Blue Waltz (21 page)

"To the party, sir?" he asked, his normally unreadable expression hopeful.

Stephen shot him a withering glare for daring to question him. "My guess is you've been spending too much time around the Widow Braxton and her inappropriate ways."

Wendell looked abashed, but a tiny bit defensive, as well, Stephen thought. Obviously Belle had wrapped his ever-faithful servant around her tiny little finger along with the rest of his staff. Whether he was breaking his fast or reading the newspaper, one of his servants happened along and none too subtly sang his neighbor's praise. They, apparently, had not felt the sharp edge of her tongue. He had.

"We all know about the party, sir. Belle, I mean Mrs. Braxton, was over prying recipes out of Cook late yesterday afternoon."

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"Why wasn't I informed that she was here?"

"You had said you were not to be disturbed—for any reason."

So he had.

"Anyhow," Wendell continued, "she wanted it to be a surprise for you. Though she invited me."

"You're invited?" Stephen asked incredulously.

"And Cook, too. But of course we declined," he hurriedly added. "Not proper and all."

Stephen shook his head. Propriety was becoming a distant memory in his life. With that, he slammed out the door, determined finally to confront the very woman who had turned his life upside down.

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Belle hurried past Hastings when the bell rang. With a huge smile, she threw open the door. "Stephen!"

Stephen hadn't bothered with gloves and hat, or even a coat. He entered with a panther's luxury. Smooth and sleek. Predatory. Belle stumbled at the sight, then laughed. "You came!"

"You sound surprised."

"I'm always surprised when you do anything I ask." She reached out and took his hand.

If possible, his countenance grew more fierce and he pulled free. "I'm not here to attend your party, Mrs. Braxton."

A dark cloud flitted across her face. But then she smiled and clasped her hands at her waist.

"See. I did have reason to be surprised. You aren't doing what I asked."

"That, exactly, is why I'm here. Why have you asked me to do all the things you have this week? Why are you doing this?"

She had been asking herself the same question since

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the day she had gone to his office to be kind to him. Even she had to admit that her reasoning wasn't so sound. But it was impossible to accept that she, Belle Braxton, would use owing him for saving her as an excuse to feel his embrace.

Just then she wished that the servants weren't busy in the kitchen. She didn't feel safe standing alone with Stephen, and not because of what she thought he would do, but because of what she might do—throw herself in his arms and beg that he hold her.

Belle held her breath before she turned away, intent on forgetting a party that suddenly seemed silly. She wanted to flee to safer regions. And she would have fled, but he reached out and took hold of her shoulder, his grasp gentle though firm.

"Don't run away again, Belle. Just tell me why? Why are you doing this?"

Her breath came out in a rush, but she didn't answer.

"Belle, tell me. Please," he urged gently.

His eyes beseeched her, and while he had entered angry and demanding, now the anger had evaporated, leaving behind an intense desire burning in his eyes. She knew it because she could see it. He wanted her. But he hated that wanting.

"Because you saved me," she answered finally.

The words startled him. "Saved you?"

"The night in the park."

He flinched as if struck as he remembered the sheets falling away, revealing her naked body. God, how was it possible that he hadn't left the room? "I didn't think you remembered."

Her burst of laughter was harsh, and his blood ran cold. Please, no, he implored silently to a God he had not thought of since his parent's death.

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"How could I forget," she explained, "that pirate-man, so dark but beautiful, who hovered over me, the cold all around, as he saved me?"

She remembered, he realized. But how much? The answer was important, because if she remembered everything, she should slap his face and damn him to eternity. In fact, he deserved much worse. "How much do you remember?" he had to ask.

She shrugged her shoulders and actually looked apologetic. "Not much, I'm afraid," she said dismally. "But enough to know that had you not come along, I most certainly would have perished in the cold."

His breath hissed through his teeth.

"And then, of course," she continued, "there was that unfortunate little incident with my foot and the fence." She smiled at him, a soft smile. "Every time I turn around, you seem to be saving me. Now I'm saving you . . . from stodginess, I suppose . . . because I owe you."

Her words were caught in the tumble of his mind. All he could think about, with a selfish sigh of relief, was that she didn't remember everything. But on the heels of that thought came shame—harsh, damning shame, quelling the relief.

His eyes darkened and his grip loosened, and before he could think better of stepping onto such a dangerous path, he spoke. "Why do I feel that both of us need a good deal more saving than warming hot fires and freezing cold picnics can provide?"

The words pierced her soul, cutting to a truth she had long kept away. She took a deep breath, searching for peace and solitude, hoping for sanity. "I'm afraid you might be right." Her thick lashes fluttered when she looked back at Stephen. Dark hair, chiseled jaw, eyes

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with depths a person could drown in—the kind of looks that could drive a woman mad. At this she suddenly smiled. If rumors were to be believed, she already was crazy; she needn't worry about Stephen driving her over the edge.

Relief rushed into her mind. "So it's settled," she announced. The precarious edge was safely distant once again. "You'll stay."

She turned to go, though this time she wasn't trying to flee.

He stiffened. "I never said I'd do any such thing."

"Oh, come on, Stevie. Quit being a stick in the mud. Stay, you'll have fun."

"That's what you've been telling me for days now."

She glanced at him from beneath raised eyebrows. "And haven't you had fun?"

His lips tilted in what looked like a cross between a smile and a grimace.

"There," she said triumphantly, "you did have fun."

"And how, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion?" he demanded, but his lips were tilting precariously by now.

"Because you're smiling."

This time, when she took his hand and pulled him along, he didn't resist.

Inside the parlor, the furniture had been pushed to the sides, and a blanket had been spread across the thick Oriental rug.

"We're eating on the floor?" he asked.

"My invitation said it was a picnic—since our other one didn't turn out so well."

Their glances caught. She looked at his lips, remembering, before she turned away sharply.

"Stephen." Adam strolled in with a plate of food and

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a glass of lemonade made from imported lemons. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Stephen could have said the same to his brother, but refrained. He was not going to let irrational jealousy flare up once again. He was not a jealous man. "I didn't expect to be here myself."

Maeve bustled in with Rose right behind her, each carrying trays laden with food.

"Ah, Mr. St. James," the cook said, "so good it is that ye came. Mistress Belle was up all night planning this party, she was."

Stephen didn't know how to respond. Adam, as usual, had no such problems. "Come sit down, Stephen. Have something to eat," he said as he plopped down on the floor.

"The mistress here made everything herself," Rose added proudly.

Belle blushed as she guided Stephen further into the room and gestured to a spot on the floor where she obviously expected him to sit. Amazingly, he did.

Stephen was stunned by the sheer quantity of food. If they had not been sitting on a blanket in the middle of the floor, the affair would in no way resemble a picnic. Each place was set with leaded crystal and fine bone china. A large array of dried flowers graced the center, and Stephen wondered what kind of a party she could put on if she were actually entertaining at a table. In spite of himself, he was impressed.

Though not for long.

The first bite he took nearly broke his jaw. He was remotely aware of Adam's sudden grunt of surprise when he, too, took a bite. But Stephen's attention was focused on his all-consuming effort to chew the meat without dislodging a tooth.

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"Do you like it?" Belle asked, her eyes wide with what Stephen could only call a mixture of hope and resignation.

Adam guzzled first one glass of lemonade then another. Stephen managed to swallow without choking, though his jaws throbbed from the effort. Belle waited expectantly. Maeve and Rose and even Hastings waited for his answer, as well. Oddly, he hated to disappoint any of them.

"After the 'humh' you gave me when I told you I hadn't prepared the food for our other picnic," Belle stated shyly, "I wanted to show you that I can cook."

Well, she had showed him all right, he thought grimly, though she hadn't shown him that she could cook. Good Lord, a starving man would be hard-pressed to eat the fare set before him. He rubbed his jaw in thought. "Indeed, Belle, you have certainly shown me," he hedged, at which Adam choked on his third glass of lemonade.

"You're pleased, then?" she persisted.

The sight nearly broke Stephen's heart. God, how had he ever thought that she didn't care what people thought about her? Plainly, she wanted desperately to please despite the antics that again and again appeared to prove otherwise. The sight almost made him have another go at the meat. Almost. Reason, however, told him neither his teeth nor his stomach could take any more.

With a dignity and politeness that had served him well over the years, he offered, "Of course I'm pleased. I'm pleased that you would make such an effort on my behalf."

"You hate it!" she cried in a burst of emotion that made Stephen jump.

"What are you talking about? I never said that."

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"You might as well have. 'Pleased about the effort.' It's the same as saying a woman has a nice personality and makes her own clothes. Everyone knows what that means! That she's as ugly as a dog! Oh, God, I'm a failure!"

"That's not true!" he blurted out, his mind searching for a way to soothe her. He was on the verge of out and out lying when it came to him. "You are not a failure. There are days when the Bulfinch House couldn't prepare a meal as fine as this." This wasn't a lie. There were days, when the chef was laid up with a raging fever and Bertrand was forced to let the washboy cook, that the food was deplorable. But Belle didn't have to know that.

She eyed him suspiciously. "Really?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Really."

Her burst of joy brought audible sighs of relief from Maeve, Rose, Adam, and even Hastings. Stephen glanced over at the butler, and was oddly pleased when the old retainer offered him a nod of approval.

Just then, the bang of the brass knocker sounded through the house. Hastings went to the door and returned a few moments later, announcing the arrival of a Mr. Dubois.

"Mr. Dubois!" Belle exclaimed, pushing herself up off the floor.

Both Stephen and Adam stood automatically.

"He's here?" she demanded of Hastings.

"Yes, madam."

"So soon?"

Hastings seemed at a loss. "Yes, madam. So soon."

"Oh, my stars! He's here!" Belle hurried through the doorway to the foyer.

Stephen glanced at Adam in question, who only shrugged his shoulders.

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Seconds later, Belle pulled a stranger into the room.

"Stephen, Adam, please meet Mr. Dubois, my artist!"

When Stephen looked uncertain, Belle added, "You know, Marvin!" She turned to the painter. "Mr. Dubois, my neighbors, Stephen and Adam St. James."

Stephen looked the length of the man who held what must be a canvas underneath a white sheet of muslin. This was the man she had found in the museum? He was short and fat and balding, and Stephen felt an irrational need to smile.

Belle twirled back to the artist. "Let me see it! I've been waiting so patiently, but now I don't think I can wait a second longer."

"Madame will be pleased," Mr. Dubois said with an arrogant smile and a suspiciously thick French accent. "Marvin Dubois's work is always worth waiting for."

Stephen thought the man looked more the butcher than the painter, and he couldn't imagine that anything underneath the white drape could resemble art. Besides, his accent sounded fraudulent, and moreover, what true Frenchman was named Marvin?

The supposed artist studied the room, looking toward the windows. At length, he said, "Over here." He bustled over to the window, pushed the draperies wide, then turned back toward the room like an actor expecting applause. When he had determined he had everyone's attention, he removed the white cover with a flourish.

Muted.sunlight streamed into the silent room. Everyone stared, first at the painter, then at his painting. Stephen nearly shook his head. He had obviously been correct. This man was no artist.

Stephen turned back to Belle to say just that. But the sight that met his eyes stole his breath away. Belle stared

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at the painting, the excitement frozen on her features, before slowly, gradually, her eyes darkened, her smile hardened, and her flushed cheeks blanched. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice strained.

Marvin's eyes widened. "Why, your father, of course."

"Of course, nothing!" She strode forward, her limp pronounced, until she was mere inches from the painting. "This is not my father!"