Chapter 8
John adjusted his long stride when Miss Westcott—Belinda— stumbled just outside the door, but he didn’t let go her arm until they were through the herb garden and well out of earshot of the kitchen. He stopped by the chicken house where there was little chance anyone would see them.
The air had remained crisp and cold, and snow still covered the ground. She gave herself a shake, peering around frantically while he wrapped the woolen cloak around her shoulders, tying it securely at her chin. When his hands, pressed against the cloak, lingered at her neck longer than needed, she said nothing.
A man could get lost in this woman’s deep blue eyes , he mused. If he thought to see fear, he saw only confusion. His throat tightened at the sight. “You must know you need to explain yourself,” he said hoarsely.
Her gaze sharpened, and she straightened before pulling her eyes from his. “You demanded this conversation. Explain what exactly?”
“Why did you poison the cocoa? You didn’t mean to harm your cousin.”
She glared at him sharply. “Certainly not! I love Sophie. And it wasn’t poison.”
“But you don’t deny you tainted the drink?”
Her cheeks, already pink with exasperation and cold, turned a deeper red. She dropped her gaze to her feet. Her voice trembled. “No.” On a sharp indrawn breath, her head bobbed back up. “I don’t make a habit of it, you know!”
He barked an unwilling laugh. “I should think not.”
Again, she seemed to find her slippers fascinating.
He lifted her chin with one knuckle. “If you are trying to tell me you had nothing to do with the fiasco two years ago, I already know that.”
Stunned surprise made those glorious blue eyes widen. “How do you know?”
“Your cousin Cecil bragged about it.”
“Of course, he did, the devil-spawn scum! I was certain he did it. How could he resist boasting?” She turned away, her jaw clenched and her shoulders tight. “You’ve known all along? Why call me a menace. You were part of the prank!”
“No!” He swallowed hard. “I heard about it late that night. Cecil described it in painful detail. Please believe me. I broke with Cecil’s circle of degenerates the next morning."
That seemed to surprise her. “You disappeared soon after. Cecil did too. He left me in peace last Season—he never even came to London. Neither did you. I think the Marquis of Aldridge had something to do with Cecil’s departure. I heard him shouting at Uncle Hartwell. The next thing I knew, Cecil was dispatched to Uncle’s cottage near Aberdeen. Did he?—"
“Banish me? No. My grandfather called me home and there was mourning and—” He waved a hand. “Never mind that. Just answer one thing. You put emetics in that chocolate. You meant it for me, didn’t you?” He thought she would look away then, but she did not.
She held his gaze directly. “Yes.”
“Why me?”
“If it went up in Cecil’s tea that morning, he’d have blamed it on the previous night’s excess. It needed to be public just as the other was public.”
“Why now? It has been two years.”
“Cecil told me you were the one to call me The Westcott Menace.”
John grimaced. “I’d deny that if I could. I was so drunk that night I hardly remember anything I said. He may be right, and I sincerely, deeply apologize. The whole distasteful episode shames me. I have never, ever, used that despicable name in public.”
“Well, it humiliated me. It still does. He plans to make that public during the next Season. While you are society’s darling, the most eligible man in the land, he’ll make certain every gossip, every dragon of the Ton, every ambitious mother knows that the Earl of Ridgemont, pearl among pearls, named me a menace.”
John felt his blood freeze in his veins one moment only to boil the next as rage consumed him. His curses would have shocked an army sergeant. They seemed to amuse Belinda Westcott.
“I take it that is news to you,” she said.
“Of course, it is. I would have nothing to do with a scheme to humiliate you.”
She stepped away. “Thank you for that, at least. I need to go back in now. Dinner won’t prepare itself.
“I’m glad no permanent harm came to Lady Sophie. I wish I had never handed her that mug. She’s lucky to have you; you took excellent care of her.”
She whispered thanks and walked away.
Excellent care… John suspected everyone at Hartwell Hall benefitted from Belinda Westcott’s care. As he watched her graceful, determined stride, attraction heated him. He thought of her cooking and smiled. Belinda Westcott was the one woman at this benighted house party interesting enough to pursue, or at least worth further acquaintance. First, however, he needed to confront Cecil Hartwell. The worm.
Bel wandered into the kitchen in a daze, absently sniffing the broth simmering on the hob. Ridgemont apologized. He wasn’t privy to Cecil’s mischief, and yet he apologized for his part . Ridgemont was not at all the man she thought he was. He treated Sophie with respect. He went back to check on the others. He… He apologized to Bel. No one ever did that. Certainly, no man ever did.
“Is all well, Miss?” Annie’s question snapped Bel out of her abstraction. The girl’s worried expression brought her back to business.
“Glazed lamb tonight, I think,” she said, removing the cloak, memories of the hands that had so gently placed it on her shoulders haunting her. She put them away just as she put the cloak on its peg. “We still have dried apricots to go with the sugar syrup.”
Breathing a collective sigh of relief, the entire kitchen hummed productively, and the afternoon sped by.
She wasn’t certain later how she managed to dress for dinner on time to join guests in the drawing room. She endured the meal with great effort, placed as she was between Lady Arncastle and Mr. Barnstable the vicar, who was slightly deaf. Lady Arncastle sniffed every dish while eyeing Bel suspiciously. Cecil sat across from her three places down, and the sneer he sent her way seemed particularly menacing.
Worse, she struggled to keep her mind from Ridgemont, and her glance from wandering his way. She chided herself not to act like a schoolgirl, but could not seem to control it. Curiosity. That’s what it is. Curiosity , she told herself. Just get through dinner. She disciplined her mind to think only about the service and general reactions of the guests to her cooking and decided she would retire as soon as the ladies withdrew.
But then Uncle announced that, since card games were planned for the evening, the gentlemen would forego their port and join the ladies. Cecil commandeered the bottle and trooped out after uncle. Bel shuddered.
“He won’t misbehave in front of his father. At least one hopes not.” She turned to see Ridgemont offering his arm. She took it; warm pleasure flowed through her at the touch and all thoughts of hiding away upstairs evaporated.
What is going on with you, Bel?
“You frowned, Miss Westcott. Do you not enjoy cards?” he asked.
“I sometimes enjoy whist,” she stuttered.
They had reached the music salon where tables had been set up for cards. “Would you prefer to take a turn around the room and observe?”
The urge to follow him anywhere startled her. She couldn’t formulate a reply.
“Or perhaps a walk in the garden?” His intense gaze scattered her thoughts.
“Alone?” she croaked.
A grin, slow and sensual, transformed his face. “Perhaps not. Shall we take tea then?” He nodded toward a settee along the side between the tea table and the pianoforte that had been pushed to the side. One with room for two and no one else. Private in the midst of company.
Bel studied it briefly. The moment she raised her head to look at him, a smile filled her entire being. He wasn’t the horrid man she thought. He was the catch of the Season. And he sought her company. “I would like that very much,” she said.
She couldn’t say later, alone in her bed, what happened between them. They never did play cards, despite hints from Aunt Violet, Sophie, and even from Lady Bellachat. Dinah Beckwith’s comments were even more pointed, but Ridgemont—John—ignored them.
They spoke of mundane things. Her lonely childhood in a house of scholars. His favorite pony. Boyhood pranks. Books they liked and ones they didn’t. Mutual acquaintances. His education. Her struggles over its lack and efforts to educate herself. None of it was intimate and yet…
As the company began to disperse, everyone seemed to stare at her. She didn’t care. John’s last words were to ask her to walk out with him tomorrow. She would. Even icy rain wouldn’t keep her from it.