"There is to be a fireworks display!" exclaimed Millicent.
"By all that's famous! It is just what I like," said Roland with enthusiasm. 'The bombs bursting in air and all that."
"I wonder how the fireworks are gotten up into the air and timed just right so that they explode overhead," said Angus, his expression thoughtful.
"All I know is that they are simply beautiful," said Clarice. "I don't care how they work."
"Well, I should like to know," said Angus. "I should like to make my own fireworks, wouldn't you, Roland?"
"Wouldn't I just!" exclaimed Roland, his eyes kindling with enthusiasm. "I imagine that they are something like artillery shells. What do you say, Ashdon?"
"If they are anything like artillery shells, Roland, then they are far more unpredictable than you might think," said Lord Ashdon with his easy smile. "It has been my experience that those don't always fly where you want them, but, on the contrary, turn back on the very ones who have set them in the air. And I've seen shells explode before they are ever safely away."
"I forbid any experiments, Angus," said Lord Moorehead, overhearing what to his lordship was the most important part of the conversation.
Angus grinned and shook his head. "Never fear, sir. I have too much respect for my inheritance to wish to blow it up!"
A general laugh was raised by Angus's sally. As the rest of the company continued to discuss the upcoming treat, Belle kept her smile pinned in place, but her heart sank. She had never been to a fireworks display, and if it weren't for that horrid description of Roland's she was certain that she could have looked forward to it with the same anticipation that all the others were. She hoped that he was wrong about the fireworks.
When the display began, Belle was at first thrilled with the brilliant colors and shapes. She was standing with her friends, watching in awe the glittering colors against the night sky. Before long, however, the loud, booming noises that went along with the bursts of color began to set her nerves on edge, and she discovered that she was digging her nails into her palms. She stepped back quietly, separating from the rest of the company, who were standing loosely toward the front of the box, and carefully lowered herself into an empty chair. She was breathing rather fast, and a light sheen of cold moisture had broken out over her body.
At the next explosion overhead, her fingers convulsed on the chair arms. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't control the violent start that she gave at each successive explosion nor her instinctive cringe against the upholstered back of the chair. No matter how often she reassured herself that everything was fine, it made little difference.
Belle was ashamed of her lack of fortitude. Everyone else in the party appeared to be having a marvelous lime, laughing and pointing and clapping their approval. Even Lord Ashdon had gotten into the spirit of the evening, shouting "Bravo!" after particularly spectacular explosions.
Belle was positive that at some point her companions would notice her irrational tension, and that would be mortifying. She heartily wished that her aunt and uncle would return, for she wanted nothing more than to go home. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Miss Weatherstone, are you quite all right?" The question was spoken quietly, yet it made her jump just as surely as the fireworks did.
Her eyes flew open and she turned her head quickly to meet Lord Ashdon's keen eyes. Instantly a furious blush traveled up into her face. She managed a laugh and said, "Why, whatever can you mean, my lord?"
"You appeared very pale a moment ago. Are you perhaps feeling unwell?" asked Lord Ashdon, a note of concern in his voice.
"No—yes! I-I believe that I have a touch of the headache." Belle stumbled over the falsehood, for she was never ill. She could not admit to her fear of thunderstorms and like noises. It seemed so cowardly to be frightened by a mere fireworks spectacle when everyone around her, her friends and acquaintances, were gasping in delighted awe.
"Is there anything that I can do for you? Perhaps a cold draught of wine would help?" asked Lord Ashdon.
Belle curled her fingers around the chair arms as a particularly loud sequence burst above their heads. "That—that is kind of you, my lord," she managed to say.
As Lord Ashdon was starting to pour the wine, he looked beyond her. "Here are your aunt and uncle, Miss Weatherstone."
Belle closed her eyes again, intensely relieved. Lord Ashdon had risen and stepped over to intercept the Weatherstones. He spoke a few quiet words, which at once brought a hint of anxiety to Mrs. Weatherstone's face.
She hurried over to her niece. "Belle, are you feeling unwell?"
"I should like to go home, Aunt Margaret. Please!" said Belle in a low, urgent voice, not wanting to be overheard by the rest of the company.
Mr. Weatherstone came up in time to hear her desperate plea. "Iy is the fireworks, Margaret," he commented quietly.
"Of course. I should have guessed." Mrs. Weatherstone nodded. She rested her hand comfortingly on her niece's shoulder. "Yes, Belle, we shall take you home now. Phineas, pray make our excuses to Lord and Lady Moorehead."
Mr. Weatherstone stepped over to speak to their hosts, quietly drawing Lord and Lady Moorehead's attention away from the magnificent display, while Mrs. Weatherstone went to gather their wraps.
Lord Ashdon had stood back politely, allowing the Weatherstones private conversation with their niece. When he saw that they were preparing to leave, he approached again and held out his hand. "Allow me to help you, Miss Weatherstone."
Belle took his hand, grateful for his assistance in helping her to rise to her feet, but at the same time she wished him far elsewhere. She couldn't bear it if he should suspect the true cause of her indisposal. She, who was known for her intrepid riding and her spirited manner, which had done much to earn her the sobriquet the Belle of London!
"Thank you, Lord Ashdon. It is so silly of me, I know. But I shall be better in a trice once I am at home." Belle started at another boom and looked up at the exploding night sky, angry tears coming to her eyes. It was so incredibly beautiful and yet so terrifying.
Still holding her hand, Lord Ashdon felt her shudder. "I shall escort you to your carriage."
"No!" exclaimed Belle, pulling her fingers free. She was instantly sorry for her abrupt thoughtlessness when she saw the expression of surprise in the viscount's face and the way he stiffened beside her. She tried to amend her rudeness, her voice wobbling slightly. "Thank you, but I would prefer that you didn't, my lord."
Mrs. Weatherstone, approaching with their cloaks, froze at her niece's patent rejection of Lord Ashdon's services. She looked at her niece's ashen face, then turned to the viscount. "Thank you, Lord Ashdon. It will not be necessary for you to leave the party as well."
Lord Ashdon stepped hack and made a short how. His firm mouth had thinned, and there was a shuttered expression in his eyes as he glanced at Miss Weatherstone, who had averted her face while she tied the laces of her cloak. "Very well, ma'am. I shall make your excuses to the rest of the company. I trust that you will soon feel better, Miss Weatherstone."
"Thank you, my lord," said Belle, avoiding his eyes and anxious to be away.
As Belie and her aunt and uncle left Vauxhall and the sounds of the fireworks display faded behind them, the horrible tension seeped out of her. Belle's thoughts were somber on the return to the town house. She watched the pattern of the streetlamps as the carriage passed each one and moved on to the next. She had insulted Lord Ashdon, and she knew it. It was all because of her stupid fear of loud, continuous noises. More than anything, she wished that she could make things right with him. But how was she to convey her apology to his lordship when she couldn't bring herself to admit to such a childish weakness? She sighed and rested her head against the windowpane.
"Belle, are you quite all right?"
Mrs. Weatherstone had covered her niece's hand with her own, and Belle straightened, turning her head. With a small smile, she said, "Of course, Aunt. It is just a silly, idiotic thing, after all."
"It is not the least bit silly," said Mrs. Weatherstone, compassion in her voice.
"Of course not. It is not such an uncommon thing," said Mr. Weatherstone.
Belle gave a laugh and removed her hand from her aunt's warm clasp. "I know of no one else who suffers from such a nonsensical fear."
The Weatherstones said nothing more. When the carriage reached the town house and the trio entered it, Belle murmured her excuses to her aunt and uncle and went up to bed. She felt positively exhausted.
Chapter 12
A few days later, Belle was cantering her gelding in the park, as it had become her custom to exercise Rolly in the early mornings, when the dew was still heavy on the ground and the gossamer white mists strayed across the bridle paths.
Over the weeks of the Season, she had met Lord Ashdon a number of times along the bridle paths, and they had enjoyed several rides together. Of late, however, she had seen little of the viscount. Belle could not help but wonder at the reason for his lordship's giving up his habit of riding out in the morning. She felt that it had everything to do with her.
Whatever misunderstanding had arisen, it had all started during that equestrian outing, and the relationship between herself and Lord Ashdon had deteriorated further since the dinner party at Vauxhall Gardens. He did not exactly give her the cut direct when they chanced to meet at a social function, but it was certainly noticeable that he was no longer one of her most avid admirers. Indeed, Lord Ashdon seemed to have transferred his attentions more heavily in the direction of another young lady, Miss Abigail Fairchilde.
Belle had met the young miss, of course, and while she had originally liked Miss Fairchilde, she had privately thought the young lady was a bit colorless and without a spark of spirit.
Now she could scarcely bear to speak civilly to Miss Fairchilde when they chanced to encounter one another at the same functions. She had told her particular friends, Millicent Carruthers and Clarice Moorehead, that she did not know what Lord Ashdon saw in Miss Fairchilde. She had pretended not to see the significant glances that her friends exchanged over that piece of unwonted criticism for she was afraid to run the risk of alienating them too.
With the damp wind in her face, whipping back her veil, Belle grimaced to herself. When she recalled how stupidly she had reacted to the fireworks and how she had practically bitten off the viscount's nose, she could readily see why he had made himself scarce. The Belle of London had become scarcely more than a shrewish baggage, especially in comparison with someone as perfect and proper as Miss Fairchilde.
Restless and depressed, Belle urged her gelding faster. Behind her, she caught the faint shout of her groom's alarm, but she did not heed his cry. At breakneck speed she raced through the park and back again, her mount's hooves tearing at the turf. When she reached the iron gates that gave onto the boulevard, her horse was blowing and she herself was breathing hard.
She had already started back to the town house before the groom caught up with her. He burst out, "Miss! Miss, what were ye thinking of?"
Belle did not reply. She did not know what to say. There were conflicting emotions fighting within her. She wanted to rage and cry. Such a horrible revelation had hit her. She was in love with Lord Ashdon, and he had turned to someone else, all because of her stupidity.
"Belle! I say, Belle!" Roland White sauntered his horse up to her. He tipped his hat, a smile on his face. "Fancy meeting you out so early in the morning."
"I think it stranger to meet you out, Roland," said Belle, managing to produce a teasing smile for her friend's benefit. "I had quite thought that you spent the better half of the morning hours with your valet."
"All too true," agreed Roland. He smoothed a wrinkle out of his coat sleeve. "Actually, I have been up all night at my club. I returned to my quarters only a bit ago, but instead of being caught up in Morpheus's arms, as I fully expected, I was assailed by the most irresistible urge to throw a leg over my horse. And here I am." He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I must be boskier than I thought."
Belle laughed. "Indeed, you must be!" She looked closely at his pale, weary face. "Roland, you look positively awful."
He looked alarmed. "What, is my cravat askew? Have I spilled brandy on my waistcoat? It leaves a terrible stain, my man tells me." He was hastily inspecting his front.
Belle shook her head, chuckling. "No, nothing of that sort. It is just that you don't look at all well."
He visibly relaxed. "Oh, is that all? That is nothing that a nap and a few kippers and eggs won't cure. For an instant you had me thoroughly panicked. I was in dread of being seen on the streets in clothes unworthy of my reputation."
"You must be drunk, Roland," decided Belle.
He considered it, then shook his head. "I don't think so. At least, not much. I'm talking sensibly, aren't I? And I am managing my horse all right."
Belle conceded that he was. Now that the novelty of seeing Roland out in the early-morning hours had worn off, she inevitably thought about his cousin. "How is Lord Ashdon?" she asked casually. "I have not had the honor of seeing as much of his lordship as I was used to."
Roland threw a comprehensive glance at her face. "Ashdon is very well. I suspect he is becoming a bit restless, however. I don't expect him to remain in London for the entire Season, not with my aunt forever gibing at him to wed."
Belle studied her horse's twitching ears. "Perhaps Lord Ashdon will oblige her ladyship."
Roland made a noncommittal noise in his throat. There was a moment of silence, which he broke by breathing in deep.
"Ah, the morning air is bracing, is it not? Well, Belle, I must be go—
"No, stay!" Belle threw up her hand to stop him, then turned in her saddle to address her groom. "Drop back, Edwards!"