“If I marry well, Crecy, dearest, you’ll never be made to do anything or marry anyone you don’t wish to, you have my word. But you must see how precarious our position is? And I don’t understand how you can object to marrying a man you admire and love, after all? Don’t you want to fall in love?”
Crecy gave a laugh and turned away and tucked Belle’s hand into her arm, drawing them forwards once again. “Of course,” she said, her tone amused and rather practical. “But that doesn’t mean I have to marry.”
Belle froze, utterly appalled. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, all at once taut as a bow string as terror struck her heart. “Has Aunt Grimble said something to you?”
“Aunt Grimble?” Crecy echoed, looking confused and putting that terror to rest at least, for now. “No, why should she?”
Belle let out a sigh. “You will not ever, ever, do something as foolish and reckless as accept a carte blanche from a gentleman, do you hear me?”
“Oh, Belle!” Crecy exclaimed, her lavender-grey eyes flashing. “I’m really not such a green goose as you’d like to believe.”
“Sometimes, I don’t know what you are,” Belle admitted, wishing, as she did most every day, that her mother were here to guide her, as she didn’t seem to have the slightest clue what she should do with Crecy.
Crecy looked up at her then, a rather bewildered and frightened look in her eyes. “I don’t know either, Belle,” she admitted on a whisper, looking so lost that Belle’s heart clenched.
“Oh, Crecy!” She pulled her sister into an embrace and kissed her cheek, forcing her face to smile and look merry, though her heart was filled with anxiety. “I didn’t mean it, of course. Only you say the most vexing things sometimes. Come along,” she said, wanting to forget the awkwardness and enjoy the pleasure of being in such a wonderful place. “Let us go and investigate some of these lovely grounds.”
They wandered for some time, delighted by the glorious vistas of rolling countryside and the magnificent gardens, which were still beautiful even in the barren month of December.
The bones of the garden were frosted and still sparkling white at this hour, and Belle found herself enchanted. Her favourite place out of all the different gardens that surrounded the vast castle was the Elizabethan knot garden. Laid out against the honey coloured stone of the castle walls on two sides, the remaining two were closed in by high yew hedging, giving a private feel, even though many leaded windows looked out from the castle itself.
The thick, bare stems of a climbing rose scrambled over the walls and around the windows, and Belle longed to see it in the summer. She imagined the stunning picture is would make in the sunshine, when those roses would bloom in profusion and she could sit and listen to drowsy bees as they flitted from flower to flower.
For now, though, the tightly clipped and manicured box hedging laid out a symmetrical and intricate path among the gravel and they followed it back out and carried on their way.
“I’m cold,” Belle admitted some time later as they looked up and discovered themselves far from the main entrance of the castle. The sky had darkened rather, and the temperature dropped further still, an icy north wind tugging at their skirts.
“Me too,” Crecy admitted, her pretty nose red and her cheeks flushed.
They looked around and wondered which way would take them indoors the fastest.
“I don’t want to walk all the way back to the main door,” Belle said. Her feet were like ice by now and she’d lost feeling in her toes almost an hour since. “Look,” she said, gesturing to a large, studded wood door. “We can get into the castle here, and we’re bound to bump into a servant or someone who can guide us back sooner or later, and you did want to explore,” she added.
Crecy nodded, stamping her feet. “Yes, all right, at least we’ll get out of the wind; it’s really picking up now, though I doubt we’ll see a ghost at this time of the day.”
“What a pity,” Belle muttered, turning the large iron door handle with frozen fingers.
The interior of this part of the castle was dark and gloomy, and truly not much warmer than outside, but they were indeed out of the biting wind.
“Come along, then,” Belle said, grinning and feeling rather adventurous herself as they set off.
They stumbled though endless corridors and vast rooms all shrouded in Holland covers, until the sound of voices reached them. By this time, they were chilled to the bone and dreadfully hungry, only too aware that they were late for lunch. Hurrying towards the voice, they both stopped in their tracks as the most extraordinary scene opened before them.
They had followed a corridor which now flanked one side of a large atrium within the castle building itself. It was obviously a sheltered, private garden at most times of the year with a large rectangle of grass at its centre, but now its purpose appeared rather different.
A short, wiry man dressed in coarse trousers and a shirt that was untucked, braces hanging loose, appeared to have two, small, compact pads strapped to his hands which he held aloft, and his opponent - if that was what he was - was hitting the pads with fast, determined punches.
“Come on,” the little fellow bellowed. “Jab, roll, cross hook. Again!”
Belle gasped and felt her heart leap to her throat, for the man throwing the punches was none other than the marquess.
Stripped to the waist, his bare torso glittering with sweat and his dark hair falling across his forehead, he looked very far removed from the haughty peers of last night. This man was lithe and dangerous, and powerful in a purely animalistic manner that had nothing to do with titles or money.
He was magnificent.
Belle felt Crecy tug at her arm and knew, knew, that they should hurry away as her sister suggested, but she was rooted to the spot. The glow in her cheeks had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold any longer, and a strange kind of aching heat pooled low in her belly and seemed to spread, warming corners of her own self that she had previously been unaware of.
“Jab, roll, cross, hook,” the little fellow said again, lunging out with one of the pads as the marquess ducked and resumed his position. “Jab, double roll, hook, cross.” The instructions were barked out with dizzying speed and the marquess responded just as fast, his movements almost too swift to track. “Jab, slip, hook, cross.”
Belle stared, fascinated by the speed and skill and the sheer ... power. The marquess didn’t seem to be the least bit tired, his skin glowing with vitality in the cold winter air, muscles bunched, taut and flexing as Belle found her mouth was dry. There was a part of her that wanted, more than anything, to reach out and glide her hand over that slick, sweat-sheened skin and discover just how it felt.
“Belle,” Crecy whispered, tugging at her sleeve once again.