Blue Waltz (27 page)

His house was quiet when he pushed through the front door. Dinner would be waiting for him, but Stephen had no interest in food. He just wanted to go upstairs to bed and sleep. He had never been so exhausted.

Shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it on a chair before taking the stairs up to his room. The portraits along the walls mocked him, teased him with their cold, frozen stares. He turned away, into his room, seeking solitude.

But found Belle instead.

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His mind reeled. His heart stilled. She sat by the window, staring out into the night, curled up in a wing chair.

She looked so sad and forlorn, like a child in need of comfort. He watched her as she watched something unknown in the distance. She didn't acknowledge him, but he knew she had to know he stood there. So he waited, his heart hammering, wondering why she had come.

"My favorite chair was ruined today," Belle said without looking back at him.

Her voice was soft and tiny, whispering through the room like a hesitant breeze. He stood very still, bracing himself against the sound.

"Your chair?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice.

"Poor Rose. She spilled lye soap on it. A huge spot. Right in the middle." She heaved her distress. "She's beside herself."

"You've come here to tell me about a chair?"

"It's an old chair." She pursed her lips, then said, "But I love it."

"What are you talking about, Belle?"

"My chair. My favorite chair. Rose tripped. But she's okay. Though my chair isn't. It's ruined."

"Then go out and buy a new one," he snapped. He saw her stiffen and hated the stab of pain he felt in his heart.

"I don't want a new one," she stated obstinately, with a strength that shimmered through the room. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she jerked her head away, tears catching in a length of moonbeam.

"Ah, Belle," he said softly, his defenses crumbling like a decrepit buttress under a battering sea.

"You hate me, don't you, after everything I said to you at my house?"

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He took a step closer, wanting to stay back, but unable to do so.

"I didn't mean it," she said. "I don't really hate you." She turned to him then. "Do you hate me?" she asked hesitantly.

"Sweet Belle," he whispered, the words nearly a groan of despair, before he dropped down beside her and took her into his arms.

He swept her up as if she weighed no more than a feather and buried his face in her hair. "I don't hate you, sweetheart. I could never hate you."

She pressed her cheek against his chest as he carried her toward his bed. With infinite care, he lowered her, his body following in her wake to lie down beside her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For not hating me."

His chuckle was haunted, but he didn't respond, only pulled her closer.

They lay together, each silent until Belle sighed and turned her face into his shoulder. He felt her silent sobs.

"What is it, Belle? Why are you crying? Is it because of your chair?" He asked the question in disbelief.

"Yes, it's the chair. I love that chair. And now it's ruined."

Dear Lord, what kind of person became so upset over a chair? he wondered, not liking the answer that tried to push into his mind.

"I know you think it's crazy to be so attached to a piece of furniture. Rose and Hastings and even Maeve had the same reaction."

Long minutes passed without another word from her. He felt as much as heard her sigh.

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"I've had that chair for years. Since I was a child, then when I was married, and finally here when I moved to Boston." Her words were tight in her throat. "I can't remember a time when I didn't sit in that chair. Always so big, and warm . . . and comforting."

It was as if he could feel the blood singe her cheeks, and she quickly added, "It was silly, really. And I haven't thought of it as anything but a chair in years." She sighed. "But it was the only thing I had left from my past, left from the days when I was a child."

When life was better, he found himself surprised to think. "Lye soap or not, I'm sure I can have it repaired for you."

She sprang away from him, up on one elbow. "Really? You can fix it?"

As always, her beauty hit him hard. He realized then, with a start, as she looked at him with painfully blue eyes expectant, that he loved her. He didn't just want her because she made him feel alive. He wanted her because he loved her as he had never loved anyone in his life. This strange woman-child, with a past that undoubtedly held events which were better left buried, had woven her way into his life until he felt that if she were to disappear, he might unravel at the seams.

How had it happened? he wondered. How had someone he had no interest in, become such an important part of his life? But just then it hardly mattered. What mattered was that she was here with him, in his arms.

With his realization, he was forced to concede that in his proposal of marriage, he had failed to mention love. He had stated it as if it was a business proposition which she should be flattered to accept.

He wanted to tell her of his love, to wrap the words around her until she admitted that she loved him, too. He

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sucked in his breath. Did she love him in return? he wondered. She had come here tonight not to ask him if he still loved her, but because of some chair. The thought that she might not love him was devastating. So he held his words back. He had made a mess of his courting. He had made a mess of showing her that he cared. He would bide his time. He would show her that he loved her, then tell her of his feelings when he asked her once again to be his wife.

"Stephen," she said, shaking him, "you're not listening to me."

His smile grew luminous in the murky night. "I'm listening, love. And first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to take your chair and have it repaired."

"You will?"

"Yes, of course I will." And he would, even if he had to find the material and stuffing and repair the chair himself.

He looked up at her, his smile filled with all the happiness he felt. She was here, next to him, and he had never felt so right.

She reached out, very slowly, and touched her finger to his lips. The simple gesture sent tremors of longing down his body.

"It's late, Belle. Let me take you home."

Her blue eyes darkened, then in turn seemed to consider. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in kissing me again, instead?"

Interested? Dear Lord, he was more than interested. He was desperate to kiss her. His body yearned to impale her delicate womanhood again and again. But he wouldn't. Not yet. This time he wouldn't lose control.

Her sigh drew his attention. "I know," she grumbled,

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"I'm being much too forward. You don't have to kiss me." Her brow creased. "But please don't send me home."

He stared at her forever, knowing he should do the proper thing, but hating the look in her eyes. At length, he merely pulled her down beside him.

He pulled her close as she curled up in his embrace. Then with exhaustion battling an unbelievable happiness, he drifted off to sleep.

Belle lay in his arms. Waiting. At any moment he was going to kiss her. She knew it. He would make her feel all the wondrous feelings he had made her feel earlier. Her body tingled at the memory. But it wasn't the tickle of fingers drifting across her neck that she finally felt, but the whisper of breath making it clear that there would be no kissing tonight.

Disappointment licked at her mind, bringing with it a tremor of foreboding. She had slipped unnoticed into his house earlier despite better judgment. But when had she ever listened to better judgment? Tonight, however, she wished she had.

She should have simply left things with Stephen as they had been the day before—him ready to be done with her. She needed to break the tie, couldn't afford the tie. But today, as the hours had drifted by, she' hadn't been able to leave it alone. She hated the thought of how she had acted. The thought of never seeing him again, the thought of never again feeling the things he had made her feel, left her scared and alone.

Despite that, or perhaps because of that, she shouldn't have come. She pushed from her mind the" thought that the only reason she was feeling strong just then was because Stephen's arms were around her, holding her secure. She had relied on herself since she was

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twelve, almost thirteen. She would not become dependent on this man now. But as she lay there, she knew she was wrong. She had easily come to depend on him, to fix her house, to fix her chair. But he could never fix her life.

Belle shook the drowsiness from her mind and pushed herself up to look on the sleeping man. She ran her hand delicately over his high cheekbones, and across the half-moon scar, no less formidable even in sleep. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"I wish I could tell you that I love you," she whispered to this dark pirate-man who had become such an unexpected part of her life. But she couldn't tell him, and she wouldn't. She carefully pulled free, then quietly slipped away.

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He woke in the morning. The room was dusted with pale gray light, announcing the sun's impending arrival. He felt peaceful as a wholeness settled over him.

Everything was going to be all right.

He stretched and rolled over to pull Belle back into his arms.

But Belle wasn't there.

Like a bad play that was running for a second time, Stephen swung his legs over the side of the bed as he scanned the room, looking for her, just as he had that morning those months before, after he had retrieved her from the cold.

Yet again, he expected to find her looking out over the park, or curled up in a chair waiting for him to wake. But as before, the park below remained unwatched and the chair across the room sat empty. She wasn't there. She was gone.

Frustration nearly overwhelmed him. His throat tightened. He remembered Adam's words that he was afraid Belle was going to be hurt. Standing there, alone and abandoned, Stephen was afraid it wasn't Belle who was in danger.

CHAPTER 19

Stephen paced the confines of his study like a caged panther. He had been there for hours, thinking, ever since he had awakened early that morning to find Belle gone. And now, as the minutes turned into hours, he could no longer deny that she had truly slipped from his bed.

His pain crystallized into fury. He hated to think about why. Instead, he concentrated on other issues. How was it possible that such a woman-child could be his undoing? Not one of the powerful men Stephen had gone up against since he had taken control of his father's estate had been able to achieve what a mere slip of a woman had managed to do in a matter of months.

And that infuriated him as nothing else could. He had spent too many years gaining power, overcoming his fears and anxieties after his parents' deaths, to let any woman prove his downfall.

But no matter how he tried to banish her from his mind, she stayed, obstinately, the memory of her joyous laughter swirling around in his head like a violent spring storm.

In the last hour, Nathan had stopped by the house to drop off a preliminary report on the husband.

"Haven't found the father yet," Nathan had stated. "In fact, are you sure his name is Holly?" He hesitated. "Are you certain he exists?"

Stephen had only looked back. How could he re-

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spond? He wasn't certain the man existed. "Just keep looking."

"Good enough. Fortunately, I've found something on Braxton," Nathan had said, placing the folder on the desk before departing, leaving Stephen alone with the information he sought. But Stephen had only stared at the folder for an eternity, uncertain if he wanted to know the contents after all. In the end, he'd had to know.

The facts were simple. Hershal Braxton, a strict Quaker who was zealous about his religion, had been a farmer in Wrenville, the wealthiest farmer, who owned almost everything around the area. Later, Belle had lived in the man's house, though from when to when was unclear.

But most interesting of all was that in Nathan's search, though certainly only a quick search, he had been unable to find any record of a marriage between Hershal Braxton and Belle Holly.

Stephen thought about Belle's obvious innocence when it came to matters of intimacy. Was it possible that she had never been intimate with a man? Was it possible that she had never been married? But then why had she lived with him? And why did she bear his name? And why did she apparently have his money if she had never been married to the man?

Too many questions and not enough answers.

The front bell rang, and with the sound, hope rushed through him. Foolish hope, he admonished himself, when he heard the door being opened and no throaty laughter or joyous "hello" echoed in the foyer.

Belle had not returned.

Nor would she, he reminded himself harshly. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving ridges in the dark strands.

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"Damn!" he muttered irrationally when a slice of sun peeked through the window and caught him in the eye.

"Sir, a package for you," Wendell announced from the doorway.

Stephen eyed the paper-wrapped parcel speculatively. "Set it on my desk."

"Very good, sir," the servant said as he set the package down, then quit the room.

Since Nathan had alrady been there that morning, Stephen doubted the package would be from him. He wasn't expecting anything else. Besides, even if he were, who would send him a plain paper package with a drawing of a big bright bullfinch on the cover.

Belle Braxton.

And he doubted this was a package that contained glad tidings.

With great reluctance, Stephen untied the string until the paper fell open. A note was attached to another paper-wrapped package.