Becoming Belle Page 18

  “What about tonight? Does it vex you to be here at the theater, to have to perform?”

  “No, we knew it would be this way, William and I.” Belle lifted her sleeve to examine the pearl clusters sewn onto it; she shook them and they clattered pleasantly. “I will work until he can negotiate taking over the estate in Galway from the earl.” She pursed her lips, “Or until he inherits.”

  Flo’s heart plummeted. “So you really do mean to leave England?”

  “Eventually, yes. Until then I will perform and we will do nicely.”

  Flo propelled Belle to stand in front of the mirror, the better to fix her hair and have Belle approve of what she did. She stood behind her sister and gazed at her reflection.

  “We’ve become modern women, Belle.”

  “Did it occur to anyone that Kate Penrice’s daughters were capable of such a thing?”

  Flo giggled, thinking of their mother’s strong thumb and her attempts to instill what she saw as her own noble values in her girls. Her narrow codes. “Isn’t it grand that we’ll soon be ushered into the eighteen nineties? What fun!”

  Belle leaped to her feet, put her hands to her hips and twisted her heels outward. “The knock-kneed nineties.”

  Flo cavorted like a pony. “The knees-up nineties.”

  The two sisters laughed and collapsed into each other’s arms.

  Flo smelled Belle’s powdered cheek, breathed deep on her skin. “You’re happy, dearest?”

  “I am, Flo. Extraordinarily happy.”

  “Then we both are.” Flo hugged Belle tight. Everything was changing again, but wasn’t that just the way life unfurled, mysterious and unknowable, a glorious adventure? Belle and she were married ladies now; life must prance on in whatever way it would. Yes, she and Seymour squabbled, but it went to their bones and created a welcome sizzle between them. Seymour was a good stick and Flo loved him. She had not the dreamy-eyed match that Belle enjoyed with William, but her marriage was adequate. Seymour earned a steady wage and he doted on her; she could not hope for more. Flo shook herself and held Belle away from her, keeping her hands on her sister’s hips. “Come, Lady Dunlo,” she said, “your public is gasping for a taste of you.” She shimmied her palms up and down Belle’s waist. “Not to mention your viscount.”

  * * *

  —

  The audience were responsive that night and Belle loved them for it. Every twirl she executed, every flutter of her hand, drew murmurs of admiration. She was in good voice, too, and when she sang “Come into the Garden, Maud,” she imagined herself as the girl going to William at the gate for a tryst, surrounded by lilies and roses. She sang to him, knowing he watched from the fauteuils below and, like her, was ripe with impatience for their bedroom in the Victoria Hotel.

  Belle’s admirers did not know that she was Lady Dunlo now, though she guessed they would apprehend the fact soon enough. The tattlers were efficient—gossip grew rapidly from acorn to oak in London, this she knew. But what did she care? William was her husband and she his wife; he loved her and she loved him; and tonight he would hold her as close as man can hold woman and she would revel in it.

  * * *

  —

  Their bedroom in the Victoria Hotel was warm, this was the first thing that Belle noticed; despite the late hour of their arrival and the midsummer balm, the fire blazed and made a cozy nest of the room. There was a blue chaise longue beneath the window and the bed itself was a mahogany four-poster with ocher drapes. Someone—perhaps Flo—had arranged for her wedding posy to be placed in a vase, and Belle was pleased to see that the roses still looked reasonably fresh.

  Belle sat on the chaise and removed her gloves and hat. William stood with his back to the closed door, his hands hanging awkwardly and an unnerved set to his face.

  “Come sit by me, William.” She put her palm to the velvet of the chaise longue and patted it.

  William looked at her face, illuminated by the fire’s flames and, for the hundredth time that day, could not believe that she was his. How could one so beautiful, so diverting, attach herself to him? His heart careened as if it meant to erupt from his body and find a calmer settle place. He observed Belle, her open, smiling face and his jitters waned—she was here, he was here. They had done it. He walked across the room, the Istanbul rug like a hectare of ground between them, and knelt before her.

  “Belle,” he said, “wasn’t it smashing to say those vows today?”

  She put her hands to his shoulders. “It was, William.”

  “We’ve waited long but we’re in the old ’orse and carriage now.”

  Belle giggled at his attempt at a Cockney accent. “We’re proper cut and carried,” she said.

  William leaned in and kissed her mouth. He loved the taste of her; she was sweet as barley sugar always. She flicked her tongue against his and his passion rose. William slipped his arms around Belle and pulled her tight to him; when the kiss ended, he whispered, “I love you, darling.”

  “I love you, too, William.” Everything inside him soared. “Shall we lie down?” Belle said.

  William leaned back and swept one arm under her skirt; she locked her hands around his neck and he carried her to the bed. Belle sat while he unlaced her bodice and helped her wriggle out of it. She pulled off her corset cover herself and when William saw the blush of the corset beneath, he groaned and trailed one finger up the row of hooks to the bow that sat between her breasts. He stopped to kiss her deeply, sliding his tongue around her mouth until it felt like he would liquefy. Belle turned over and offered him the back of her skirt; he unfastened it, pulled it off and tossed it to the chaise, where it landed in a billow of cherries. Belle whipped off her underskirt, and the sight of the snow-white petticoat beneath almost undid William, the pressure in his groin making him fizzle; he put his hands to the petticoat with reverence. They were both breathing shallowly now and, realizing he was still fully dressed, William began to discard jacket, trousers and, after a minor tussle with his watch chain, waistcoat and shirt. Belle unlaced her boots hastily and knocked them to the floor, then she reached for his bare chest and looked into his eyes while running her tiny hands through the curls of hair there. He slipped out of his drawers and Belle let her eyes linger on his cock.

  “Oh, William,” she whispered, and he lifted her farther onto the bed so that he might slide up beside her.

  He’d thought that he would feel shy when she finally saw him as he was born, but he didn’t. Everything felt natural and easy, as if they had rehearsed this scene and knew exactly what they should do. Their skin broiled in the sultry room and they broke from kissing to admire each other’s nakedness and then plunged again into deep kisses. William scarce knew which part of her beauty to caress first; his hands traveled from her honeyed breasts to the peach of her behind. Her skin was as soft as milk and her kisses eager and sweet. He slid one finger between her legs to find her wet and yielding.

  “Are you ready, Belle?” he whispered.

  “I am, William.”

  Afraid of crushing her with his bulk, he pushed himself up on his arms and kept his body above hers. He entered her slowly and gulped a rapid, shocked breath at the taut-soft feel of her wrapped around him. She locked her eyes to his as they moved slowly together, enjoying each thrust. They lingered over each movement, each caress; it seemed important to take their time. This is what ecstasy is, William thought, looking at the darling woman beneath him and feeling her respond to every tickle of his flesh, every rush of blood. Soon his rhythm overtook him and he no longer felt connected to his actions; they possessed him and rocked him on and on. And yet he was present, aware of each tingle on his skin; aware of the flickering fire; the heat from Belle’s body; her hot, tight grip; the faraway smiles she offered him that meant she felt as euphoric as he did. He bucked faster and groaned, then spurted into her and she clung to him, scratching her fingers up and down h
is back so that he soared higher than he had ever done in his life.

  “Oh, Belle, Belle,” he said, and she responded by kissing every part of his face: eyelids, nose, cheeks and mouth, gentle pecks that spoke of her love.

  William flopped sideways onto the coverlet and took her to his chest. They kissed, breathing hard, and gazed at each other, and when Belle shivered, he leaped from the bed and, pulling back the sheets, rolled her under the covers. William got in beside her and took her in his arms again. They whispered of their love and shared languorous kisses, not wanting to miss a moment of each other. As the fire fell to embers, then ash, they drowsed to sleep, snug in each other’s arms in the Victoria Hotel.

  AN INTERVIEW

  Mr. Hollingshead stopped the Sisters Bilton as they entered the Corinthian Club on Friday, placing his hand on Belle’s arm. “Miss Bilton, a word if you please,” he said.

  “Go in without me, Flo,” Belle said, and her sister bounced forward, knowing that her Seymour waited within. He had sent Flo a contrite billet-doux and she was ready, as ever, to push aside their latest contretemps. The proprietor steered Belle to one side of the vestibule and lowered his head to talk but remained silent. She looked at him. “What is it, Jack? Do be quick, I’m gasping for a bite and a tiddlywink. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Bilton. An Irish gentleman.”

  “That will be Viscount Dunlo—William Le Poer Trench. You know the viscount, Jack—why are you being so cloak and dagger?” Belle chided him with a hip-to-hip knock.

  “On the contrary, Miss Bilton, it is the viscount’s pater who has come to call, the Earl of Clancarty.” He lowered his voice. “Your father-in-law.”

  “I see,” Belle said. “I don’t need to wonder what he has come to say.” She grimaced. “Well, I had best let the old man have an audience. Lead the way, Jack.”

  Mr. Hollingshead took Belle’s cape and gave it to the cloakroom attendant. He nodded and had Belle follow him up a stairway to one of the private rooms. Her stomach felt as if a tram were careening through it; she gulped a quick breath and found her mouth was arid. Belle knew what the earl might say; she did not know what she might. Courage, she said to herself, have courage, and do not snap at any bait. Hollingshead knocked on the door, waited for a response, then opened it and stood back to let Belle in. As she passed him, he raised his eyebrows by way of asking if she required him to stay.

  “That’s all right, Jack. I’ll be down again soon.” Mr. Hollingshead closed the door gently.

  She did not, in fact, feel all right and the sight of the seated Clancarty set her heart thudding. The earl stood up, and the swagging scarlets of the room seemed to pulse around him; he was a tall man, though not as big as his son. He looked sour, though the wave in his thick hair, and a bountiful beard, softened him. She would not have expected the earl to look anything other than cross, he no doubt wanted a blue blood for a daughter, not a dancer. But she would make him see that she was worthy of his family. She was capable, bright, well-mannered and decently brought up; yes, she had had her troubles, but everything was taken care of now. He could have no fatal objections to her. Belle sucked in her breath and set her face. Be pleasant, she urged herself. Do not be cowed and do not get angry. The earl frowned when she walked toward him and extended her hand; he stood rigid, arms tucked behind his back.

  “Don’t you know anything?” Clancarty said. “Unmarried ladies do not offer their hand to gentlemen with whom they have no acquaintance.”

  “Lord Clancarty, I am married, as you are aware. And surely, now that you and I are relatives, I can consider myself acquainted with you?” Belle used her sweetest tones, though her heart leaped about like a cat.

  He grunted. “If you think this mésalliance between you and my son will be allowed to stand, miss, you are mistaken. The Le Poer Trench men have always made good marriages. We are known for it. My wife’s father was the Marquess of Bristol.”

  “How pleasant for you. My husband is the Viscount Dunlo. Which means we each have a noble spouse.” Despite her good intentions, the earl’s tone and hostility riled Belle and she knew her ripostes would not endear her to him.

  The earl hammered his walking cane against the carpet. “My son is not your husband.” He hit the floor again. “This has been badly done and it is an abhorrent lapse on William’s part.”

  “I do not think my husband views it that way, sir.”

  “You took advantage of him—he is but a boy!”

  “A boy? If so then he is a boy who asked for my hand in marriage and was granted it.”

  The earl’s voice rose. “The Pall Mall Gazette detailed that he won you in a coin toss. In this putrid place, no less.”

  “It was a game of lanterloo, actually,” Belle said, then regretted the cheap sound of the words. “Whatever happened, it doesn’t matter. William wanted to marry me as much as I wanted to marry him. The game of cards was but an opening to an appropriate conversation about our intention to wed. And we’re husband and wife now. That’s all there is to it.”

  “As long as I live you will not be a wife to my son. I am cutting him off, Miss Bilton. How do you like that? William, I might tell you, likes it not one bit.” Belle was alarmed. What might have been said or decided? “He came to Berkeley Square yesterday. Did he not inform you of the details of our interview?” Belle winced. “I see by your expression that he did not. My son told me, Miss Bilton, that this so-called marriage was a grave blunder. To his credit, he asked that we—his parents—find no fault with you. ‘I have played the devil, Papa,’ he said. Further, he told me he was drunk at the time of the escapade and that he has been ‘off his head’ since he met you. You have some peculiar hold on him, young lady.”

  Did William really say all that? Impossible! Belle could feel confusion ring through her brain and begin to muffle it. But the earl was lying, he had to be, William would never say such things. Annoyance scrambled through her; she lifted her chin.

  “Was your marriage to Lady Adeliza Hervey an escapade also? William and I are married, the same as you are married, sir.” She galloped on despite reason telling her to temper her words. “I apologize that you didn’t receive an invitation to the wedding, but that was how William wanted it. Had you been there, you would have seen the knot firmly tied.” Belle stepped back from him. “You will excuse me now. My sister is waiting for me below.”

  “Hear this, Miss Bilton: we will not have a peasant countess among the Le Poer Trench ranks and you will not see one farthing of our family’s money.”

  Peasant, indeed! “Sir, I do not need your money nor William’s.”

  “William’s money is my money.”

  “I earn enough for both my husband and myself, sir. I don’t dance in some penny gaff—the Empire Theatre is a top-notch establishment.”

  The earl snorted. “My guess is that your Empire is a place of very low stamp indeed. You’ll be in Queer Street before long, mark my words, Miss Bilton; parsimonious living may not suit you quite as well as you imagine.”

  “On the contrary. I will earn even more as Lady Dunlo.” Belle knew she sounded coquettish and brazen but her tongue was liberated now. “The Empire is, of course, already fashioning new posters to reflect my changed status.”

  The earl’s face expanded in anger. “You have a rare tongue in your head, miss. I do not wonder that you find yourself so often in trouble.”

  Belle looked at him. Was it possible he knew about Weston and baby Isidor? She went to the door and opened it. “Good evening to you, sir.”

  “One more detail that I may have omitted, Miss Bilton, in my haste.” He furrowed his brow, but Belle saw that he did so to cover a smile. What thought was giving him pleasure? “William has begged me to arrange for him to go abroad. Not to Africa and his regiment where, indeed, he should be.” Belle went to speak, but Clancarty raised
his hand. “No, the antipodes are his choice. The other side of the world seems quite far enough to him.”

  Belle’s hand gripped the doorknob harder and her chest felt muffled and tight. This could not be true. William was appeasing his father with lies, that was all. He could not be thinking of going away. It was absurd. Belle nodded at the earl and headed quickly down the stairs. Jack Hollingshead met her in the vestibule, holding a tray with a glass of Madeira on it. She grabbed the wine and tossed it down her throat.

  “Thank you, Jack. My cape, if you please,” Belle said.

  Her mind was a maelstrom of impressions and questions, and snatches of the earl’s words swirled around her brain: I do not wonder that you find yourself so often in trouble. . . . William has begged me to arrange for him to go abroad. . . . What did any of this mean? She stood and agitated her hands while Hollingshead went to the cloakroom. Had William not pledged eternal love to her that very morning in their bed in the Victoria Hotel? Had he not vowed to go to his family to speak of their marriage and return with his father’s blessing? Had Belle not waited the entire day and presumed William had failed to find his father when he did not return? Oh, what awful muddle had he allowed himself to become entrenched in?

  “William, what have you done?” she murmured while Mr. Hollingshead wrapped her cape around her and fastened it at the front. “Jack, tell my sister I had to dash away.”

  “Indeed. Go well, Miss Bilton,” he said. “Lady Dunlo, I should say.”

  Belle nodded and left.

  A MEETING

  William’s rooms in the Burlington Hotel were modest in decor but large. They looked unlived-in to Belle, as if rarely occupied. Everything was neat and ordered. But, of course, a girl came twice daily to dust the furniture, adjust the drapes and make sure everything was just so. William looked discomposed, Belle thought, to find her at the door, but he pulled her into an embrace.