‘Safe?’ Never in his life had Ashe been called safe. Dangerous flirt was the term that careful mamas had applied to him in the course of the last Season he had spent in London. Amorous devil was the description not a few society ladies had used, not without a secret smile as they said it. But safe? He rather thought he had just been insulted. ‘I was drunk, for goodness’ sake!’
‘I think that drink shows what people are really like. It makes bullies worse and cruel people violent. You were gentle and funny and polite. And you seemed to want me, but you did not take advantage of me.’
‘I did want you. I do.’ And if he did not have her soon he was going to be in agony. Every word she said made him want her more, made him ache to teach her just how sweet love making could be. There was so much to explore together.
‘So you see?’ Bel’s lips curved into a smile. ‘You are safe, and you said you are a rake, so you understand about not wanting entanglements, and I will not have to worry about toying with your affections or breaking your heart or anything like that. But you do want to make love to me—even I can tell that. I quite understand if it is only once—I do not expect I will be any good at it. But then at least I’ll know what I have been missing.’
‘Close your eyes,’ Ashe said, returning that smile. ‘I can promise to be safe. And gentle. And to show you what you have been missing. But I am not sure I can promise to be funny, not all the time.’
‘All right.’ Reassured, still smiling, Bel closed her eyes and waited, trying to follow what Ashe was doing. There was some rustling, then his footsteps padding round to the other side of the bed.
‘You close your eyes, too, Horace,’ she heard him order, and stifled a gasp of nervous laughter. The covers lifted, cooler air fanned over her body for a moment as the bed dipped with his weight, then she felt the length of him against her side. Long, hard, warm. ‘You can look now,’ Ashe said as he put an arm under her shoulders and pulled her against him.
‘Oh.’ Instead of the bare skin she was prepared for, there was the soft linen of a dress shirt. ‘I thought…’
‘And I thought you might be more comfortable like this for a little while. Now, relax, snuggle up, put your arm here and just lie with me. We do not have to hurry.’
It was not at all what she had expected, but Bel did as she was told, awkwardly putting her left arm over Ashe’s chest and letting herself be gathered in against his ribcage.
He was as big as she remembered, his chest broad as she spanned it, the shoulder her head was cushioned against as solid as only hard-won muscle could make it. Her own breathing was all over the place, Ashe’s was steady, deep and easy.
And the scent of him was the same, too, only without the tang of sweat from a hard night’s revelry or the strong smell of brandy. There was a hint of a subtle citrus that she guessed was his soap, the laundry smell of clean linen, fresh from the iron, and, underneath it, man. Ashe’s own, personal scent, his skin.
Bel rubbed her cheek against his shirt, wishing she could feel the texture of that skin. Their feet touched, bare, and Ashe hooked his right ankle over to capture her feet. It felt secure, warm, as though she was special. Her eyes drifted closed as his hand began to stroke her head. The span of his fingers could have encircled her throat, had wielded a weapon, could master a horse, and yet his touch was so gentle that she sighed with content. The thought drifted through her mind that already he had spent almost as much time in her bed as Henry ever did in one visit.
She had expected almost any emotion, any sensation other than this peaceful drift, this warmth moving gently to the rhythm of his breathing. So peaceful, so safe…
‘Good morning, my lady. You had a proper night’s sleep at last, I am glad to see.’
Bel opened her eyes on to bright sunlight and the sounds of Philpott in the next room briskly organising her wardrobe for the day.
She scrambled up into a sitting position and stared wildly round the room. Where was Ashe? Beside her the bed was neat, the far side tucked in tight as she tugged on the covers. The pillows were smooth. There was no litter of male garments across the floor, her poetry book sat chastely on the table where she had put it last night and the candles had been carefully pinched out, not left to gutter and burn away.
It had all been a dream? It must have been. No man would accept an offer to a lady’s bed and then simply cuddle her, make the bed again and silently slip away while she slept. Which meant that she had dreamt a safe ending to her fantasy. Had she even dreamed asking Ashe to be her lover?
Confused, Bel turned to run her hand over the pillow beside her and saw it. On the embroidered linen was a single blond hair. She picked it up and it curled in her fingers, the one strong filament conjuring up the image of a whole head of hair: golden, thick, curving over-long into his nape.
Ashe was here last night. I did not dream it. And he had come to bed in his shirt because she was shy, and he had let her sleep in his arms because she was tired and he had made the bed, quietly, so as not to disturb her or betray that he had been there. Behind her eyes something prickled. Bel scrubbed the back of her hand across them as her dresser came back into the room, her arms full of petticoats.
‘Are you quite well, my lady?’ Philpott frowned, anxious. ‘You look a trifle emotional.’
‘No, I am quite well. My eyes are watering, that is all. Just the after-effects of such a long sleep, I expect.’ Ashe had been gentle and kind and tolerant. But he was not going to come back, that was certain. Male pride, she knew from observing every male of her acquaintance, did not take kindly to rejection, and rejection did not come in more comprehensive form than a woman falling asleep in a man’s arms when he was intending to make love to her.
She felt fidgety, unsettled and sad. A strange combination of emotions. She was going to have to write and apologise. What on earth could she say to excuse her behaviour? But at least she could do something about the fidgets and perhaps later she would know what to say in her note. And there was that kiss to remember, always.
Bel threw back the covers and went to her little desk in her bare feet. ‘I will drive in the park this morning, Philpott. Please have this note taken round to Lady James Ravenhurst’s London residence immediately and tell the footman to wait for the reply.’
There was only one woman in London she felt she could safely be with at the moment without betraying some clue as to her inner turmoil and that was Cousin Elinor. Elinor would not notice anything amiss unless a Greek charioteer drove through Hyde Park, or St Paul’s Cathedral sprouted minarets, she was certain of it.
Miss Ravenhurst’s note gratefully accepting the offer of a drive and luncheon was returned promptly and Elinor was equally prompt when the barouche drew up outside the house. When Bel thanked her for not keeping the horses standing, she brushed it away with a shake of her head in its plain straw bonnet. ‘I did not want to dally, believe me! Mama is sure to have thought of some piece she wants me to transcribe after all and really, this is far too lovely a morning to be shut inside.’
‘You help my aunt a great deal with her researches, then? It must be fascinating,’ Bel added mendaciously, thinking that, unless Elinor was as committed as her mother, it must actually be quite ghastly.
‘It has a certain interest. Anything does if you come to know enough about it.’ Elinor folded her hands neatly in her lap, the tight buttoned gloves precisely the wrong shade of tan to go with the mouse-brown skirt and pelisse she wore. Either she was colour blind or her mother insisted she dress to repel men. Knowing Aunt Louisa, Bel strongly suspected the latter.
‘Besides,’ her cousin added, with the air of making her position quite clear, ‘I have to do something with my time.