may be primitive, but it affords amenities and freedoms no other place can. There is nothing more thrilling, or exciting than the rush of wind through one's hair as one gallops on the plains of Japan," Belinda retorted proudly, tilting her chin. Some tutted, whilst Edward cast a despairing look at the ceiling, before smiling ruefully at his daughter.
"Forgive my daughter, Your Majesty. She is rather an incorrigible spirit," he said, respectfully. Victoria chuckled.
"Nothing wrong with pride or spirit, Lord Sinclair. Indeed those are considered to be virtues, and are the cornerstone of our great empire," she said, chuckling to herself.
"Your Majesty, the others are waiting," the announcer bent his head. The gentlemen clothed in the cavalry uniform bent his head to the Queen's ear.
"Quite the queue has built up. At this rate, we'll be here until dawn," he said smoothly, his eyes straying to Belinda. She narrowed her eyes at him, but curtseyed nonetheless.
"Well, until we meet again, Lady Sinclair. Lord Sinclair," Victoria said graciously, inclining her head. Belinda rose from her curtsey, taking her father's arm, her eyes rising to the proud young man standing before her.
Artfully dishevelled black curls hung above cold dark eyes that glinted with intelligence and cunning. Strong patriarchal planes for a face, and a tautly toned body covered by the uniform of a cavalry officer. A gilded sabre hung by his side.
Belinda hoped the flush heating her skin was due to annoyance and not something else. She shot him a look, before letting her father lead her away.
The twenty year-old Lieutenant Colonel Nelson Rathbone, heir to the Rathbone estate and tenth in line to the throne smirked as the fiery brunette debutante disappeared from sight into the crowd, interest sparking in his cold eyes.
"Who was that man standing beside Her Majesty, father?" Belinda asked, "The one in the cavalry uniform?"
Edward smirked a little, amused by his daughter's interest. "That, my dear, is Lord Nelson Rathbone, heir apparent to the Rathbone estate and tenth in line to the crown. Also Victoria's favourite cousin," he added in a low aside. "Be wary of Rathbone, Belinda. He is not the sort you want to get mixed up with,"
"Have no worries there, father. It's quite clear he loves himself too much to care for anyone else. I am safe from him," Belinda murmured, accepting a glass of water from her father.
But was Rathbone safe from Belinda?
Edward had seen the interest in Rathbone's eyes as he'd watched her converse with the Queen. It worried him no end.
At long last the line of debutantes ended, and the dancing was about to commence. Belinda was perfectly happy to sit this one out, clinging to the shadows, as she watched everyone assemble on the dance floor for the first waltz. Young girls tittered coquettishly as eligible young men offered their hand for the dance. Belinda wanted none of it. She set to planning her ride tomorrow; perhaps if she got up early enough, Hyde Park would be empty enough for her to squeeze in a gallop. She so missed her long rides in the Japanese countryside, squeezed in-between diplomatic functions and her training with her Master.
"Penny for your thoughts, my lady?" a voice suddenly asked behind her, as Belinda twirled. She came face to face with Rathbone, a pleased smirk on his austere lips at her distracted state.
A state that heightened, to Belinda's alarm, at the sight of his lips at her eye level. They were long and smooth, and looked as hard as granite. As did the rest of his body for that matter.
"Excuse me, my lord?" she asked, dragging her gaze from his lips to meet his eyes, praying he couldn't see the blush she sensed was colouring her cheeks.
"I asked you what you were thinking, my lady. I noticed you standing over here, with such a distant look upon your face, as if your mind was occupied in more…pleasurable surrounds. You are a mystery and I can't resist a mystery," he explained, with a winning smile, as he took up a space beside her. Belinda watched him through narrow eyes.
"Perhaps I am one mystery you would do well to ignore? I have no intention of sharing my mind with anyone," she told him haughtily. His smirk grew.
"Oh, that was not your attitude earlier, when you greeted my cousin. It was quite refreshing from the usual po-faced numbskulls we're used to at these blasted things," he replied casually, turning to look out over the assembling group of debutantes. Belinda couldn't help but laugh at his description of the girls on parade, and decided to take a chance.
"And none take your fancy, my lord? I thought a cotillion's sole purpose was to find a young girl a titled husband and vice versa," she said, with innocently raised eyebrows. Rathbone turned back to her, letting out one short, bark-like laugh, before he sobered.
"Perhaps there are some who have taken your fancy, my Lady Sinclair?" he asked teasingly. Belinda glared at him.
"I asked the question first, but, I do not recall being introduced to you in the receiving line. An obvious misdeed on your part, my lord," she retorted, a small smile softening her features, as her brow relaxed from its glare. Rathbone grinned widely and pushed away from the wall, executing a deep, flourishing bow.
"Forgive me, my dear lady. You are right; I have been most remiss in my social graces. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lieutenant Colonel Lord Nelson Rathbone, although most just call me Nelson or Rathbone," he said, upon rising, holding his hand out. Belinda gave him hers proudly.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord Rathbone," she said, curtseying elegantly.
"The pleasure is mine, my dear lady," he murmured, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over her knuckles. Belinda could feel her eyes flare, her breathing hitch, even with the sensation heavily muted by silk. She hastily withdrew her hand, inhaling deeply.
"Ahh…I see you're a cavalry officer, Rathbone," she said, trying to make conversation in the suddenly tense atmosphere between them. At the look in his eyes, she felt her pulse race.
"Indeed, you are well-informed. I serve in her Majesty's cavalry in India, a post I've held for four years. I will go back soon, for a short tour of duty before retiring and taking my place in the House of Lords, when the time comes," he explained. Belinda cocked her head at him, her interest sparked.
"Have you seen many battles?" she asked animatedly. Rathbone's brow rose at her interest, as Belinda's heart sank. "I apologise if I have been remiss. Father is always telling me I must curb my less than acceptable…enthusiasms when in polite company."
"Oh, do not apologise, my dear. It is refreshing to talk to someone who actually interested in something other than embroidery and the latest fashions," he said jokingly. Belinda wrinkled her nose at such a thought as fashion. She dressed as she wanted, not how others thought she should dress. "By the way, that is a lovely gown. So unusual."
Belinda smiled. "Is it a matter of course for a gentleman to compliment a lady on her gown despite its unfashionable style?" she asked, as Rathbone's eyes widened.
"You are teasing me, my lady," he said, propping his shoulder against the ballroom wall. He looked over at the dance floor. "Don't you fancy it?"
Belinda shook her head. "I would prefer not."
But as the chamberlain announced the first piece of music, Rathbone shifted to stand in front of Belinda. To her horror, he bowed and held out his hand.
"Lady Belinda, I earnestly entreat your hand for this dance," he said, rather pompously. Belinda laughed at his tone, as amusement gleamed in his eyes. Her laugh drew attention to the pair, and Belinda knew she would not be able to duck out of it.
"Very well," she said haughtily, bestowing her hand in his. Confidently he led her to the dance floor. As they took a place on the wooden floor, she hissed at him. "I hate dancing."
"Then you have clearly never danced with a Rathbone," he replied jerking her wrist, twirling her into his arms. She ended against his chest; her eyes level with his lips once more, before she raised them to his eyes. Rathbone, never breaking eye contact, drew her other arm up, holding her hand tightly in his, whilst Belinda instinctively rested her free hand on his shoulder. Pressed from breast to knee against him, she literally couldn't breathe. His hand, firm on the small of her back, did nothing to help matters.
"And what makes Rathbones such experts of the art?" she asked him archly, summoning all her spleen, fighting the odd breathlessness afflicting her. He tilted his head, watching her through amused eyes.
"You shall see. You do know how to waltz in the wild provinces of Japan?" he asked her teasingly. She smirked back at him, matching his teasing tone.
"Oh yes, I do enjoy a good waltz very occasionally. I shall be inspecting your skill to see if it matches your confident tongue," she informed him archly. He laughed as the music started, and he twirled her into the first turn.
He was indeed an expert waltzer. He took Belinda's breath away; lucky for her she knew the steps off by heart, as they danced gracefully around the floor. His strong arms expertly steered her, checked her and spun her. Belinda felt totally, physically powerless, utterly controlled by him. It was a humbling thought, even though Belinda knew she could flip him on his back in less time than it took to blink.
It was not so much a warning of danger, but a feeling of her vulnerability. Of a woman to a man.
She could feel his eyes on her face, on her skin as they revolved. It made her heart flutter.
This was ridiculous! She'd only just met the man for goodness' sake!
"Will you tell what you were thinking earlier? When I found you by the wall?" Rathbone suddenly asked her, and she was grateful for the conversational gambit.
"I was planning my habitual ride in Hyde Park. I was hoping, if I rose early enough, I could get a gallop, before the elite of society turn out, and I'm looked on censoriously," she said scathingly, rolling her eyes. Rathbone chuckled.
"Of course. You like riding?" he asked, as they continued to waltz effortlessly. She nodded her answer.
"I used to ride all over the Japanese countryside. I miss my freedoms," she said, lowering her eyes sadly.
"But there are compensations, surely?" he asked, one brow raised as they whirled through another turn. Belinda shrugged casually, unable to breathe through the vice holding her lungs at his nearness. He spoke again, an amused gleam in his eyes, and in the set of his smirking mouth. "Well, my lady? Does my dancing ability match my confident tongue?" he asked teasingly. Belinda smiled slowly, fixing her eyes on his before lowering them demurely.
"Adequate, I suppose," she shot at him. He inhaled mock-shakily, as if he'd taken a mortal blow to the heart.
"You wound my pride, my lady," he joked, as Belinda laughed.
"Well someone needs to ensure a man does not acquire too big a head. What else are ladies for if not that?" she asked him, mischievously.
"You are certainly unlike any other lady I have ever met," Rathbone breathed, looking down at her. Belinda raised her eyes, as they became trapped in his, entranced.
Finally the music halted, as they came to a stop. Rathbone's arms did not ease from her body, as she slowly looked up into his arms. And swallowed hard.
There was the same sensual awareness in his eyes as there was in hers, both achingly aware of their closeness. Belinda's lips throbbed, parted, as his eyes mesmerised hers.
Abruptly, she pushed out of his arms, curtseying.
"Thank you for the waltz, my lord. I must visit the withdrawing room," she said hastily, not stopping to see Rathbone bow, just getting as far away from him as possible, not seeing his speculative gaze on her retreating back.
Belinda did escape the ballroom, but not to the withdrawing room. Instead she found an empty parlour that opened onto the gardens. She stood at the French doors, and let the cool summer breeze wash over her flushed skin.
She couldn't find her father anywhere, but then again, he was most likely conversing with the political and democratic elite in the library.
Brandy and cigars flowing freely, no doubt.
Her lips quirked momentarily at the thought, before she grew serious once more.
Her skin felt deliciously sensitised, her pulse still pounding through her veins.
What was wrong with her? What was this fire in her heart, consuming her?
"Lady Belinda?" a voice asked solicitously from behind her, as she jumped and spun. It was a testament to her state that she was too distracted for her heightened senses to register his arrival.
It was Lord Rathbone.
"Are you quite well?" he asked concernedly, moving into the light cast by a fire popping in the grate. Belinda smiled shortly, moving away from him and closer to the window.
"Just feel somewhat hot, that's all," she said. It was true enough, but his presence was making it worse.
"Perhaps a turn in the gardens? To help you cool down," he said, stepping up to her side and offering his arm. Feeling obliged to take it, Belinda stepped out beside him, as they descended into the gardens of Buckingham Palace.
They were bathed in moonlight, peaceful and still, as they walked between fountains and flowerbeds, achingly aware of the other's presence.
They talked of mundane things, of her life in Japan, his life in the military and the life he would take when he became head of his family. They laughed together about the absurdity of society and of fashion, so that when they turned back, some of the discomfort Belinda had felt dissipated. He drew her close, as close as society deemed proper, and she felt no fear, just pleasure at the heavy weight of his hand on her arm.
So when he asked to join her on her ride, she did not refuse.
When her father asked her about Rathbone, she told him nothing, writing him off as nothing more than an amusing acquaintance.
So it went on for two weeks, riding in the early morning, laughing and joking together, the evenings at whatever ball they happened to be both attending, the rising attraction between them only growing stronger.
Belinda didn't know what was happening to her. Rathbone both unsettled and attracted her. She sensed that beneath his charming exterior there was a heart of steel, and a ruthless sense of purpose. There was darkness in him, and she didn't know if it scared her or allured her.
He was arrogant at times, overly confident, overbearing at times, dominant and calculating, but then she seemed the perfect foil to his faults. They sparred as equals, hiding nothing from each other in the two weeks they grew closer.
The only thing she did not tell him about was her training with the Samurai and the Ninjas. Those were secrets she could not tell, for they were not hers to do as she liked with.
So at the end of the two weeks, and she looked at her calendar, and saw her departure for Japan drew near, panic smote her heart.
She didn't want to leave England. She didn't want to leave him.
That evening at yet another ball, she struggled to hide tears of sorrow, as she whirled in his arms. Rathbone looked down on her concernedly, as she raised her eyes to his. They pounced, trapping her, letting her know she wouldn't get away with not telling him what was affecting her.
His hand shifted on her back, caressing the skin in soothing little circles, in an intimate way that she should've taken umbrage at, but didn't. It made her want to lean forward and rest her head on his lapel.
The waltz finished, and Belinda made sure her father was out of sight, before Rathbone pulled her from the dance floor. They slipped, unnoticed, from the ballroom.
"What the devil's wrong, Belinda?" Rathbone asked, as they slipped outside, onto a deserted balcony and along, into a wisteria trellised walk. Private, dark and cool, soothing Belinda's heated skin, until he pulled her into an alcove, all but nose to nose with him. "Tell me," he said insistently.
Belinda took in a deep breath and wrested her arm from his grip. "It's nothing. Just a little hot that's all."
"Like you were 'a little hot' the night we first met?" Rathbone asked incredulously, stalking her back a little. Belinda felt the wall bump into her back, and stopped trying to escape him. Her lungs seized. "That's not it. Or is it?" he asked, a disturbing confidence lighting up his dark eyes. It made her knees go weak, as a wicked smile flashed.
"Please don't," she murmured, eyes wide. He halted, watching her intently. "I'm leaving in a week. Father is returning to his post in Tokyo,"
"Ah, I see," he said, his refined tone sending shivers down her spine. He moved, so his face was in shadow.
"I just think…I can't….This f-feeling when I'm near you, it…You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?" she asked, suddenly fearful she was imagining it, abandoning her attempts to explain herself better.
Rathbone was silent, his face inscrutable. She couldn't read it in the semi-darkness of the wisteria walk.
Finally he spoke. "Yes, I do," he whispered, before he drew her close. Belinda felt her heart race, as he paused for a heartbeat, before he lowered his lips to hers. His lips were smooth and as hard as she'd fantasised, obviously experienced. He was tender and yet still so passionate. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her even closer, when she felt a hot weight press between her lips. She sighed and opened her lips, feeling a thrill to her toes when his tongue slid in. He teased her, playing with her, enticing her into a game of intimate thrust and parry.
Fire rushed through her, rendering her soft body even softer, yielding to his muscular arms. She poured everything there was of herself to give, heart, body and soul; into the kiss.
Rathbone's hand slid up her spine, twining with her loose curls, sending a shiver down her spine. Dizzying, desperate to breathe, Belinda drew back from his lips, her body crushed against him from breast to toe. Breathing shallowly, the hand at the nape of her neck slid around to her face, caressing her cheek. She looked into eyes that reflected all she felt in her own.
"I love you," he whispered. "In the space of one week, you have managed to utterly bewitch me."
"I don't want to leave you," she managed to whisper, just before his lips tenderly caressed hers again.
"I know," he said when he drew back. "Marry me."
Belinda felt her world tilt, as surprise and disbelief set in, she stared at him. "What?"
In answer to that, Rathbone sank to one knee, taking both her hands in his.
"Belinda Juliet Sinclair, will you marry me? Will you be my wife?" he asked quietly, soberly. Belinda searched his face for any sign of a joke, but there was none to be found in his stern face. He was completely serious.
"I…I…t-this isn't happening! This isn't real!" she shuddered in pure distress. She made to move away, but he grabbed her closer, pulling her down to perch on his supporting knee, imprisoning her chin in his hand, entrapping her eyes with his own.
"Do you love me?" he asked, never flinching in their eye contact. Belinda stared at him, her heart pounding. Did she love him?
"Yes…I love you, Nelson," she breathed, feeling as though a gigantic weight lifted from her chest, and she could breathe again. She leant her forehead on his, and touched her lips to his mouth. Their lips clung, before Rathbone broke away to look at her once more.
"Then marry me," it wasn't a question, and some part of Belinda wanted to rebel at the downright command in his tone, but she didn't.
"Yes," she murmured, before their lips met again. His arms held her close to him, as though she were the most precious thing in the world to him. When they once again left their kiss, heat simmering in their veins, Belinda's head slipped onto his chest, clinging to him. He held her tight against his chest, never wanting to let go.
"Never let go of me," she sighed, tucking her head into the hollow below his throat. Rathbone tucked his chin above her head, resting his cheek on her soft curls, stroking them soothingly whilst they both recovered from their newly discovered passion.
"Never," he vowed gently, "I will never let you go. You're mine, Belinda. Mine."
That warrior-like pronouncement should perhaps have chilled her, but it didn't. It sent seductive shivers through her body, as he clasped her closer. She knew she was his; always had been and always would be. Forever.
"Are you cold, my love?" he asked, feeling her shivers and misinterpreting them. Belinda felt his hands on her face, tipping it up, so their lips met.
This time, the kiss was more aggressive, more hungry, a taste of everything their joint lives would hold. Their tongues twined, and Belinda boldly slid her hands into his hair, taking great delight in ruining the spikes of black hair. He moaned into her mouth, a sound that sent shudders through her every nerve. Breathing raggedly now, Rathbone broke from her lips, standing up, taking her with him.
"You'll speak with my father tomorrow?" she asked him breathlessly. He nodded, his eyes fixed on her lips.
"Yes. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Soon we'll be husband and wife," he promised her, leading her back towards the ballroom. "We must return, before we're missed."
Smoothing the front of her gown down, Belinda clung to his arm as they walked briskly back from their haven, and towards society, where they would have to part.
Just before they were about to re-enter the ballroom, Rathbone pulled Belinda into an alcove and set his lips to her once more, drinking deeply, exploring her mouth softly. She shivered and sank against him, eliciting a rippling shiver to run through his taut frame.
"Meet me tomorrow in Hyde Park. I'll let you know how my meeting with your father went," he said, when they drew apart, conscious they could be discovered any second by a scandalmonger. Fear suddenly filled Belinda's heart.
"I'm afraid, Nelson. My father dislikes you for some reason, he warned me off you before we even met. I fear he will not accept the match," she said, in a fierce whisper. Rathbone looked…uneasy for a moment, before his confident mask slipped back into place.
"Then I'll just have to persuade him with my considerable charm," he said, eliciting a strangled laugh from Belinda as his lips covered hers once more. With one last kiss, she pushed him away giddily, and smoothed her gown down before stepping lightly back into the ballroom, Rathbone at her heels……
Present day…
Belinda sighed and pulled herself from her memories as the carriage rocked to a halt. With a nod to her coachman, she stepped out and walked briskly into the imposing Georgian residence in Grosvenor Square, her eyes straying for a moment to another, very similar one down the road. The London home of the Rathbone family.
She shuddered and walked inside.
A lot had changed since that night in the moonlight, the night she'd agreed to become Nelson Rathbone's wife. The night she discovered tenderness, the first flutterings of desire and love. A night she could never forget, no matter how she tried.
She was no longer a sixteen year old girl, no longer quite as naïve or trusting. Fate had knocked her about, and she was too hard now to be affected anymore. All she knew was her duty, meeting Nelson today had inevitably brought back forbidden feelings, but she would fight them and win. She would fight whatever scheme Nelson had come up with and win.
She had to, for her country's sake and her sanity's sake. Because a part of her wanted nothing more than to run down the road and throw herself in his arms.
A part of her still loved him.
A part of her the rest pretended did not exist.
Belinda frowned as she entered the dark foyer of her home. Upstairs she could hear voices, voices she did not recognise. She only had a skeleton staff, but they were all out right now.
Intruders…
She grabbed a sword from the wall, quickly dispensing with her veil. Treading on the soft, crimson Persian carpets, she climbed the stairs and followed the voices to an upstairs parlour in the wing that had been her father's rooms when he was alive.
Not pausing to listen to their conversation, she swung the door open and raised her sword.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. What are you doing in my house?" she asked imperiously, taking in the scene in front of her.
A young boy in ragged clothes stood beside a short, Chinese man with long black hair, clothed in garments that belonged in one of those ridiculous O'Bannon novels. At the moment, he was swathed in one of her father's dressing gowns.
Across from them, sat in a chair, with a cigar and a glass of brandy, was a tall blonde man, with a slightly twisted nose, like he'd been in a fistfight and his nose had borne the brunt of it, and twinkling blue eyes.
Simultaneously, the threesome's eyes widened comically, as they turned towards her.