Dancing at Midnight by Julia Quinn Page B

You ought to
    get a more comfortable pair of shoes if you intend
    to hike around the countryside."

    "I wasn't hiking, I was walking. And I /do /have better shoes. I just
    hadn't intended to take a walk this morning until after
    I was dressed, and I didn't feel like changing my attire." Belle let out
    a frustrated sigh. Why did she feel the need to explain
    herself to him?

    John stood up, pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, and took Belle's
    arm. "There is a pond not too far away from here.
    I can get some water to clean the sore."

    Belle let go of her skirt. "I don't think that's necessary, /John."/

    John warmed at her rather pointed use of his given name and was glad
    that he'd gone ahead and used hers without asking first. He decided he
    liked this Lady Arabella, even if she was a little too well-connected
    for his tastes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much.
    She was smart and fun—a little too beautiful for his comfort, but he was
    certain that with a little
    effort, he could control his attraction to her.

    She did, however, have a rather appalling disregard for her own
    well-being, as evidenced by her lack of spectacles, her
    soon-to-be festering blister, and her penchant for unchaperoned
    excursions. She obviously needed someone to lecture a
    little sense into her. Since he didn't see anyone else nearby, he
    decided he might as well be the one to do it, and he started
    walking toward the pond, practically dragging her along behind him.

    "Jo-ohn!" she protested.

    "Be-elle!" he countered, imitating her complaining tone perfectly.

    "I'm fully able to take care of myself," Belle said, quickening her
    stride to keep up. For a man with such a pronounced limp,
    he could move fast.

    "Obviously not, or you'd have spectacles perched on your nose."

    Belle halted in her tracks with such force that

    John actually stumbled. "I only need them when I read," she ground out.

    "It warms my heart to hear you admit it."

    "I thought I was beginning to like you, but now I'm certain that I don't."

    "You still like me," he said, grinning as he started pulling her again
    toward the pond.

    Belle's mouth fell open. "No, I don't."

    "Yes, you do."

    "No, I—all right, maybe a little," she allowed. "But I do think you're
    acting rather high-handed."

    "And I think mat you have a hideous little blister on your heel. So stop
    complaining."

    "I wasn't—"

    "Yes, you were."

    Belle shut her mouth, aware that she'd been blabbering away far too
    much. With a sigh, she finally gave in and let him lead her
    to the pond. When they reached it, she sat down on a grassy patch near
    the shore while John walked over to the water and
    dipped his handkerchief into it.

    "Is that clean?" she called out.

    "My handkerchief or the water?"

    "Both!"

    John walked back to her side and held up the snowy white cloth. "Sparkling."

    She sighed at his determination to treat her blister and poked her bare
    foot out from under her skirt.

    "This isn't going to work," he said.

    "Why not?"

    "You're going to have to roll over onto your stomach."

    "I don't think so," Belle replied, her tone firm.

    John tilted his head to one side. "The way I see it," he said
    thoughtfully, "we have two options."

    He didn't say anything more, so Belle was forced to ask, "We do?"

    "Yes. Either you roll over onto your stomach so that I can take care of
    your blister, or I can slide on my back and wiggle
    under your leg so that I can see your heel. Of course that would
    probably require my sticking my head under your skirts,
    and while the thought is intriguing—"

    "Enough," Belle muttered. She rolled over onto her stomach.

    John took the handkerchief and gently dabbed it against the sore,
    cleaning away the small amount of dried blood which had
    crusted around it. It stung a little when he touched the raw flesh, but
    Belle could tell that he was being extraordinarily gentle,
    so she didn't say anything. When he pulled a knife out of his