Julia Quinn - Dancing At Midnight

"For which I am extremely grateful," Belle felt compelled to interject.

Persephone smiled benignly. "I realized that you might need a secret weapon tonight. Secret even from yourselves. You were all so busy with your schemes you didn't notice that I disappeared the moment I arrived at the party. I went up into the balcony which overlooks the ballroom and watched. I saw this man accost you, Belle, and then force your mother out of the room."

"But how did you get in here?" Belle asked.

Persephone smiled craftily. "You lot left the door open. I just crawled in. No one noticed me. And the room is rather generously furnished. I simply darted between chairs and settees."

"I can't believe we didn't see you," John muttered. "My instincts must be off."

"It is dark in here," Persephone replied, trying to reassure him. "And your attention was engaged at the time. I wouldn't worry about it, my lord. Besides, you were the first to notice me. After Belle, of course."

John shook his head in admiration. "You're a wonder, Persephone. A true wonder. I can't thank you enough."

"Your firstborn girl, perhaps," Dunford suggested impishly. "Persephone is a fine name."

Belle scowled at him. A fine name perhaps, but not for any child of hers. But then again-Belle's eyes lit up as an idea unfolded in her mind. An idea so perfect, so timely- "I must offer you my gratitude, too," she said, linking arms with the older woman. "But I'm not sure my first daughter is the right way to thank you."

"Whyever not?" Dunford's mischievous grin spread from ear to ear.

Belle smiled archly and kissed her former chaperone on the cheek. "Ah, Persephone, I have grander plans for you."

A few weeks later John and Belle were curled up in bed at Persephone Park, enjoying their relative peace and quiet immensely. Belle was thumbing through a book, as was her habit before going to sleep, and John was sorting through a stack of business papers.

"You look very fine in your new spectacles," he said with a smile.

"Do you think so? I think they make me look smart."

"You are smart."

"Yes, but these give me a more serious air, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." John put his papers on a nightstand, then leaned over and dropped a wet kiss on one of her lenses.

"Jo-ohn!" She pulled the spectacles off and began to clean them against the quilt.

He plucked them from her hand. "Leave them off."

"But I can't see the book without-"

He took the book from her hands. "You won't need this either." The book slid to the ground, and John covered her body warmly with his. "It's time for bed, don't you think?"

"Maybe."

"Only maybe?" He nipped at her nose.

"I've been thinking."

"I certainly hope so."

"Stop your teasing." She tickled him in the ribs. "I'm serious."

He looked at her lips, thinking he'd like to nip at them, too. "What is on your mind, darling?"

"I still want a poem."

"What?"

"A love poem, from you to me."

John signed. "I gave you the most romantic proposal a woman has ever had. I climbed a tree for you. I got down on one knee. What do you need a poem for?"

"Something that I can hold on to. Something that our great-grandchildren will find long after we're dead, and they'll say, 'Great-grandfather certainly loved great-grandmother.' It's not so silly, I think."

"Will you write me a poem?"

Belle thought about that for a moment. "I'll try, but I'm not as poetic as you are."

"Now, how do you know that? I assure you that my poetry is appalling."

"I never liked poetry before I met you. You have always loved it. I can only deduce that you have a more poetic mind than I do."

John looked down at her. Her face shone with love and devotion in the candlelight, and he knew he could deny her nothing. "If I promise to write you a poem, will you promise to let me kiss you senseless whenever I wish?"

Belle giggled. "You already get to do that."

"But in every room? Can I do it in my study and your sitting room and the green salon and the blue salon and the-"

"Stop! Stop! I implore you," she laughed. "Which room is the green salon?"

"The one with all the blue furniture."

"Then which one is the blue salon?"

John's face fell. "I don't know."

Belle bit back a smile.

"But can I kiss you in it?"

"I suppose, but only if you kiss me now."

John growled with pleasure. "At your service, my lady."

A few days later Belle was spending the afternoon in her sitting room, reading and writing letters. She and John had hoped to ride over to Westonbirt to visit Alex and Emma, but inclement weather had put an end to their plans. Belle was sitting at her desk watching the rain beat down against the window when John walked in, his hands shoved boyishly in his pockets.

"This is a welcome surprise," she said. "I thought you were reading over those investments Alex sent over."

"I missed you."

Belle smiled. "You can bring the papers up and read them here. I promise I won't distract you."

He dropped a kiss on the back of her hand. "Your mere presence distracts me, love. I wouldn't read a word. You promised I could kiss you in every room in the house, remember?"

"Speaking of which, weren't you going to write me a love poem in return?"

John shook his head innocently. "I don't think so."

"I distinctly remember the part about the poem. I may have to limit your kisses to the upstairs rooms."

"You fight dirty, Belle," he accused. "These things take time. Do you think Wordsworth just whipped out poems on demand? I think not. Poets labor over each word. They-"

"Have you written one?"

"Well, I started one, but-"

"Oh, please, please let me hear it!" Belle's eyes lit up in anticipation, and John thought she looked rather like a five-year-old who had just been told she might have an extra piece of candy.

"All right." He sighed.

"Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs

With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;

Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;

Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark."

Belle narrowed her eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, someone wrote that a few centuries before you did. Spenser, I think." With a smile she lifted the book she had been reading. The Collected Poems of Edmund Spenser. "You would have gotten away with it an hour earlier."

John scowled. "I would have written it if he hadn't thought of it first."

Belle waited patiently.

"Oh, have it your way. I'll read you mine. Ahem. She walks in beauty-"

"For goodness' sake, John, you tried that one already!"

"Did I?" he muttered. "I did, didn't I?"

Belle nodded.

He took a deep breath. "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree-"

"You're getting desperate, John."

"Oh, for the love of God, Belle, I'll read you mine. But I'm warning you now, it's, well, it's- Oh, you'll see for yourself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a much-folded piece of paper. From where she was sitting, Belle could see that the paper was liberally streaked with cross-outs and heavy editing. John cleared his throat. He looked up at her.

Belle smiled in anticipation and encouragement.

He cleared his throat again.

"My love has eyes blue as the sky.

Her warm, bright smile makes me want to try

To give her the world,

And when she's curled

Up in my arms where I can feel her touch,

I realize again that I love her so much.

My world has turned from black to white.

Kissing in starlight, basking in sunlight, dancing at midnight."

He looked up at her, his eyes hesitant. "It needs a bit more work, but I think I got most of the rhymes right."

Belle looked up at him, her lower lip trembling with emotion. What his poem lacked in grace, it more than made up for in heart and meaning. That he had labored so long on a task for which he obviously had no aptitude, and just because she'd asked him to-she couldn't help it, she started to sniffle, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, John. You must really, really love me."

John walked to her and nudged her into a standing position before gathering her into his arms. "I do, my love. Believe me, I really, really do."

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