Blue Waltz (28 page)

My dearest pirate-man,

I have no desire for marriage, and you have no desire for anything else. It's best we stay apart.

Belle

His fist smashed against his desk, blue-black ink from the inkwell spattering the crisp clean surface. He took a deep breath, then opened the second package. He found a sketch, of him, his dark eyes staring back, mocking his inability to make her his.

It was all he could do not to crumble the note along with the sketch and throw them both in the flickering fire that roared on the hearth.

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Stephen resumed pacing, his anger and frustration growing with each agitated step he took, the sketch staring at him, watching him.

"Am I bothering you?"

Stephen turned with a start, only to find Adam in the doorway. "Does it look like you're bothering me?" he snapped.

Adam cringed and hesitated. At length he came forward.

If Stephen had not been so tied up with his own thoughts and worries, he would have noticed that Adam looked as if he hadn't slept in days. His eyes were red and his hair appeared to have been combed with his hands. But Stephen was tied up with his own problems and didn't notice Adam's state. Instead, Stephen simply started talking as he continued to pace across the room.

"I ask a woman to marry me for the first time in my life," he muttered, "and she only wants to have an affair."

A rueful smile momentarily crossed Adam's lips. "That's our Belle."

"I must be the first man in history to have the roles reversed on him. Every woman wants marriage! No woman wants to be nothing more than a paramour!" Stephen shook his head. "Every woman but Belle Braxton, obviously. She's clearly as crazy as the rumors would have her."

"I doubt that," Adam responded despondently.

Stephen stopped and stared at the flames.

"Stephen," Adam said, hesitantly, a few moments later.

Stephen turned back with a start, having forgotten Adam was there. "What?"

"I was wondering . . . well, I wanted . . ."

"Spit it out, man," he said, his tone impatient.

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"I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to me? About what?"

Adam thrust his hands in his pockets. He didn't know what to say. While he was walking aimlessly through the slush and snow in the Public Gardens, the thought to come here and talk to his reasonable brother had seemed the right thing to do. He had wanted to for weeks, but had never been able to gather up the courage to do so. Standing here now, with that sardonic look creasing his brother's face, what little courage he had mustered together was rapidly deserting him.

"What is it, Adam?" Stephen snapped. "Are you in trouble again? Drinking, gambling? Have you gotten some woman with child? Or is someone else trying to kill you?" The chiseled lines of Stephen's face curved with sarcasm. "If so, let me know so I can keep out of the way."

And with that, what little control Adam had collapsed. "Quit acting as if I were a child! I'm an adult. I'm no longer a twelve-year-old boy who you can boss around!"

Stephen's countenance grew incredulous. "Do you think I wanted that responsibility? Do you think I wanted to have my life come to a halt so I could take care of you? Did it ever occur to you that I wanted someone to take care of me?" He turned away sharply. "I wanted someone to tell me that everything was going to be all right. But that didn't happen. I had to learn how to be strong. And I did, damn it! And all you've learned to do is drink and gamble and get yourself in trouble!"

Adam gritted his teeth against the biting sorrow that stung at his eyes. "Whether you admit it or not, I am an adult. And you are no longer my keeper."

"Fine, keep yourself," Stephen snapped, before, with

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stiff, angry movements, he turned on his heel and slammed out of the study.

Adam watched him go, all feelings of hope following his brother out the thick mahogany double doors, leaving Adam in despair.

How had his life come to this point? Adam wondered, sinking down into a leather wingback chair. He was an utter failure, just as he knew Stephen had always believed.

A crystal decanter of brandy sat next to the chair. Rolling his head to the side, he studied the intricate designs, colored amber by the liquor. Reaching over, he poured himself a glass—then another after that.

He had just poured another when the bell rang, announcing someone was at the door. Adam hardly noticed. He sat back, swirling the brandy, fascinated by the long liquid legs that ran down the sides.

"Sir," Wendell intoned from the doorway, breaking into Adam's reverie. "Someone is here to see you."

"I'm not here," he drawled.

"Yes, sir."

The butler grasped the brass knobs, to pull the doors shut, when a man pushed in behind him. "You can't just walk in here," Wendell stated, outraged.

"I've come to see Adam," the man stated calmly, "and I'll not be turned away."

Adam came up in his seat, sloshing the drink. "Tom."

"Hello, Adam."

The two men, of equal age, stared at each other, their gazes hard.

"Sir," Wendell interjected, "should I call the authorities?"

Adam eyed the man who had pushed his way into the house once before. This night, however, the man's blue

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eyes were clear, his dark hair was combed back from his forehead, and his coat and trousers were perfectly pressed.

"No, Wendell," Adam said. "I'll take care of this."

Reluctantly, the butler quit the room.

"Nice place you have here," Tom said with a casual-ness that was belied by the slight shake of his hand.

He's nervous, Adam thought, sinking back in the chair. "No surprise you didn't notice the furnishings the last time you . . . stopped by."

Tom visibly cringed as blood colored his neck. "I guess things got a little out of hand."

"A little?" Adam asked, his brow rising in a surprisingly good imitation of his brother.

"I hear Stephen regained the use of his arm."

"Luckily," Adam responded, the words as dry as kindling in a drought.

"Yes, luckily," Tom said, before striding boldly into the room. He walked from window to window, bookshelf to desk, until he turned back, looking as if he wished he were anyplace else in the world but there.

"I shouldn't have come," he said finally.

"Then why did you?"

Tom sighed. "Because I wanted to apologize. And since you have avoided me since . . . that night, not to mention that I needed to lay low until I knew what your brother was going to do—"

"Yes, not to mention," Adam interjected sarcastically.

"All right, damn it!" Tom exclaimed, his eyes blazing. "What do you want from me? I was wrong. I was stupid. Just because you were trying to buy me off to keep me quiet was no reason to come here that night brandishing a gun. I made a mistake. You have to believe me when I say that I didn't mean to shoot him—or anyone. I was upset." The fire in his eyes died. "What can I do to make things right?"

Adam dropped his head into his hands. "I don't know, Tom. I don't know if there is anything to make things right again."

Tom stepped forward. "There is always hope."

"Where?" Adam scoffed. "What hope do I have of ever making a life for myself?"

Tom stepped closer, until he stood next to the chair. A moment passed, before Tom reached out and pressed his hand to Adam's shoulder. "You can make a life with me.

CHAPTER 20

No sooner had Stephen stalked out of the house than he cursed. He pressed his eyes closed and rubbed his temples. Where had he gone wrong? he wondered. And suddenly he knew. He had gone wrong the day he had decided to try to fill his father's shoes.

He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. He had proved he was not the man his father was. But then, just as suddenly, Stephen wondered if he could just be himself. But who was that? Who was he if he wasn't running his father's business, or trying to raise his father's son? The questions left him uneasy, for he had no idea. He had spent years trying to be his father; he had never tried to be himself.

He crossed the street and slipped through the wrought iron fencing and into the gardens. He needed to clear his head so he could think straight. He walked quickly along whatever path he came to, his mind swirling with thoughts. With each step he took, his anger with Adam dissipated until guilt was all that remained. His brother had needed him and he had selfishly taken out his own frustrations on Adam. Shame mixed with the guilt. His brother needed him, and he had failed. Yet again.

With that thought, Stephen turned back to head home. He might not have been there right when his brother had needed him, but hopefully it wasn't too late.

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But just as he came over a small rise he saw a bundled figure in the distance, stepping out onto the ice that covered the lagoon where swan boats glided in the summer. The winter had provided a mix of slush and snow with several unseasonably warm days. Stephen knew that despite the freezing cold today, the ice wouldn't be solid. He felt a stab of concern that the ice couldn't possibly hold.

He broke into a run when the person took another step forward. Despite the heavy coat and knitted cap, he could tell even from this distance that it was a woman.

"Stop!" he hollered as he ran forward. "Don't move."

The woman stopped, her arms extended on either side, trying to gain her balance. She turned her head back to look at him. The sight of her luminous blue eyes nearly stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Belle," he breathed, his concern crystallizing into fear.

When she saw him, she lifted her hand to wave, but at the sudden movement a long snaking crack groaned into being. She froze at the sound. His heart froze at the sight. Belle looked down at her feet, as if unable to comprehend what was happening. She tried to take another step back toward Stephen.

"Don't move, Belle," he yelled, coming up to the edge of the lake.

She didn't. She stood quietly, without looking at Stephen. In fact, he thought, she didn't even look scared. As if in proof, very slowly she tilted her head back until she gazed up at the cold, clear sky.

"It's the first nice day we've had in weeks," she said. She moved slightly and the ice groaned again.

"If you don't keep still, it will be the last day you'll

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ever have," he stated, his voice stern, though his mind churned with concern.

Her strange, haunting laughter was his only answer.

After determining that the ice was indeed too thin to support him, he tore off his coat and laid it on the ice like a bridge between Belle and safety.

"Did you get my present?" she asked.

"Take a step toward me, Belle, carefully."

"Did you get my present?" she persisted.

"Yes, I did. Now will you please very carefully step forward?"

"Did you like it?"

Stephen groaned. "Belle, this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing your artwork."

"Then you knew I did it?"

"Of course, I knew."

"How?"

"Belle," he warned.

"Tell me how you knew?"

"Your style, all right," he said impatiently, concentrating on the ice. "It was the same style I saw in the other sketch you had done."

"You're very good."

"I try," he said dryly. "Now, can we please get you off the ice?"

"But I haven't gotten my scarf."

"Your scarf?"

"Yes, why else do you think I would be out here like a fool? It caught on the breeze, and the next thing I knew it was gliding across the ice like a skater."

"Just come on, Belle. Forget the scarf."

"But I just bought it."

"I'll buy you another one."

"That's not the point." The ice groaned again. "But

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maybe it is," she added, then hurried across his coat just as the ice separated into a series of broken pieces.

"Whew!" she cried, excitement lacing her blue eyes. "That was close."

"Too close. You should be smart enough to know better than to do something so foolish."

"True, I should know better." She laughed up into the skies. "But I don't."

Now that she was safely on solid ground, his coat but a memory beneath the patches of water and ice, the situation wrapped him in a blanket of unease. Standing there, laughing, her hair wild from having ripped her knitted cap free, Belle looked every inch the crazy woman people called her.

He was drawn to her in ways he didn't understand— and repelled by her in ways that he did. The combination left him feeling adrift in a raging sea. No port for safety. No manageable breeze to set him free.

"Why do you do things like this?" he asked quietly. "You told me once that you care what people think of you. I'm finding that harder and harder to believe." He hesitated. "Or is it that you don't understand what people are saying about you?" .

Her laughter stopped with haunting finality. Her sunny countenance hardened into a stormy mask. "Of course, I understand! What do you think I am, an idiot?"

He looked into her eyes. "No, Belle, never an idiot. But there are those who say you're . . ." His words trailed off.

"Crazy?" A hint of a smile reappeared.

Stephen grew uncomfortable, but wouldn't turn back. "Well, yes. Crazy."

Her smile broadened and she stepped closer. "They're right, you know. I am crazy. Crazier than a loon. But as rich as Croesus, so people put up with me. Do you think I don't know that?" Her smile vanished. "But who wouldn't be crazy in this world gone mad where money and manhood means more than family and friends. God forbid you be born a woman at the mercy of men, especially a woman with thoughts about anything other than her social calendar or opinions on anything other than the latest fashions."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Really?" She eyed him speculatively. "What if your wife had tried to found the National American Women's Suffrage Association?"

Stephen's brow furrowed.

"Or what if you had been married to one of the many women who were part of the Underground Railroad that helped free slaves?"