"John?" Belle asked softly. "Is something wrong? You're so quiet."

He looked up and caught the concern in her eyes. "No, just thinking, that's all."

"About what?"

"About you," he replied starkly.

"Good thoughts, I hope," Belle said, nervous at the dark tone of his voice.

John rose to his feet and offered her his hand. "Come, let's go for a walk in the woods while the sun is still shining. We'll lead the horses behind us."

Belle rose wordlessly and followed him to where they had left their mounts. They set off slowly on foot, heading back through the trees toward Westonbirt and Bletchford Manor. The horses followed obediently behind, occasionally stopping to investigate one of the many small creatures which darted through the forest.

After about fifteen minutes of ominous silence, John stopped short. "Belle, we need to talk."

"We do?"

"Yes, this-" John fought to find the correct word but came up empty-handed. "This thing that is going on between us-it has to end."

A deep, dark pain slowly formed in the pit of Belle's stomach and began to spread. "Why?" she asked softly.

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "It can't go anywhere. You must realize that."

"No," she said sharply, her pain making her brave and just a little bit shrill. "No, I don't realize that."

"Belle, I haven't any money, my leg is useless, and I've barely got a title."

"Why do you say that? Those things don't matter to me."

"Belle, you could have any man in the world."

"But I want you."

Her impassioned reply hung in the air for a long minute before John was able to say anything. "I'm doing this for your own good."

Belle stepped back, nearly blinded by pain and fury. His words rained down on her like physical blows, and she hysterically wondered if she'd ever again know a moment of happiness. "How dare you condescend to me," she finally bit out.

"Belle, I don't think that you've given this matter sufficient thought. Your parents would never let you marry the likes of me."

"You don't know my parents. You don't know what they want for me."

"Belle, you are the daughter of an earl."

"And as I've pointed out before, you are the son of an earl, so I fail to see a problem."

"There is a world of difference, and you know it." He knew he was grasping at straws. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

"What do you want, John?" she asked wildly. "Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is about? Because I won't do it. Is this some kind of perverse search for a compliment? Do you want me to spell out all of the reasons I wanted you? All of the reasons I thought you were so kind and noble and good?"

John winced at her pointed use of the past tense. "I am trying to be noble right now," he said stiffly.

"No, you're not. You're trying to be a martyr, and I hope you're enjoying yourself, because I most certainly am not."

"Belle, listen to me," he implored. "I am-I am not the man you think I am."

The hoarse agony of his voice shocked Belle into silence, and she stared at him openmouthed.

"I've… done things," he said stiffly, turning away so that he would not have to look at her face. "I've hurt people. I've hurt… I've hurt women. "

"1 don't believe you." Her words came out low and fast.

"Damn it, Belle!" He whirled around and slammed his fist against the trunk of a tree. "What will it take to convince you? What do you need to know? The very blackest secrets of my heart? The deeds that have stained my soul?"

She took a step back. "I-I don't know what you're saying. I don't think you know what you're saying."

"I'll hurt you, Belle. I'll hurt you without intending to. I'll hurt you-Christ, isn't it enough just that I'll hurt you?"

"You won't hurt me," she said softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking I'm a hero, Belle. I'm not-"

"I don't think you're a hero," she cut in. "I don't want you to be a hero."

"God," he said with a dark, sarcastic laugh. "That's the first realistic thing you've said all day."

She stiffened. "Don't be cruel, John."

"Belle," he said raggedly. "I have limits. Don't push me past them."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" she asked irritably.

He grabbed her by the shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into her. Dear Lord, she was so close, he could smell her. He could feel the soft strands of her hair that the wind was whipping against his face. "It means," he said in a low voice, "that it is taking every ounce of my control not to lean forward and kiss you right now."

"Then why don't you do it?" she asked, her voice a quavering whisper. "I wouldn't stop you."

"Because I wouldn't stop there. I'd trail my lips down the soft length of your throat until I reached those annoying little buttons on your riding habit. And then I'd slowly slip each one apart and spread your jacket open." Dear God, was he trying to torture himself? "You're wearing some silky little underthing, aren't you?"

Much to her horror, Belle nodded.

John shuddered as waves of desire rocked through his body. "I love the feel of silk," he murmured. "And you do, too."

"H-how do you know?"

"I was watching you when you got that blister on your heel. I saw you roll off your stocking."