Blue Waltz (24 page)

"Thank you for what?" he asked, stepping into the room.

Her unladylike snort echoed in the room, making him laugh. Even her snorts were filling him with joy today.

He took the few remaining steps that separated them until he stood just behind her. But his smile faltered when he saw the trace of tears on her cheeks glistening in the gray winter sunlight, checking his joy. "What's wrong? The men are back at work. Your ballroom will be completed by Valentine's Day."

When she didn't respond, he gently took hold of her shoulder and turned her back to face him. "What's wrong, Belle?" he persisted.

"Nothing," she said with a forced smile.

He ran the tip of his finger along the glistening path of her tears. "Are you telling me this is nothing?"

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With a sad laugh she turned back to the window. "It's the rain. It makes me . . . cry," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Why does it make you cry?"

She stood there as if thinking. At length she shrugged her shoulders. "It makes me want to escape. To sunnier places, so I can run my toes through the sand, with the sun burning a kiss on my skin. To watch that huge heated orb fade from yellow to red then purple as it lowers on the horizon. To taste water and wine. To dance with destiny under the stars." She took a deep sighing breath. "And to still my mind—most of all, to still my mind."

He felt the tremor of emotions course through her body, and he knew if he turned her around, once again he would see that look in her eyes which spoke of the deep sorrow he was afraid he would never fully understand. "What is it in your mind that you want to still, Belle? Tell me, please."

She turned to him abruptly, her long hair swinging out, and looked up into his eyes. Her own were intense as if she sought something from him. He had the feeling that she expected him to know what it was, to understand her simply by looking into her eyes, just as she had that day outside his office. But this day he refused to let it pass. "Truly, I don't know, Belle. Tell me."

He would have sworn a flash of disappointment flared in her eyes. But then, very carefully, she reached up and touched his forehead, making him forget.

He didn't move as she ran her fingers along his brow, then down his temple and cheek until she came to his lips. When she pressed her fingers to them like a delicate kiss, he opened his mouth and very carefully took one finger in.

She sucked in her breath when he wrapped his fin-

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gers around her wrist, pulling her arm down to his side. Slowly, he ran his hands up to her shoulders. When he bent his head to kiss her, she didn't turn away, but accepted him, almost desperately, he thought.

He felt her intake of breath against his lips and his body surged with desire. With one hand he cupped her jaw while the other tangled itself in her hair. He forgot about unfinished ballrooms and unanswered questions. His mind and body were filled with nothing more than desire.

"Belle," he murmured against her temple.

He kissed her again, slowly, nipping at her lips. When he flicked her lips with his tongue, she opened to him. He felt as much as heard her groan of pleasure when he touched his tongue to hers.

Their kiss grew intense. Belle locked her arms around his neck as his hands slid down her back, pressing her close. When he felt the sweet curve of her hips, he groaned his desire. He had known she had the body of an angel, but the feel of her beneath his hands was nearly his undoing. She nestled against his body, part woman-child, part wanton, so unlike anything he had ever experienced in the past.

How had he ever thought he could live without her once he had looked into those deep blue eyes and she had looked back at him as if she could see into his soul? Because he knew now that he couldn't. He wanted her, desperately, as if he were the wounded one, and she the savior.

He held her tightly, afraid to let go. He could feel the beat of her heart, the curve of her body. She smelled of fragrant, wild prairies. The aroma was heady.

She sighed and looked up into his eyes before a tentative smile trembled on her lips. "You have a knack for

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wheedling your way into a person's life, Mr. St. James— little by little, until that person comes to the realization that if you were suddenly to disappear she might just miss you."

"Might?" he breathed.

She laughed outright. "Greedy, aren't we?"

"No," he whispered, his eyes intent, almost vulnerable. "Just strangely hopeful that it would be more than might."

The words stilled her heart. She had expected him to say something flip or disgruntled. Something she could deal with. But not that. Of course it was more than might. If he was to disappear from her life, she would definitely miss him—a great deal, she was afraid. And that was unacceptable.

She pushed free, then looked into his eyes. The desire she had grown used to, but the caring that she saw there now left her panicked and scared. He couldn't care. She didn't want him to care. She preferred his disdain.

When had his feelings for her changed? she wondered. Why had they changed? But this time when she looked into his eyes, looking for answers, she saw only the caring mixed with desire—the disdain utterly gone.

As much as she had cursed herself for making him angry, deep down inside she knew she did it on purpose. Stephen St. James was too strong. He was like a magnet that pulled her to him. The only thing that had saved her in the past was the fact that he had wanted nothing to do with her, had crushed his desire, had looked at her with disdain—until now. She could see it in his eyes.

"You should go," she stated, her tone short.

She watched his eyes begin to clear as he tried to make sense of her words.

"What?" he asked.

When he tried to take her arm and pull her back, she stiffened until he let go. "I want you to leave."

"Belle, talk to me. What has happened?"

"No, Stephen, there is nothing to talk about."

He looked at her for a long time, and she steeled herself against the intense need she felt to damn all else and lose herself in his arms. But she couldn't. Even if she weren't waiting for her father, she couldn't give in to Stephen. He might want her now, but not for long. No, not for long. She had learned that lesson ages ago.

CHAPTER 17

"I'm worried about our Belle." Hastings stood in the kitchen slicing onions, a starched white apron tied around his waist, while Maeve stirred a pot of stew on the stove.

Maeve's hand stilled in its task. "Me, too, Mr. Hastings." She looked at the wall before her, then sighed and went back to stirring. "Her behavior is more erratic now than ever. At first I thought it was because of the holiday season. Christmas, ye know. It's not healthy for a young woman like our Belle to spend such a time alone. But now we are well into January, that blasted ballroom nearly finished, and still she is worse than ever. One minute she is laughing and gay, then the next . . ." Maeve shrugged her plump shoulders.

"The next, pardon me for saying, she is raving mad," Hastings finished for her. "And it's all because of that Stephen St. James, I tell you."

"Posh, he's not her problem."

"How can you say that? She might have been odd when first we arrived here, but as you said yourself, she has become downright erratic since she met that man. I tell you he's no good for her."

"Well, I disagree." Maeve sighed. "He is good for her. And if I may say, everyone needs someone to love them."

"Love her? My word, he doesn't even like her."

Maeve scoffed at this. "Just like a man, I tell you, not

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seein' beyond the surface. Why else would a gentleman of Stephen St. James's standin' be actin' like such an idiot if he wasn't in love?"

Hastings stiffened. "Not all men in love act like idiots, Mistress Maeve."

Maeve continued to stir, laughing as if Hastings had told a joke, missing the sudden intensity that had crept into his voice. "Show me one, Mr. Hastings."

"Me," he said very quietly, though clearly.

At first the words didn't register in Maeve's mind, but when they did she twirled around like a schoolgirl, thick succulent sauce flying off the spoon as she turned. "You?" she asked amazed.

"Yes, Maeve, me."

They stood silently, staring at each other. When Hastings didn't elaborate, Maeve began to fidget. "Well, old man, are ye goin' to tell me who it is yer in love with or are ye just goin' to stand there and make me wonder?"

Hastings's features washed red. His stiff form stiffened even further. "With you, of course."

Maeve's face crumpled in joyous disbelief. And then she was in his arms, barreling into him with a force that nearly knocked him to the ground. "It's aboot bloody time," she murmured in a tiny voice that belied her sharp words.

"Ah, Maeve," he said, awkwardly stroking her hair.

Despite long years of training, it took a moment for Hastings to realize someone was knocking on the front door. When he did, he kissed Maeve on the forehead, stripped off his apron, then hurried up the stairs to the door.

"Mr. St. James."

"Is Belle in?" Adam asked.

Hastings took in the younger man's disheveled appearance. "One moment, sir, while I see."

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Wrapping a woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders, Belle pushed out of her favorite overstuffed chair. Moving toward the window, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror. She studied herself in the silvered frame for a long while, the sounds of her house fading into the recesses of her mind.

Though she couldn't put her finger on it, somehow she felt different. Her long dark hair, which was pulled up and away from her face, was the same. The color hadn't changed. Even the maddening tendrils that frequently escaped to curl softly about her face were doing just that. Her eyes were the same deep blue, and she was still the same size. Certainly, she looked no different today than yesterday or the day before.

Still, she felt she had changed.

But how? she wondered. Was it this house and the life she was finally carving out for herself and her father? Was it that her birthday was rapidly approaching and she was certain she would be reunited with her father? She stared hard at her reflection. Or did she feel different because Stephen had come into her life?

After several minutes passed, she sighed. Frustration grew. She didn't know.

She glanced around the room on the top floor that since she'd begun to build the ballroom had become her sitting and bedroom. Her sketch pad lay open on the table. The hat Stephen had bought for her hung on the back of a wood-slatted chair. This room, as no other in the house, was hers and hers alone. Nothing here for her father. And she loved it, more than all the others.

She closed her eyes against the sudden, nearly pain-

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ful insight. That's what was different. In the days since she had tried to be kind to Stephen, she had spent more time thinking of that man than anything else. When she should have been searching out the musicians to play in her ballroom for her father, she had been dragging Stephen through the streets of Boston. When she should have been readying a bedroom for her father's arrival, she was preparing a picnic for the very man she had no business being with. There had been too many diversions taking her away from what she had come here to do, all adding up to the same persistent idea that had been simmering in the recesses of her mind with growing alarm each day.

Perhaps she wanted more from Stephen than she was willing to admit.

The thought took her breath away. She staggered back a step until she caught herself by grasping the windowframe. Her reflection washed pale in the mirror. It was not true, she immediately chastised herself. She wanted nothing more from Stephen St. James than friendship. And his touch, some deep voice said.

But in spite of her words, thoughts of trading stories in the winter by the fireplace, or watching butterflies in the gardens in the spring, or sharing a gentle kiss on a swing swirled traitorously through her mind. She longed to give parties, to attend the symphony, to work on charity auctions. She longed for a normal life, not a life of waiting for her father's arrival.

Because, perhaps, she thought suddenly, he wouldn't arrive.

She sucked in her breath. Her delicate hands pressed hard over her ears as if in doing so she could block the words out.

He was coming! He was!

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"Mrs. Braxton." Hastings stood in the open doorway.

She whirled around, causing him to take a step back. "Is everything all right, madam?" he asked, his stern features creased with concern.

"Yes, Hastings," she said in a tone that was anything but fine. "What do you want?"

"Mr. St. James is here."

Her blue eyes lit with excitement. "Stephen's here? Downstairs!"

"No, Mr. Adam St. James," he quickly explained.

The light in her eyes dimmed. "Of course, Hastings. Send him up."

"Adam," she gasped a few moments later, forgetting her own concerns as she took in his disheveled appearance. "What happened to you?"

A wry smile crossed his lips. He walked across the rug and dropped down onto a small sofa that faced the fireplace. All traces of the smile disappeared. "Oh, Belle, what am I to do?" he moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

Without compunction, she went to his side. As a mother would a child, Belle pulled Adam into her arms and stroked his blond hair. "What is it, dear? Tell me what has happened."

After a moment he began to speak, slowly at first, then faster, until all that had been bottled up inside him spilled out in an angry, desperate rush.

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Stephen stood in his study, rather pleased with himself this morning. He felt certain he was making progress in his pursuit of Belle. Someone might argue, he conceded, that many of their encounters did not end so well. But on the other hand, she had made it more than clear