John smiled devilishly. "I imagine that my father was as well."
She blushed.
"Do you think we could start over for the afternoon?" John asked, taking her hand and dropping a feathery light kiss on her knuckles. "I apologize for assuming that you have never seen a dishrag."
Belle giggled. "That's the most absurd apology I have ever heard."
"Do you think so? I thought it was rather eloquent myself, especially with the kiss on your hand."
"The kiss was marvelous, and the apology was very sweet. It was the part about the dishrag that sounded funny."
"Forget about the dishrag," John said, leading her over to a nearby sofa.
"My mind is already completely blank on that measure," she assured him.
He sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. "I noticed that you have a volume of Wordsworth's poetry with you."
Belle looked down at her forgotten book. "Oh, yes. You inspired me, I'm afraid. But what I want to know is when you're going to get to the task of writing some verse yourself. I know that you'd be brilliant at it."
John smiled at her praise. "Look what happened when I tried to be poetic this afternoon. I called you 'misty-like.' Somehow 'misty-like' does not come to mind when I think of great poetry."
"Don't be silly. Anyone who loves poetry as much as you do must be able to write it. You need only to apply yourself."
John looked over at her shining face. She had such confidence in him. The feeling was new to him; his family, after all, had never shown very much interest in any of his activities. He couldn't bear to tell her that her confidence was misplaced, and he was terrified of how she might react when she discovered what kind of man he really was.
But he didn't want to think of this. All he wanted to think about was the woman. The woman who smelled like springtime. He wondered how long he could push the realities of his past from his mind. Could he do it for more than a few minutes? Could he gift himself with an entire afternoon of her company?
"Oh dear," Belle said, breaking into his tortured thoughts, "I forgot to ring for tea." She stood and crossed the room to pull the bellcord.
John rose when she did, shifting most of his weight onto his good leg. Before Belle even had a chance to sit down again, Norwood entered the room on swift, silent feet. She ordered some tea and biscuits, and Norwood left just as quietly as he had come in, closing the door behind him.
Belle's eyes followed the butler as he exited the room, and then she turned back and looked over to where John was standing near the sofa. As she gazed at him from across the room, she was certain her heart stopped beating. He looked so handsome and strong in his riding clothes, and she couldn't help but see the appreciation in his eyes as he gazed back at her. She remembered his words from the day before.
I'm not the man you think I am.
Was that true? Or was it possible that he was not the man he thought he was? It all seemed so obvious to her. It was in the way he had recited poetry and the firm embrace of his arms when he had held her on his horse. He needed someone to show him that he was good and strong. Dare she hope- he needed her?
Nervously, she crossed the room, stopping a foot or so in front of him. "I think that you are a very good man," she said softly.
John caught his breath as a surging wave of desire rocked through him. "Belle, I'm not. When you rang for tea I was trying to tell you…" Christ, how could he tell her? "I wanted to say…"
"What, John?" Her voice was exquisitely soft. "What did you want to tell me?"
"Belle, I-"
"Was it the kiss?"
It was an erotic nightmare. She was standing there before him, offering herself, and it was getting so damned hard to listen to his conscience and do the right thing. "Oh God, Belle," he groaned. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Yes, I do. I remember every moment of our kiss by the pond."
God help him, John leaned a little closer to her. His hand reached out with no direction from his brain, clasping hers in a warm embrace.
"Oh, John," she sighed, looking down at his hand as if it had the power to heal the world of all its ills.
Such devotion, such faith, such pure beauty was too much for him. With a groan that hovered somewhere between pleasure and agony, he pulled her roughly against him. His lips found hers in a frantic kiss, and he drank of her like a man who'd gone years without nourishment. He sank his hands into her hair, savoring the silky soft feel of it as his lips traveled the length of her face, worshipping her eyes, her nose, the line of her cheekbones.
And at some point during the kiss, he began to feel himself healing. The blackness in his heart didn't disappear, but it began to crack and crumble. The weight on his shoulders didn't lift completely, but it seemed to be lessened somehow.
Could she do that for him? Was she so pure and good that she could erase the stain on his soul? John began to feel giddy, and he clutched her to him more closely, raining light kisses along her hairline.
And then she sighed. "Oh, John, I feel so good." And he knew that she was content.
"How good?" he murmured, nipping at the corner of her mouth.
"Very, very good," Belle laughed, returning his kisses fervently.
John's lips trailed across her cheek to her ear, and he nibbled playfully on her lobe. "You have such sweet little ears," he said huskily. "Like apricots."
Belle drew back, a surprised smile on her face. "Apricots?"
"I told you I'm not very poetic."
"I love apricots," she declared loyally.