Dancing at Midnight (41 page)

Spencer, who was lying on the floor, bound and gagged.

Belle waved him off, too interested in Persephone's story. "He's not

going anywhere like that."

Dunf ord raised his brows at her nonchalance but nonetheless planted his

booted foot in the middle of Spencer's back, mostly

just for the fun of it.

"If I might continue," Persephone intoned, thoroughly enjoying her role

as heroine for the day.

"By all means," Belle replied.

"As I was saying, I overheard Alex and Emma discussing the ball tonight

and realized that John and Belle might be in danger.

That is why I insisted they take me along." She turned to Belle. "Now, I

realize that I wasn't the strictest of chaperones, but I

did take my position seriously, and I felt that I would be remiss in my

duties if I did not come to your aid."

"For which I am extremely grateful," Belle felt compelled to interject.

Persephone smiled benignly. "I realized that you might need a secret

weapon tonight. Secret even from yourselves. You were

all so busy with your schemes you didn't notice that I disappeared the

moment I arrived at the party. I went up into the balcony which

overlooks the ballroom and watched. I saw this man accost you, Belle,

and then force your mother out of the room."

"But how did you get in here?" Belle asked.

Persephone smiled craftily. "You lot left the door open. I just crawled

in. No one noticed me. And the room is rather generously furnished. I

simply darted between chairs and settees."

"I can't believe we didn't see you," John muttered. "My instincts must

be off."

"It /is /dark in here," Persephone replied, trying to reassure him. "And

your attention was engaged at the time. I wouldn't worry about it, my

lord. Besides, you were the first to notice me. After Belle, of course."

John shook his head in admiration. "You're a wonder, Persephone. A true

wonder. I can't thank you enough."

"Your firstborn girl, perhaps," Dunford suggested impishly. "Persephone

is a fine name."

Belle scowled at him. A fine name perhaps, but not for any child of

hers. But then again—Belle's eyes lit up as an idea unfolded

in her mind. An idea so perfect, so timely— "I must offer you my

gratitude, too," she said, linking arms with the older woman.

"But I'm not sure my first daughter is the right way to thank you."

"Whyever not?" Dunford's mischievous grin spread from ear to ear.

Belle smiled archly and kissed her former chap-erone on the cheek. "Ah,

Persephone, I have grander plans for you."

*

*

*

*

*Chapter 24

*

A few weeks later John and Belle were curled up in bed at Persephone

Park, enjoying their relative peace and quiet

immensely. Belle was thumbing through a book, as was her habit before

going to sleep, and John was sorting through

a stack of business papers.

"You look very fine in your new spectacles," he said with a smile.

"Do you think so? I think they make me look smart."

"You are smart."

"Yes, but these give me a more serious air, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." John put his papers on a nightstand, then leaned over and

dropped a wet kiss on one of her lenses.

"Jo-ohn!" She pulled the spectacles off and began to clean them against

the quilt.

He plucked them from her hand. "Leave them off."

"But I can't see the book without—"

He took the book from her hands. "You won't need this either." The book

slid to the ground, and John covered her body

warmly with his. "It's time for bed, don't you think?"

"Maybe."

"Only maybe?" He nipped at her nose.

"I've been thinking."

"I certainly hope so."

"Stop your teasing." She tickled him in the ribs. "I'm serious."

He looked at her lips, thinking he'd like to nip at them, too. "What is

on your mind, darling?"

"I still want a poem."

"What?"

"A love poem, from you to me."

John sighed. "I gave you the most romantic proposal a woman has ever

had. I climbed a tree for you. I got down on one knee. What do you need

a poem for?"

"Something that I can hold on to. Something that our great-grandchildren

will find long after we're dead, and they'll say, 'Great-grandfather

certainly loved great-grandmother.' It's not so silly, I think."

"Will you write me a poem?"

Belle thought about that for a moment. "I'll try, but I'm not as poetic

as you are."

"Now, how do you know that? I assure you that my poetry is appalling."

"I never liked poetry before I met you. You have always loved it. I can

only deduce that you have a more poetic mind than I do."

John looked down at her. Her face shone with love and devotion in the

candlelight, and he knew he could deny her nothing.

"If I promise to write you a poem, will you promise to let me kiss you

senseless whenever I wish?"

Belle giggled. "You already get to do that."

"But in every room? Can I do it in my study and your sitting room and

the green salon and the blue salon and the—"

"Stop! Stop! I implore you," she laughed. "Which room is the green salon?"

"The one with all the blue furniture."

"Then which one is the blue salon?"

John's face fell. "I don't know."

Belle bit back a smile.

"But can I kiss you in it?"

"I suppose, but only if you kiss me now."

John growled with pleasure. "At your service, my lady."

*  *  *

A few days later Belle was spending the afternoon in her sitting room,

reading and writing letters. She and John had hoped to

ride over to Westonbirt to visit Alex and Emma, but inclement weather

had put an end to their plans. Belle was sitting at her

desk watching the rain beat down against the window when John walked in,

his hands shoved boyishly in his pockets.

"This is a welcome surprise," she said. "I thought you were reading over

those investments Alex sent over."

"I missed you."

Belle smiled. "You can bring the papers up and read them here. I promise

I won't distract you."

He dropped a kiss on the back of her hand. "Your mere presence distracts

me, love. I wouldn't read a word. You promised

I could kiss you in every room in the house, remember?"

"Speaking of which, weren't you going to write me a love poem in return?"

John shook his head innocently. "I don't think so."

"I distinctly remember the part about the poem. I may have to limit your

kisses to the upstairs rooms."

"You fight dirty, Belle," he accused. "These things take time. Do you

think Wordsworth just whipped out poems on demand?

I think not. Poets labor over each word. They—"

"Have you written one?"

"Well, I started one, but—"

"Oh, please, please let me hear it!" Belle's eyes lit up in

anticipation, and John thought she looked rather like a five-year-old

who had just been told she might have an extra piece of candy.

"All right." He sighed.

"Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs

With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;

Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;

Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark."

Belle narrowed her eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, someone wrote that a few

centuries before you did. Spenser, I think."

With a smile she lifted the book she had been reading. /The Collected

Poems of Ed//mund Spenser. /

"You would have gotten away with it an hour earlier."

John scowled. "I would have written it if he hadn't thought of it first."

Belle waited patiently.

"Oh, have it your way. I'll read you mine. Ahem. She walks in beauty—"

"For goodness' sake, John, you tried that one already!"

"Did I?" he muttered. "I did, didn't I?"

Belle nodded.

He took a deep breath. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome

decree—"

"You're getting desperate, John."

"Oh, for the love of God, Belle, I'll read you mine. But I'm warning you

now, it's, well, it's— Oh, you'll see for yourself." He reached into his

pocket and pulled out a much-folded piece of paper. From where she was

sitting, Belle could see that the

paper was liberally streaked with cross-outs and heavy editing. John

cleared his throat. He looked up at her.

Belle smiled in anticipation and encouragement.

He cleared his throat again.

"My love has eyes blue as the sky.

Her warm, bright smile makes me want to try

To give her the world,

And when she's curled

Up in my arms where I can feel her touch,

 I realize again that I love her so much.

My world has turned from black to white.

Kissing in starlight, basking in sunlight, dancing at midnight."

He looked up at her, his eyes hesitant. "It needs a bit more work, but I

think I got most of the rhymes right."

Belle looked up at him, her lower lip trembling with emotion. What his

poem lacked in grace, it more than made up for in heart

and meaning. That he had labored so long on a task for which he

obviously had no aptitude, and just because she'd asked him to—she

couldn't help it, she started to sniffle, and fat tears rolled down her

cheeks. "Oh, John. You must really, really love me."

John walked to her and nudged her into a standing position before

gathering her into his arms. "I do, my love. Believe me,

I really, really do."