Blue Waltz (12 page)

Hastings raised an eyebrow, amazing Stephen. Even her staff didn't seem to know the first thing about propriety, not that his did, he suddenly thought as he remembered Wendell's uncharacteristic outburst. What had gotten into everyone lately? he wondered.

"I'll see if she is available," Hastings responded. But this time, before Stephen could think to stop him, the door was slammed shut.

More than a few minutes later, the man returned. "The lady of the house is presently unavailable for letters." Hastings extended the letter, the black seal still intact.

Blue Waltz103

Stephen stood nonplussed in the frigid early afternoon air. "She didn't even read it! How can she be unavailable for letters?"

Hastings didn't respond, simply stood in the doorway, the letter extended in his white-gloved hand.

Stephen hesitated, staring at the man as if at any moment the butler would change his mind and let him in. Stephen was unable to fathom the fact that he was being turned away, but that was just what was happening.

"Well then, good day," he managed finally, taking the letter, his voice as stiff as his shoulder had been only the week before—before Belle had told him he needed to exercise his arm.

At first he had been angry that she would treat his wound so lightly. Who did she think she was? But the seed had been planted, and the day after the party he had taken up the ball and tried to squeeze it. The pain had been unbearable—nearly. But his fingers had actually gripped the ball for a tiny space of time, proving the doctor wrong.

After that, the pain no longer mattered. Over the course of the next week, the ball had never been far from Stephen's hand. He'd not experience another night of impotent anger, as he had when faced with that plate of meat which he'd had no ability to cut. He had Belle to thank for that. And that was all he wanted to do, nothing more. Just thank her. But she wouldn't bother herself to read his note and allow him to do so. The realization didn't sit well with Stephen, though he couldn't quite bring himself to admit it. He was used to getting what he wanted, and he wanted to say thank you.

He strode back into his own home with a bang, his bootheels resounding on the entry hall floor as he walked straight into his study.

104 Linda Francis Lee

"What's all the racket about?" Adam walked in and sprawled on the sofa, his blond good looks typically disheveled.

Stephen glanced at his brother. "Our neighbor is unavailable for letters."

"Belle?"

"Who else?"

"Unavailable for letters?" Adam asked, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Yes, unavailable. And neither do I. Who in the world is unavailable for letters?"

Adam laughed. "Belle Braxton, it would appear."

Stephen shot Adam an impatient scowl.

"Now, brother, if you want to see the widow so badly, maybe I can arrange something."

"You? How?" Stephen looked across the mahogany desk suspiciously.

"No guarantees, mind you, but come on, I'll give it a try."

After a slight hesitation and a look of great skepticism, Stephen followed his brother up the stairs to the second floor, wondering what in the world Adam had in mind, but more importantly, Stephen wondered why he was following, at all. But then he remembered the missive returned and the door shut in his face.

It didn't matter that deep down he knew he was acting like a spoiled child who hadn't gotten his way. Belle Braxton had an uncanny talent for making him act in ways he had no interest in acting.

Adam pushed through the huge double doors that led to the ballroom. The room was dark until he pulled open the heavy draperies, allowing the dim winter sun to fill the room with hazy light. With care, he moved the

Blue Waltz 105

gramophone over to the wall which abutted the one next door.

"What are you doing?" Stephen asked, his brow furrowed, afraid he already knew.

Adam smiled, placed a record inside, then wound up the music box. "In the past, I've found that the best way to get the widow's attention is with music." He chuckled. "An orchestra would be better, certainly, but we'll see what we can manage."

It didn't go unnoticed by Stephen that not only was he acting like a child, but that he and his brother were acting a great deal like the boys they had been many years before tossing berries out of a tree. The furrows in his brow softened and he very nearly smiled.

"Do you think this will get her over here?" Stephen asked.

"Over here?" Adam shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I always stopped the music once she started to bang."

Pleasant childhood memories along with the sudden sound of Stephen's dismayed groan were washed away by the burst of music that flared in the room.

"My hope," Adam practically shouted, "is that if we don't stop once she starts to bang, perhaps she'll resort to coming over."

"That or she'll send for the authorities," Stephen yelled back.

"Maybe so." Adam grinned. "Though I have no doubt you'll do a marvelous job of dealing with that eventuality should it arise."

"There are some who would think that an admirable skill. No doubt you wouldn't agree."

"No doubt." Adam turned away, an amused smile on his lips, then put his hands over his ears.

106 Linda Francis Lee

After that, they waited. Minute by minute, both men standing like errant children in the middle of the ballroom. Until it happened—sudden pounding on the wall, which matched the sudden pounding of Stephen's heart. Adam only made the music louder.

The brothers stood, quietly amid the noise. Then as suddenly as it began, the banging stopped, though the sound still hammered in Stephen's mind. Without warning, reality washed over him in a hard rush like an unexpected wave with its unrelenting undertow, pulling, tugging, unforgiving. Instantly, Stephen felt ridiculous. He couldn't believe he was acting like a schoolboy—all over this woman, this odd duck whom he didn't even like, he told himself forcefully. If she had no interest in seeing him, why should he care? The only reason he was trying to get her attention anyway, was to thank her for her suggestion.

"Turn it down," he demanded, his words sharp.

"What?" Adam called.

"Turn it down!"

The music ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Abruptly, angrily, Stephen turned away, and when he did he found her.

She stood in the doorway, a look on her face that he hated to see. Wild. Furious. And he had caused it.

The reality which had come over him only moments before ceased as abruptly as the music had, though the buzzing memory of it still played on in Stephen's ears.

"What is going on here?" she demanded, her delicate, milk-white hands clenched at her sides.

Stephen and Belle stood face to face. Adam was forgotten.

"You were playing that thing loud enough to wake the dead!"

Blue Waltz 107

Stephen stood very still, calm in the face of the storm. "Yes, I guess that's true."

"You guess? That's all? That's all you have to say for yourself?"

"How about, I'm sorry. It's just that we thought—"

"I made it clear that I had no interest in being disturbed. Did it ever occur to you that your music, your obnoxiously loud music, would disturb me?"

"Well, actually—"

"Well, actually what?"

Even in anger she was beautiful—and fragile, so very breakable. He pulled his shoulders back. "I wanted to show you my progress."

"Progress! What are you talking about?"

"The progress with my wound." He held out his arm as proof, like a child presenting a special gift. "See, no sling."

Belle stared at his arm, her brow creased as if she was trying to comprehend.

"If you'll excuse me," Adam said, clearing his throat. "I'll just run downstairs and get us some tea."

He slipped out the door, but neither Belle nor Stephen watched him go.

Stephen offered her a disarming smile, one so very unexpected on this dark, forbidding man. "You were right. My arm is getting better. Slowly," he added with a grimace of pain when he tried to move it too far, "but surely."

But Belle was not so easily placated, neither by his smile nor his arm. Her porcelain features remained etched with aggravation. "You could have written that in your note."

"Then you read it!"

"Of course I read it."

108Linda Francis Lee

"But the seal wasn't broken."

"Don't tell me you've never heard of popping the seal then reheating the wax and reattaching it."

Certainly he had heard of such practices, but he had never considered that she would do such a thing, never considered any woman doing such a thing. "Then why didn't you respond?"

"Because."

"Just because?"

"Yes, just because."

Stephen stared at her, uncertain about what he felt— many things, certainly, and as much as he hated to admit it, a grudging bit of respect. When was the last time he had met a person who wasn't intimidated by him, if not out and out afraid of him?

She turned away, making it clear she was no longer interested in him or his arm, to take in the dim elegance of the ballroom.

"I knew it would be beautiful." The words were very nearly an accusation.

She walked around the room, her hand extended, running her finger along the wainscotting on the wall. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the huge chandelier, cocking her head from side to side to get a better look.

Stephen watched her, not knowing what to say. She did that to him, left him speechless. And other than that tiny bit of grudging respect, and even the gratitude which he acknowledged, he had no idea why.

Her limp was hardly noticeable today, or perhaps it was that when he usually saw her she was moving quickly, when she was upset, fleeing—when she was in a hurry to be gone. Today she walked slowly, and if he hadn't seen

Blue Waltz109

her limp before, if he hadn't seen her leg with his own eyes, he might not have guessed that she did.

"How long have you lived here?" She didn't look back at him, but continued along the wall, her fingers gliding along the edge between fine silk wallpaper and dark wood wainscotting.

"Since it was built in sixty-four."

"Really? Then you must have been one of the first to move to the Back Bay after they began filling in the bay with landfill. It's amazing really, to think this used to be part of the ocean."

"Part of the harbor, actually."

"Harbor, bay, ocean. All nothing more than salty sea-water that flows endlessly around the world."

She seemed to consider, her milk-white features made whiter by the intensity of her deep blue eyes. Her dark hair curled softly in a loose chignon, tied up with a velvet ribbon. It was all Stephen could do to keep his hand at his side. He wanted to reach out and pull the ribbon free, to run his fingers along her cheek and jaw much as she was running her fingers along the wall.

"To think," she added, "the water in Boston Harbor might have touched the shores of England . . . maybe even France. Yes, all salty seawater, all the same thing in my book." She glanced at him with a grudging half smile. "But then you and I seem to read out of different books."

Stephen stood staring, having no idea how to respond.

"Did you buy the house from someone, like I did?" she asked.

"No, my father built it."

"And my house?"

"My father had the wall put up to make a separate house soon after we moved in. My mother used it for

110Linda Francis Lee

socials, and teas, and musicals. Father had plans for another wall, to divide the house into three."

"Really? Why?"

"Why?" Stephen shrugged. "I suspect he wanted Adam and me to occupy them once we were ready to move out and start families of our own."

"Ah, but you never did."

A quick flash of memory filled his mind. They're never coming home. "There was no need," he replied curtly.

"To move out, or to start your own family?" she asked with a teasing smile, unaware of the weight of his words.

"To move out. My parents died nine years after the houses were built."

"Really? I'm sorry."

"Yes, well . . ."

"Do you miss them?" she asked, studying him intensely.

His gaze was hard. Of course he did. "Missing people is a useless endeavor."

Belle considered his statement. "Soon my father will be arriving."

Her words startled him. He had expected her to say something about being embarrassed for having brought up his parents as most people did. He certainly hadn't expected this. "Your father is coming; he's coming here?"

"Yes."

"When?" he asked.

Silence. Then, "Soon."

"Where is he now?"

Her eyes clouded over, but only momentarily before she continued her journey about the ballroom, her long skirt swinging gracefully. "He's a famous explorer, you know. He travels all over the world, to England and even

Blue Waltz111

France. Like salty seawater," she murmured. But then she breathed deeply. "He hunts, explores. You know, he makes discoveries and the like. He's busy. Very busy with his work."

"An explorer?" The groundskeeper? "What's his name?"

"Browning Holly."

Holly. Her maiden name. Truly she hadn't lied.

He had an urge to wrap her in his arms and dance her around the parquet floor. He stopped himself just in time.

"And your mother? Does she travel with him?"

She hesitated. "No, she doesn't travel with him."

"Where does she stay, then, while he's away?"

She glanced up at a portrait hanging above the mantel which stretched between two sets of massive French doors.

"Who is this in the portrait?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"The portrait?" Stephen glanced at the painting, then at Belle.

"Yes, who is it?"

"My father."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "That's what I thought. My house isn't perfect," she whispered. "No wonder he hasn't come."

He barely heard the words. In fact, he wasn't certain of what she had said. But he knew like he knew his own name that something was wrong. The same look on her face that he had seen before surfaced. Without thinking, without measuring the effect of every move, he came up beside her. "What is it?" he demanded softly. "What is it that you see?"