Page 32 of Saved By the Belle

Belle pushed inside, noting the dining room was less crowded than usual. She shoved her dripping hood off her head and went straight to the bar. The publican, a Mr. Plumkins, gaped at her. “Miss Howard! You are soaking wet. Is anything amiss?”

“No, Mr. Plumkins. My father and I are both well. But I wondered if I could ask for a favor.”

“Let me get you a cider. You look chilled clear through.”

“No thank you, sir,” she said firmly. “My father is waiting anxiously for my return. But I wondered if you have a boy you trust to deliver a tin of tea for me.”

“I have a boy, but surely the tea delivery can wait. The rain has eased for the moment, but it could come down in sheets again like this.” He snapped for effect.

“This is a special order,” Belle said and leaned close so that the men standing nearby would not hear. “For a baroness. If I keep her waiting, we may lose her business.”

“I see. I see. Very well. Jacob!”

A boy of perhaps ten rose from the stool he’d occupied behind Mr. Plumkins and doffed his hat. Belle produced the tin of tea. “I need you to deliver this to Lady Keating. I don’t know the street, but it’s somewhere in Mayfair. You’ll know how to find her?”

The boy nodded. He need only find a tavern near Mayfair with servants from the wealthy houses, and they would point him in the right direction. Now came the part Belle disliked—the parting of coin. She pulled a penny from her skirts. She’d thought of paying less but knew the penny would be a strong enticement. “This is for your trouble,” she said. “The baroness will give you tuppence when you deliver the tea.” Belle had no idea if this was true or not, but Jacob would demand it, and then the lady could make up her own mind. In any case, her calculations had worked because the boy’s eyes lit up. In a blink, the penny and the tea tin were gone from her hands, and the boy was pulling his cap over his ears and tucking his treasures into his shirt.

Then he was gone, out into the dark, wet night. Belle turned to Plumkins. “Thank you, sir. I’d best get back to my father.”

“Be careful, Miss Howard.”

“I will.”

Belle heaved a sigh of relief when she stepped back into the shop. She locked the door and shed the cloak, heavy now with water. She went through the shop, checking all was as it should be, then upstairs to the flat. There she laid the cloak on a chair before the fire, where it began to steam. She sat on the floor and removed her boots and stockings then took her hair down as well. Feet bare, she padded into her bed chamber to fetch dry clothing. Though she was wet and cold, she paused at Arundel’s bedside and felt his forehead. It was burning hot, and she dipped the now hot cloth in cool water and pressed it to his face then laid it on his forehead.

Finally, she gathered dry clothing and went into the parlor to change. When her wet clothes were strewn before the fire and she wore a clean shift, she went to lie down on the couch. Her eyes were so heavy she could barely keep them open. In a half hour she would go down and hope Jacob returned with a reply. But she could spare a few minutes to rest. Unfortunately, as soon as she lay down, she heard a moan and pushed herself up. She returned to her bed chamber to find Arundel had thrown off the bedclothes. His arms were over his face, and when she went to him and tried to return his arms to his side, he resisted. He was, as always, amazingly strong for a man radiating heat like a furnace.

Belle considered leaving him as he was, but the fire was low and she had no dry wood to add to it. The room would soon be cold. “Mr. Arundel,” she said, bending over him. “You must keep the blanket on. You’ll catch a chill.”

“Hot,” he said. “So bloody hot.”

She ignored the strong language and pulled the covers up and over him. Gently, she tried to push his hands down to his sides, but he caught her wrists, and when she looked down at him, his gaze was fixed on her face. She couldn’t see his expression clearly in the firelight, and she doubted he could see her at all, given her back was to the fire, but he pulled her down to him until her face was just a few inches from his.

“Let me go, Mr. Arundel.”

“Go then,” he said but didn’t release her. “Go, if that’s what you want.”

Belle ceased tugging her wrists for a moment, realizing Arundel wasn’t speaking to her. She didn’t know to whom he spoke, but he must be in the depths of some sort of dream.

“Mr. Arundel. It’s Belle Howard.”

“Go, if that’s what you want,” he said again, seeming not to hear Belle. “Go, Clara. Away with you. But don’t come back to me. Don’t come crying back.”

Belle felt a shiver of ice race up her back. Who was Arundel speaking to? Who was Clara and what had she done? Whatever it was, he’d warned her not to come back. Had she? Or had she left him and never looked back?

Belle had the fleeting thought that if Arundel had been hers, she would not have left him. If a man like that loved her—and surely what she heard in his voice was love or at least the last vestiges of it—she would never walk away.

“Mr. Arundel,” Belle said, her voice gentle now. “Release me. You’re not well.”

“Clara.” His voice was anguished, and his grip unrelenting. His eyes opened slowly, and though they were unfocused, they settled on her. She waited for him to realize she was not this Clara and release her, but instead his gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth. He lingered there, lingered so long her mouth went dry and she felt the need to wet her lips. At this gesture, he gave a low chuckle that sent a shiver up her back. It was not a shiver of fear but of desire. Belle had never had a beaux, but she had felt the stirrings of longing before. Years ago a young man had begun to come into the shop every week. He had been attending Cambridge but in London for the summer. She’d waited all week for him to come in and buy his tea. Sometimes she didn’t even wait on him, leaving Maggie to do it. He always smiled at Maggie appreciatively, and Belle had pretended, when she was alone, he had looked at her that way.

The shiver she’d felt now, with Arundel, was that same feeling she had when she’d see the young gentleman at the door of the shop. But this time it was not an unattainable desire. This time a fevered man—but still a man—lay in her bed and held her close. She wanted him, and he wanted her too. It was the middle of the night and, she realized now, as his gaze dropped to her neck, that she wore only her shift. If her father should find them together...

Belle watched as Arundel’s eyes traveled lower and his lips parted with pleasure. She looked down, following his gaze, and gasped when she saw the neck of her shift was loose enough to give him a view of her breasts. Not that she thought he could see much in the dim light, but clearly he saw something as evidenced by the low timbre of his voice when he spoke. “Come here,” he said.

Heat flooded Belle at the low note of yearning in his tone. Warmth spread from her cheeks down to her neck, her breasts, and then seemed to coil like a lazy serpent in her belly.

“Mr. Arundel,” Belle said, making a last attempt to rouse him from whatever dream his fevered mind had conjured. “You must release me.” Her voice was low and husky, and she did not even recognize it as hers. He didn’t release her, and she hardly blamed him. She didn’t sound at all like a woman who wanted to be set free.

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