Blue Waltz (34 page)

Crazy Belle.

God, how could the rumors have proven to be true? his mind raged. But as his steps took him blocks away from her home and the dangerous balustrade levels above the unforgiving cobbled street, he knew it was true. Belle was crazy. She lived in some sort of dream world, waiting for a father who undoubtedly wouldn't arrive.

He pushed from his mind the insidious thoughts that there was more truth to her words than he cared to admit, and that a large part of her problem was him. Thoughts of Adam leaped into his mind—Adam like a ghost drinking himself to death in the room that was once Stephen's study. His heart ached, but he locked it away. Adam no longer existed to him.

The vibration of the elevator seemed to sink to his very bones as the cage rose with frustrating slowness to his office. He felt as if he would scream by the time the door was pulled open on the top floor.

"Mr. St. James!" the receptionist said. "You're here! Mr. Banks is looking for you."

Stephen hardly heard. He walked back to his office,

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saying nothing, noticing even less as his mind swirled with images of Belle up on the balustrade like a angel ready to take flight. From him? The fact remained that she had jumped up there after running from him, running from his questions, from his demands that she see her life as he felt certain it was. Why was it so important that he push her to such realizations? he wondered. Selfishness, he thought. Because he was selfish.

And what if he was wrong about her father? What if he had been wrong all along?

He flinched at the thought. No. He couldn't be wrong. He wasn't, or so he tried to tell himself. But he had to admit he'd been wrong about the husband. He could be wrong about the father, too. No. He wasn't wrong. The only way she would be able to get on with her life would be to realize it. If only she would.

"Mr. St. James!"

Stephen's head came up with a start, and he was surprised to find that he stood at a window, looking out over the city. He turned sharply.

"Mr. St. James!" Nathan cried, his always perfectly proper professional demeanor gone. "I found him! I found him!"

Stephen's heart stilled. "Who?" he asked, a pervasive dread washing over him.

"Mrs. Braxton's father!"

His mind rocked with the impact.

"He's alive. And he's here in Boston!"

Stephen's breath caught in his throat. "He's here?"

"Yes! Imagine that. Right here in Boston. Apparently he just arrived."

Stephen's world closed around him, the words echoing in his mind. The foundation of his life—his belief that

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what he did he did because it was right—crumbling before him.

Dear God, I was wrong.

His mind staggered at the sudden, brutal realization of the truth he could no longer deny.

I was wrong.

First with Adam. Now with Belle.

Not only did Belle's father exist, but the man was here, in Boston, just as she said he would be—just before her birthday, in time for their dance. He realized as well, that in his selfish attempt to make her his, he had tried to destroy her faith in her father so he wouldn't have to compete, and in doing so he had been destroying her.

He turned away angrily, his selfishness nearly overwhelming him.

"He's here, and I—"

"I'm not interested in details," Stephen said sharply. He wanted to be left alone.

"But sir—"

"Just have him at the ball for Belle's birthday." As soon as he said the words, he realized this was an opportunity to set things straight, make things right. An apology of sorts. He would surprise her with the gift of her father in a setting where they could have their long-awaited dance. He almost smiled at the look he knew would curve on her face when she saw her father. But his smile didn't come. In finding the father, he knew with a certainty that he had lost her forever.

"But sir—"

"Just do it!" Stephen snapped. "And keep it quiet. I want it to be a surprise."

Nathan hesitated, before he shrugged his shoulders, then turned and left the office, leaving Stephen alone, staring out over the buildings and streets of Boston, once a city he loved, now simply a series of places where he had spent time with Belle. And he wondered as he stood there how he would ever get over the loss.

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The house on Arlington Street glittered like a jewel against the black velvet night. Clouds were rolling in. A storm was predicted—snow and ice, mixed with rain. Hardly the perfect night for a party.

Carriages were lined up as far as the eye could see. The ball had turned into the event of the season. With all the construction that had gone on in the house, Bosto-nians were eager to see the finished product of the notorious Widow Braxton.

Almost everyone invited knew that they were there to celebrate Belle's birthday. No one there except Stephen and Nathan knew that Belle Braxton's father was the actual gift.

At the top of the stairs just inside the ballroom doors, Stephen stood next to Belle. Dressed in a gown of lavender silk, her porcelain features were a frozen mask. Her body might be next to him, but Stephen knew her mind was far away.

Getting her to attend at all had been next to impossible. "This one last thing, Belle," he had said that morning. "Once it's over . . . I'll sign the house back over to you. Officially. No strings attached."

She had looked at him without speaking. If only she would say that she didn't want the house, that she wanted him. For a moment he thought she would say the words. Instead she had only turned away, leaving him alone in her foyer, workers hurrying about, decorations going up, food being brought in, musicians setting up in the ballroom.

He glanced down at her now. Stunning, he thought. She was stunning, even though she didn't smile, hadn't smiled all evening. Not even when she had told him he looked devilishly handsome did she smile, nor when she had added, "my pirate-man." His heart raced at the memory, so sweet and poignant, and he wished he could turn back the clock and do things all over again.

Her dark hair was done up in an elegant design of twists and curls, her long, lavender gown skimming against her skin much as he longed to do. He glanced away with a muffled curse. Just as the clock could never be turned back, his hand would never touch her body again.

They had been standing there for a few minutes, though it felt like hours, as guests filtered in. Elden and Louisa Abbot were there, as was the Widow Hathaway, Lewis, and even Clarisse Webster.

"Is Adam coming?" Belle asked.

Her voice startled him, then wrapped around him until he felt as if he would strangle.

"I take it the answer is no." She sighed. "He loves you, Stephen. And just as importantly, he's your brother. Your love should be unconditional."

His family, Stephen thought. But as always the vision of Adam locked in another man's embrace snaked through his mind. It wasn't anger that he felt. Just a sickening dread. It was his fault. He had done everything wrong. If her father hadn't fought for Adam, had let the others take him, Adam wouldn't have turned out as he had. Or if he had been a better example. Or if . . . The possibilities were endless, proof that Stephen had failed miserably in raising Adam. He had failed at filling his father's shoes.

His foundation crumbled even further.

"Oh, Stephen," Belle said softly, looking up at him. But Stephen only stared forward. With a sigh, Belle turned back to the long line of guests.

"Hello, Mrs. Smythe. How good of you to come," she said like a hostess any fine Boston matron would admire. But as soon as the woman stepped away, Belle gathered her skirts and turned away.

"Where are you going?" Stephen demanded.

"To find Adam."

"You can't leave now. You're the guest of honor."

"Fill in for me."

"How, pray tell, do you expect me to do that?"

He received the first smile of the evening. "Do something crazy," she said, her smile sad and distant. "That should suffice."

And before he could say another word, she slipped out through the doorway, just as another guest greeted Stephen.

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As much as she wanted to find Adam, Belle needed to breathe. She hadn't liked standing there, trying to smile as each of the guests passed by. If she didn't escape, at least for a while, she wasn't certain she could survive the night.

She had tried again and again to get Stephen to cancel the party. She hadn't gotten much further than speaking to Nathan and Wendell. Stephen wouldn't see her until that morning, when he had come looking for her to make certain she would attend, and by then it was too late. So the plans for the party had continued forward like a sailboat in a brisk wind.

Belle hurried up the steps to Stephen's house. Wendell let her in.

"Where is Adam?" she asked.

"He isn't here, madam."

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Belle groaned. "Has it been bad?" she asked, walking into the parlor to warm her hands by the fire.

Wendell grimaced. "I'm afraid so. And I worry. The younger Mr. St. James is . . . not himself. Though I guess neither is the elder."

Belle concentrated on the fire. "Do you mind if I stay a while, Wendell?"

"No ma'am. In fact, I'll go find you some tea."

Time passed. Sipping tea, Belle watched the flames flicker in the fireplace, mesmerized. Forgetting the party.

"Belle!" Stephen came through the door. "Are you going to return or are you going to stay here all night?"

"Do I have a choice?"

The look on her face dashed whatever remaining hope Stephen had that they might stand a chance together. "We all have choices, Belle," he replied.

"Do we?" She shrugged. "Not always, Stephen."

He stared at her, wishing yet again for answers, but he knew they wouldn't come. "Come on. You have a house full of guests."

They walked back to her house quietly, Stephen catching her protectively when she slipped on the ice. Neither spoke, until eventually Stephen asked, "Was Adam in?"

Belle glanced up at him. "No, he wasn't there."

"Ah," he replied before silence reigned between them once again.

By the time Belle and Stephen returned to her house, the line of carriages waiting to deposit their occupants had diminished. The house was full. Just inside the door, Nathan caught Stephen's arm, pulling him to the side. "He's here," he whispered. "He came in while you were next door."

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"Who's here?" Belle asked, her eyes suddenly brightening.

Nathan and Stephen looked at her.

"The pastry chef with your cake," Nathan quickly interjected.

"Oh," she said, then turned away sharply.

The music started up, filling the house, washing over Belle like a teasing caress.

Her father hadn't come.

She was a fool to have believed he would. Yes, a fool, she admonished herself harshly.

She began to hum as Stephen guided her to the ballroom. But humming didn't help. She began to count, slowly, to herself. One to thirty. Then over again.

It was only nine o'clock. From everything she had heard, a ball could last well into the early morning hours. How had she let Stephen talk her into attending? How would she survive? The music. The dancing. All on her birthday. In this house in Boston. Under a huge crystal chandelier. Dear God, she didn't know.

If only she could touch Stephen, ask him to hold her —and she would have given in and done just that, had Clarisse Webster not chosen that moment to join her.

"Belle darling. I believe I just met a relative of yours."

Belle tilted her head in question. "A relative of mine? Here?"

"He bares a striking resemblance to you. Not in hair or eye color, but something about him ... I was just certain you must be related. Holly was the name."

Belle's mouth went dry. "You met someone named Holly?" she asked, her heart beginning to pound.

"Well, yes. New to town, I believe."

Belle turned sharply toward the crush of guests, hope

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rekindled in her blue eyes. Couples danced across the floor in concentric circles, around and around, in time to the music, until suddenly, magically, they cleared.

Displaying one man.

He was tall and large. A burly man out of place in a fine cut of evening clothes. The beard was gone, but the face was undeniable.

Papa! her mind cried. Tears burned at her eyes. He had come. For her birthday. To dance. In the grandest of ballrooms

"There he is," Clarisse stated, pointing at the man.

His smile was the same. The gray eyes just as pale. It was all Belle could do to stand still. She wanted to race to him and throw herself in his arms. But she would wait. She had waited for seventeen long years. She could wait a few minutes more.

Slowly, much too slowly for Belle's pounding heart, the waltz came to an end.

"Mr. Holly," Clarisse called.

The man turned toward them. What little doubt remained, vanished. It was him. Papa. Her papa.

But then the couples all around dispersed. And for the first time Belle noticed the woman on his arm. Belle staggered back into Stephen's solid chest. Confusion swirled.

"Mr. Holly," Clarisse called again, waving him over.

The man started forward. Belle's heart hammered; she pressed back into Stephen, as if to escape.

"Miss Webster," the man bellowed, his eyes gray and smiling.

A groan sounded deep in Belle's chest, drawing the man's attention. And then, finally, after a million lifetimes, their eyes met.

His boisterous smile faltered. His steps ceased. “Madeline," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, not understood.

But Belie heard, Belle understood as they stood no more than a few feet apart, staring, neither moving.

"Mr. Holly," Clarisse said. "This is Mrs. Hershal Braxton. Mrs. Braxton, Mr. Browning Holly."

Belle didn't speak, only stared. Stephen looked on, his hands secure on her shoulders. Clarisse looked on, her perfectly painted face furrowing in question. Only the young woman on the man's arm seemed unaware of the tension.