Blue Waltz (14 page)

"So I can build a ballroom. Just like Adam and I discussed."

Adam had the good grace to grimace beneath Stephen's sudden, piercing glare. Belle didn't seem to notice. She turned away, almost a twirl, hugging herself.

"A ballroom, for God's sake," Stephen snapped at his brother. "You told her to build a ballroom?"

Adam shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "I thought you heard."

"Yes, a ballroom," she whispered, the words emphatic, looking through the hole as if she expected to find dancers whirling across the floor on the other side. "It's going to be grand."

It was her tone that finally filtered through Stephen's anger and gained his attention. He had the fleeting thought that she was trying hard to believe what she said, but not actually succeeding.

She took a few awkward steps through the debris, dispelling his thoughts.

"With hardwood floors, fine wood wainscotting. And right here," she added, looking up at the ceiling, "I'll hang a huge crystal chandelier." She looked back at Stephen. "Just like yours. It's going to be perfect." She took a few more steps toward the mantel at the opposite end and pointed. "And right here—"

"You can't build a ballroom!" Stephen bellowed.

Belle stiffened, her arm dropping to her side, before she turned, slowly, and met his eye. Everyone else stared, too.

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"Why ever not?" she asked, her porcelain features creased with concern.

Strangely, Stephen hated the look in her eyes. Only minutes before she had nearly twirled with delight over the ballroom she intended to build. Though why, he couldn't imagine. The woman could barely walk with any speed much less execute the intricate steps of a dance. A ballroom was the very last thing she needed. He needed it even less, and soon the house would revert to him. As he had told Adam, there wasn't a contract written that couldn't be undone.

But still, he hated that look in her eyes.

"Answer me, Mr. St. James."

Her tone was stiff and suddenly formal, forbidding. Stephen had the sudden, misplaced thought that this was the tone she had obviously used with Bertrand at the Bulfinch House. He nearly smiled.

"Why ever can't I build a ballroom? I've obtained permits and plans and competent men to do the work. What, pray tell, am I missing?"

They stood for some time, staring at one another, the others forgotten. He needed to tell her, get it out in the open, that soon he would have the house back and she would have another—a better one, he could promise. But the words wouldn't come.

"The paperwork is not quite in order," he equivocated. "It might be best if you waited . . ." His words trailed off and silence swirled around the room like a bitter winter wind.

"This is my house, Mr. St. James." The words rang obstinately. "And I will do with it as I please. Now, if you will excuse us, we have a ballroom to build."

Stephen felt his brother's as well as the workers' gazes resting on him, hard and questioning. But it was

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Belle's blue eyes that held sway. He couldn't do it. He couldn't tell her that the house wouldn't be hers for long. The weakness stunned him, then infuriated him in turn. But still, with those haunting blue eyes staring at him, he couldn't do it. Muttering a curse, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, then out of the house, into the cold winter morning, welcoming the. hard bite against his skin.

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Days passed. The pounding on the wall was the only sign that Belle Braxton still existed. Stephen had tried again and again to see her, but had been turned away each time with the excuse that she wasn't in. Of course he didn't believe the butler. She simply wasn't in for him. Just like before.

Strangely, he cared. And he hated that he cared. How many times did he have to tell himself that not only was she none of his business, but that she was the most inappropriate woman he could possibly find to gain his attention? She was too outrageous to be a wife, and something about her made it impossible for him to think of her as a possible mistress. And what else could there be? Nothing. And nothing it would be.

But still he found himself, day after day, at her blue painted door, only to have it slammed in his face. Resorting to Adam's method of turning up the music would do no good, as there was far more noise- coming from her side of the wall these days than a sane person could possibly reproduce short of destroying a wall or two of his own. As a result, he was at a loss as to how to see her.

Even though he shouldn't.

And so it went, around and around in his head like a twirling top, making him dizzy, but never ceasing. He'd

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see her, he had determined, though the reasons why were beginning to cloud in his mind.

It was the end of the week, and this time when Stephen went over to Belle's house, he went armed with the pretense of making sure the workers didn't work over Saturday and Sunday. Noise ordinances or some such. But Hastings was unimpressed, simply stated that he would relay the message.

Frustrated, Stephen turned away—only to find Belle coming down the walk toward the house.

All thoughts of slammed doors, rude butlers, and ordinances evaporated into the gray skies. She was beautiful. Stunning, really. Whenever he saw her, she affected him that way, as if he had never seen her before, as if that time was the first.

In the muted winter sun, her hair was free of head-wear, shining like lacquered enamel. A long cape of velvet swirled around her feet as she walked faster than usual, her limp more pronounced. At first he was worried. What had happened now? But then her lips parted with a smile and he found himself relieved.

And that made him angry.

"Where have you been?" he snapped.

Belle's step faltered and eyes widened before she laughed. "What in the world is wrong with you? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Or did someone write you a letter and fail to dot the T or cross the 't'?"

Stephen grumbled. "I can't imagine how you expect anyone to get a good night's sleep with all the racket you've been making," he groused, though in truth the noise never started until well after he was up and stopped well before he went to bed. But the truth mattered little just then. "And as usual your sense of humor falls short of the mark."

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He heard her tsk as he waited for her to come up next to him. But when she did she never stopped, only offered him one of her dazzling smiles as she walked past him up the few steps to her front door.

Before she could close the door in his face, he had the presence of mind to scramble up behind her and slip inside just as the door slammed shut.

Belle raised one delicate brow. "I don't believe I said you could come in."

Stephen raised a brow in return. "I don't believe I asked."

"No, I don't believe you did. Why am I surprised?" Her tone was sarcastic. "Do you ever ask for anything, Stephen?"

"Last week it was Mr. St. James."

"That was when you made me mad."

"And you're not mad now?"

She looked at him closely. "No, not now, or at least not yet." She smiled. "But the day is early yet. Besides, I'm much too happy to become angry."

She turned to Hastings and handed him her cape. "I found one."

"Splendid, madam. I knew you would."

She appeared to forget all about Stephen as she started up the stairs. Hastings gestured Stephen toward the front door.

"Not on your life, Hastings. I've gone to too much trouble to get this far."

In a few bold strides, he caught up to her on the staircase. But every streak of anger fled at the sight of her delicate hand clutching the bannister as she made her way up the stairs.

"I thought you were gone," she said without looking up at him, concentrating instead.

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"You're not so lucky today," he replied, wanting to help her up the stairs, but knowing to offer would be an insult.

And then she laughed again. "But today has been my lucky day."

"Ah yes, you found something. And what might that be?" He was concentrating on her ascent.

She hesitated on the landing to catch her breath. Her blue eyes danced with excitement. "A man!"

Stephen froze. "What?"

"I've found one."

"One what?"

"One man."

A man? Stephen stood stock-still, dumbstruck.

"It's taken me days and most of my time. That's why I haven't been here when you've called."

She started up the second flight of stairs and had gotten up a few steps before Stephen snapped to and followed, uncertain of what to think, or how he felt. "You've been out?"

"Well, of course. I've been searching. Day after day. I nearly gave up. But my quest has finally borne fruit. I found one."

The elation he was trying not to feel over the fact that she had actually been out and not sending him away was dampened by the knowledge that she had been out searching—for a man. "You have found a man?" he repeated, incredulous.

"Yes!"

Stephen stopped in the middle of the staircase and stared at her back as she continued on up to the third then fourth floors. "You went out and found yourself a man?" When would this woman cease to say things that made him crazy?

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"Yes. I went to the museum and watched all the men come and go." She hesitated and looked back at him. "You can tell a great deal about a person by simply watching him for a bit." She continued on. "The way he walks, the way he stands. How he looks at people when he thinks he isn't being watched. But of course, I was watching."

"Of course," he muttered. Stephen found his disbelief being replaced by a slow burning anger. She had gone out and found herself a man, for God's sake. She was crazy! Or at least that was easier to think than to consider what that very fact really made him feel.

Betrayed.

The word slithered through his mind.

"Day after day I waited and watched. I was on the verge of giving up actually. But then I saw him. He was perfect. And I knew he would do quite nicely."

"You can't just walk into a place and stalk a man, then decide to have him!" He hadn't moved another step.

She glanced down at him as if he were a silly child. "Well, of course not. Once I decided on him, I introduced myself and asked him some questions. I had to make certain my initial impressions were correct. Just because his fingers are paint-flecked doesn't mean he's perfect." She clasped her hands together. "But Marvin was. Perfect, that is."

"Marvin! Paint-flecked?"

"Yes, he's quite an artist, I assure you. Marvin Dubois, is his name. Studied at the Louvre."

Stephen pressed his eyes closed, trying to make sense of her words. By now, Belle had made it to the top floor and was heading down the hallway. With a spurt of energy, he raced up the remaining steps and practically leaped in front of her just before she stepped through a

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doorway. "You've gone out and gotten yourself an artist? This man is an artist?"

"Well, of course. What else would I need a man for?"

A great many ideas rushed through Stephen's head. And as if sensing this, she laughed. "I guess I could have needed a man for gardening or another construction project. No wonder you have such a look about you. But rest assured, I have no more construction plans in mind. The ballroom is it. This man is only going to paint, on canvas, not even on those precious walls that connect to yours. Not to worry."

He had the nearly irresistible urge to sweep her up in his arms and twirl her around the room much as he had after learning she hadn't lied. She had truly been out when he had called. She had gone out and found herself an artist, not simply a man. And he found suddenly that he didn't care that he was acting more the schoolboy than adult. "And what is this artist going to paint?"

She pursed her lips. "I knew there was something else missing in my house, but I couldn't determine what it was. Then I saw all the portraits at your house, especially the one over the mantel in your ballroom, and I realized what it was. A portrait. I need a portrait."

"Of you?"

Belle gasped. "Why, no! Of my father, of course." She stepped past him, into the room. "It's going to be wonderful. A fine painting of Papa over the mantel in the ballroom." She glanced back at Stephen, her eyes wide and worried. "What do you think? Have I done the right thing? Do you think it will be wonderful?"

Stephen didn't know what to think, though very little of his thoughts had anything to do with this father of hers, this world traveler who, if rumors were to be believed, had once been a groundskeeper.

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When he didn't answer, her countenance fell, then she turned away from him, crossed the room, and went to the French doors that led to a balcony that ran along the side of the house. She sighed. "It's not perfect." The excitement fled, leaving her defeated.

"I'm sure it will be wonderful," he offered.

But it was too late. Belle clearly wasn't convinced. She leaned her head up against the glass door.

Stephen stepped inside what he found to be a sitting room. When he did, he could see through to the adjoining room. A corner of a bed. Her bed, no doubt, like a glimpse of stockinged ankle, with the promise of so much more so near. He looked at her as she looked out the window. Beautiful, like an angel.

He felt his body's response. How was it possible that this woman did this to hint? And like every other time he had asked himself that very same question, he had no answer.

"I think," he began quietly, taking a step further into the room, drawn to her, "that you're going to drive me insane."

Her reaction was swift and genuine. She turned around and looked at him, her eyes imploring. "Don't say that. Don't ever say such a thing."

"Belle, I'm . . ." I'm what? he wondered as his words trailed off. His head spun with thoughts and feelings, none of which he liked. Her moods changed as quickly as lightning, and struck with the same unforgiving swiftness. Despite himself, he drew closer.