Blue Waltz (23 page)

Once downstairs, however, her smile faltered when she found the workmen packing up their tools, walls unfinished, chandeliers unhung, and the day just begun.

"What are you doing?" she cried, coming to a halt in the gaping hole which had yet to become a beautiful French doorway.

Several of the men grumbled, but didn't meet her eye, simply nodded toward the foreman.

"Mr. Wilson," she said to the man in charge. "Why are the men packing up? They've only been here a few minutes."

Mr. Wilson looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Another project," he mumbled.

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"Another project! You can't take on another project when you haven't finished mine!"

When his work crew hesitated in their packing, he waved his hand to hurry them along. "Sorry," he muttered with his head down.

"Sorry? You can't do this!"

"Sorry," he repeated. "Nothing I can do. Like I said, we got another project."

Belle blinked in disbelief. "This makes no sense. When will you be back?"

Mr. Wilson grimaced. "Don't know."

"You don't know?" She stared at the man in shocked confusion, but slowly it was sinking in that for reasons unknown he was going to leave, and from the sounds of it he might very well never return. "Don't leave," she suddenly commanded. "I'll be right back." They might not listen to her, but they would certainly listen to Stephen.

The knowledge that she would have to rely on him infuriated her, but just then her ballroom was more important than her pride.

With that she hurried as best she could out of the room, down the stairs, through the front door, and over to Stephen's house. Wendell answered the door.

"Good morning, madam," he said kindly.

"Hello, Wendell. I need to see Stephen."

"Let me see if he's in."

After shutting the door behind her, Wendell headed for the breakfast room. Without waiting, Belle followed.

"Mr. St. James—"

"Stephen!" Belle burst in, cutting Hastings off.

Stephen and Adam snapped to attention. They sat at the long dining table, each with a copy of the Boston Globe before them.

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"No," Stephen grumbled without preamble, returning his attention to the paper with determination.

"No? No what?" she wanted to know, her hands planted firmly on her hips, raindrops glistening in her hair.

"Just 'no' to whatever you were going to ask me." He turned the page.

Belle puffed up like a blowfish. "You can't say no before I ever ask you my question."

"Of course I can, and I have. See? No." He glanced at her and smiled.

Wendell shifted uncomfortably. "Mrs. Braxton here to see you, sir."

Stephen's smile flattened before he provided the retainer with a scathing glance, while Adam pressed his napkin to his lips to stifle a short burst of laughter.

"Stephen!" Belle's tone was incredulous. "You're being unfair!"

He took a sip of coffee. "Regardless," he said, setting the cup in its saucer, "the answer is still no."

His feelings for Belle had begun to shift in a direction that wasn't to his liking. But shift they had, whether he liked it or not, filling him with a perverse need to redouble his efforts to resist her.

"Stephen," she demanded. "You have to do something!"

Stephen, however, turned his attention to Adam. "I understand you have invited Clarisse Webster to join you at the Music Hall."

"Well, yes," Adam stated with a grin.

"What's playing? I haven't had time to—"

"Stephen! You're not listening to me!"

He paused, then hung his head with a groan. "Self-

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defense," he muttered ungraciously, conceding that ignoring her wasn't going to work.

"Stephen! Please! You have to do something!"

"So you've said," he replied with a sigh of resignation. "But what is it I have to do?"

"The workers! You have to make them go back to work."

Adam dropped his fork with a clatter to his plate. Stephen stiffened.

"They've stopped working," she explained. "Those arrogant men. I'd bet money, if I were a man they would do as I ask. But alas, I'm not, so you go tell them to get back to work. They say they have another project, but they haven't finished mine. They can't do that!" She took a deep breath and visibly tried to calm herself before she added, "Please, talk to them, Stephen. They'll listen to you."

He stared at her without speaking. She stood before him, a contrast of raging anger and budding hope, but beautiful beyond dreams. And her words, he thought with a bemused smile, were so simple yet so sincere that they made him feel like no one else made him feel—wanted, needed, alive.

How amazing, he thought, that this woman, so different from any woman he knew, so different from any woman he had ever wanted to know, could captivate him so. She was an astonishing combination of startling contradictions—of weakness and strength, uncertainty and courage, stunning beauty and astounding outrageousness. How amazing that this woman who clearly had a dark past, as evidenced by her crippled leg and the haunted look that frequently came into her eyes, could bring such unexpected light into his life.

And it hit him then, hard. He knew suddenly, with

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blinding clarity, that he could redouble his efforts to resist her, even triple or quadruple them, all to no avail.

Because he wanted her.

That was nothing new, certainly. But he realized then that he wanted more. He wanted her forever. He didn't want to wear a path in the walkway between their houses. He didn't want to play music loudly in order to see her. He wanted to-wake up in the morning and find her in his arms. He wanted marriage. To this woman. Man and wife. To have and to hold. Yes, forever.

His head spun at the realization. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. Marriage, to Belle Braxton, to the Widow Belle Braxton, to the Crazy Widow Belle Braxton.

He shook his head in wonder, because none of that mattered. Truly he wanted to marry her, he realized with a certainty that made him believe he must have wanted her for a very long time, perhaps since that evening she asked to share his bread. Yes, he would share his bread with her, and his life as well.

"Stephen!" Belle demanded once again. "Listen to me!"

Adam cleared his throat, angry lines creasing his forehead. "This farce has gone on long enough," he snapped, pushing out of his seat and tossing his napkin down on the table. "If you won't tell her, then I will. Belle, the men aren't working—"

"But they will," Stephen interjected with a pointed glare at his brother that said as loudly as words to keep his mouth shut, "just as soon as I go over there and have a word with them."

"Have a word with them?" Adam's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

"Yes, I'll have a word with them."

"This . . . this ... is outrageous!" Adam stam-

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mered. "What do you plan to tell them? That you have changed your—"

"Adam!" Stephen's voice rang through the suddenly silent room. "Enough," he finished more quietly. "I will go over and straighten this mess out."

Adam muttered under his breath. But Stephen ignored him, then guided Belle from the room.

Adam followed, glowering the whole way.

Once at Belle's house, Stephen confronted the foreman.

"But, sir—"

"No, buts, Wilson. I want this ballroom finished up as soon as possible."

"By St. Valentine's Day," Belle interjected. "For my birthday."

Stephen looked at her curiously before he nodded his head and added, "By St. Valentine's Day."

After a confused look, Wilson shrugged his shoulders and agreed.

"I knew you could do it!" Belle threw her arms around Stephen, hugging him tight, then pushed away to arm's length. "You really can be the grandest of men when you want to be."

Before he could respond, she turned and walked over to Wilson and his men to give additional instructions.

Stephen and Adam stood back and watched.

"Do you mind explaining this turn of events to me?" Adam asked finally, his tone scathing.

"What do you mean?" he asked. But of course he knew.

"You know damn well what I mean. You're the one who had Wilson stop the work. You were going to tell her today that the house is reverting to you. Instead, you act

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as if you're saving the day. What kind of game are you playing, brother?"

"Game? I'm not playing any games," Stephen said, still awash with the wonder of his realization, hardly affording his brother a thought.

"Then why are you letting them continue with the ballroom when you know you're getting the house back?"

"Because it will be easy enough to tear down the wall between this ballroom and mine to make one big ballroom once we are married."

A heartbeat passed. "Married?"

"Yes, married," Stephen replied simply.

"When did all this come about?"

"This morning, actually."

"This morning?" Adam eyed his brother speculatively and with not a little disbelief. "You decided this morning? What about Belle? When did she decide?" His blond brows drew together. "Or has she?"

A schoolboy's smile crossed Stephen's lips; a lock of dark brown hair even fell forward on his forehead to make the picture complete. "No, but she will. She's not as indifferent to me as she likes to pretend. She'll come around. In fact, since you are so fond of parties, why don't you plan one? A huge ball on St. Valentine's Day, right here, to celebrate both our engagement and Belle's birthday. Keep it quiet, though. I'd like it to be a surprise."

"Don't you think you're jumping ahead of the game?" Adam's face was etched with concern.

Stephen only smiled. "No."

"Then when do you expect to tell Belle of your plans?"

Stephen ignored the sarcasm in Adam's voice. "Soon. But not yet. I'm only just becoming accustomed to the

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idea myself." His boyish grin widened. "And I'd like a chance to woo her. We've done nothing but argue for the most part since we met. I'd like a chance to change that before I tell her of my plans."

"Just like that," Adam scoffed. He ran his hand through his hair and followed Stephen's glance toward Belle, who was just leaving the room.

When she didn't bother to usher the brothers out or at the very least say good-bye, Stephen only chuckled at what he was rapidly beginning to think of as typical Belle. But when Adam spoke again, any humor he had felt fled.

"She's a wounded bird, Stephen."

Stephen tensed, but Adam continued. "If you insist on pursuing her, tread carefully, please."

Turning abruptly to face Adam, Stephen searched for words through the churning of his thoughts. He was angry, angry with Adam, or so he told himself. But deep down inside he was ignoring the glimmer of truth with which his brother's words rang. He did have to be careful, because if he wasn't, he might end up hurting her. But that wouldn't happen, he reassured himself with an arrogant nod. He was doing what was best for Belle, not what would hurt her.

After a moment, he held out his arm. "Do you see this arm?"

Adam's eyes narrowed in question. "Of course I see your arm."

"Good as new. With the exception of rainy days, I don't even know I was shot."

"Well, yes." Adam grimaced. "I can't tell you how relieved I am—"

"Against all odds," Stephen said, cutting off his brother, stepping closer, intent. "When the doctor told

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me it was useless, Belle said the man was a fool. Against all odds, I have regained the use of my arm."

"Yes." Adam took a step back. "I'm pleased, but—"

"Just as against all odds I will make Belle Braxton my wife."

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Adam left. Stephen stood among the workmen in the space that was rapidly becoming a ballroom, a mirror image of his own. Feelings that he could hardly fathom surged through him. Trepidation, yes, but mostly happiness and intense excitement.

He tempered his feelings with caution. No matter how confident he had sounded to Adam, he wasn't nearly as certain of his abilities to convince Belle to marry him as he had led on. But what woman didn't want to marry? Over the years, more than his share of women had wanted to marry him. After all, he had what most women wanted. Reasonable looks. Good reputation. Fine family line. Money. But therein lay his concerns. His experience was with other women, not Blue Belle Holly. She seemed to have little interest in what most other women wanted from a man.

But he would convince her. He would find a way to make her see how right it was for them to marry. A smile spread on his lips. Yes, he would find a way.

When he didn't locate her in the parlor or kitchen or any other room on the first and second floors or even the third, he took the stairs to the top. The fourth floor was quiet. The sounds of the workmen were distant, disjointed. Making him feel alone.

"Belle," he called.

No answer. Silence save for the rain tapping its relentless staccato against the roof.

He made his way down the dim hallway to the room

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he had found her in once before. Her bedroom. Her sanctuary, he thought uncomfortably.

She stood with her forehead pressed against the win-dowpane. He could see her gossamer reflection in the glass, distorted by the rain. He watched her without moving. The sight of her brought that surge of emotion he wasn't sure he would ever get used to. She struck him with a mixture of fierce desire and a fierce need to protect her. His desire to flee had been washed away like soot beneath the rain.

He took her in, silently, not alerting her to his presence. He could have looked at her for hours.

"Thank you."

Her voice startled him. "Pardon?"

"Thank you." She didn't turn from the window, though she pushed away slightly, until only her shoulder pressed against the hardwood window casing.