Blue Waltz (37 page)

Despite the weakness from days in bed, with her heart lodged in her throat, Belle swung her legs over the side and walked to the French doors that led to the balcony. Stepping out, she was afraid her ears were deceiving her. But the sound rang throughout the Back Bay, loud and distinct, clear and unmistakable.

Bells. At eighteen minutes after three.

Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes, nearly overwhelmed by emotion—by memories. But this time she didn't hold them back. She let them come. Memories of a child loved, and a child forgotten. Memories of a daugh-

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ter. Memories of the virgin bride of a man who no longer wanted her.

And her father. How strange, she thought. No longer was he Papa.

While lying in bed, everyone thinking her unconscious, her father had come to her. "Belle," he had whispered from the side of her bed. But she was still too close to unconsciousness at the time, and still too close to despair to respond. He had turned away, had started to go when she heard Stephen enter the room. All was silent for a moment.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Stephen had demanded, his voice low and deadly.

Her father's response still played in her head.

"I didn't know what had happened to her," her father had said quietly.

Then a violent thud and gasp of breath. "Like hell you didn't know," Stephen had ground out, pinning her father to the wall. "I just want to know why. How could you have sold your own daughter?"

Her father had muttered and cursed, until finally he said, "I don't know."

The thud again. "Not good enough. Why, damn you. Tell me why."

"Because!"

Belle had heard the anger rise in the room like a wave of heat.

"Damn it, because. Every day, every day that I looked at her, I was forced to confront how I had failed. I had promised her mother I would be a success. God, how I had failed her. I couldn't take it any longer, and Braxton had always fancied Belle. It seemed the perfect solution." He hesitated. "She was of a marriageable age, after all."

Another thud, harsh and brutal, a deep gasping

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breath. "She was a child!" Stephen roared. "A child, damn you. Your own flesh and blood, and you destroyed her!"

"I didn't know, I tell you!"

"You lie! You knew that he crushed her leg and still you left!"

"I was confused," her father whimpered.

"But not too confused to go off and start a new life with the money you made from that heartless transaction. You remarried, had another daughter, then gave her all you had failed to provide to the very child who had paid with her life to provide it for you."

"That's not true!"

"Like hell it isn't. I know everything about you, Browning Holly. You sold one daughter to have another."

"Keep Letty out of this!"

Letty. It was like a slap. A father protecting his daughter. But what about me? Belle wanted to scream. What about me?

"That's right. Letty," Stephen had raged. "Take Letty back to Philadelphia. You've done enough damage as it is. But remember, I know where to find you now. And if Belle ever wants to see you again or wants anything from you, you can bet I'll find you."

By now Belle could sense her father's tears. Part of her wanted to call to him. But another part of her, a part that was growing stronger, feigned sleep. She couldn't call out to him. Strangely, with the memory of another daughter dancing in his arms, she no longer wanted to dance with him. She wanted her life back. She wanted more.

Stephen. Dear God, she wanted Stephen.

But he had already told her it was over between them. And who could blame him, she added when she recalled her behavior of the last months.

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Had she been swept off, or did she jump?

Her own words came back to haunt her. Crazy words, all for some imaginary life she had made up in her head. Stifling the tears that burned behind her eyelids, Belle wondered if she wasn't as crazy as people said she was.

She wanted to scream and cry, yell at the man who had been her father. But she was so tired, so very tired, she only wanted to sleep.

And she had for days, on and off, responding to no one.

Until the bells.

She stepped out onto the balcony, the cold winter air having begun to recede, as had the bells. Gone—the sound swept off on the breeze—as if it had never been.

She strained to hear. But there was nothing. No sound. No bells. She had heen wrong.

She went back into her room and eyed the bed. But in spite of what clearly must have been her imagination, telling her the bells were ringing at eighteen minutes after three, she was out of bed, and suddenly she wanted to live. Her father had stolen seventeen years from her; she would not allow him to steal the rest. And while she had lost Stephen, she knew it was time to move on with her life. She would miss him always, but she would be thankful to him, as well. As painful as it had proven to be, he had forced her to see her life for what it truly was.

And she had survived.

She clutched the armoire.

She had survived.

A tiny spark of hope that she had thought forever snuffed out flared to life. She might have imagined the bells, but she wasn't imagining the feeling that began to burgeon in her chest. Hope. She could do anything as long as she had hope.

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She walked to a basin filled with water and splashed her face. Resting frequently, she brushed her hair and completed her ablutions. She pulled open the huge ar-moire that stood against the wall. And just after she had pushed aside the painstakingly made gowns of lavender, pulling on her favorite blue velvet dress instead, she heard it.

Music.

Her hands stilled and her heart raced.

Her favorite waltz, coming up through the walls. The one where she allowed herself to dance.

Was it possible that she hadn't imagined the bells?

Her answer came when the music didn't disappear, only grew louder, proving that she wasn't hearing things. Proving that she wasn't crazy.

Proving that she was being given a second chance.

Her father was her past. Stephen St. James was her future.

With hesitant steps, still partly afraid to believe, she followed the sound, down the stairs, and out the door, until she stepped into Stephen's ballroom.

The music filled the high-ceilinged room. The sun had broken through the clouds. And there she found Wendell standing next to Cook, and Maeve in the crook of Hasting's arm. Rose, swaying happily to the melody. Adam, looking a bit the worse for wear, a half smile soft on his lips.

And Stephen. More handsome than she remembered, taking her breath away, standing so tall and proud, perfect except for the tiny half-moon scar just below his eye.

"Belle," he breathed, his gaze intense. "You came."

A tremulous smile quivered on her lips as she remembered so long ago when she had spoken those very words to him. "You sound surprised."

The intensity in his eyes lightened, and she knew he remembered that day as well. "I'm always surprised when you do anything I ask," he responded, repeating her words.

The music rose, swirling around them. Taking a step forward, he extended his hand. "I thought perhaps, you might accept this dance?"

His deep voice rumbled through the room, wrapping around her. A light, as bold and brazen as that cast by the crystal chandelier, flared to life in the darkness of her soul. That undeniable moment was still there, would always be there, she knew, but just then it mattered a little less.

"Yes," she breathed, "I would love to dance."

Then, taking his hand, she stepped out onto the hardwood floor as regally as a queen, and accepted the dance of her long-held dreams.

EPILOGUE

Ten years later

"Father! Father! Mother's cooking again!"

A nine-year-old boy slid to a halt just inside the doors of Stephen's study. Glancing up from the papers spread out on his desk, Stephen sat back in the leather chair, his smile mixing with a groan. "Are you certain, Trevor?"

"Yes, Father," the boy answered, a big mongrel dog trotting up beside him. "And she's almost done!"

Moments later, Belle sailed into the room, her unruly hair pulled back, her porcelain-white skin highlighted by a rosy glow, a plate covered with baked goods in her delicate hand. "Look what I've made," she chimed, her blue eyes dancing with excitement.

Stephen and his son eyed the items in question. "Cookies," they replied in unison, their amazingly similar features marked with doom. Even the dog, after sniffing the air, lay down on the Aubusson rug and put its paws over its head.

Belle, however, didn't seem to notice. "For my favorite fellows." She turned to her son's cherished pet. "Even you, Godfrey. I've made some shaped like big, fat, juicy bones."

Godfrey made a peculiar sound, then crawled away, escaping the study on Arlington Street. Stephen and Trevor tried to do the same.

"Where is everybody going?" Belle demanded, though a smile lurked in her eyes. "No sooner do I take

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the cookies out of the oven than Rose has an appointment downtown, Wendell suddenly remembers your evening wear needs to be laid out, and Maeve and Hastings disappear without a word."

"I'll eat your cookies, Mother."

Belle turned back to the doorway to find a little girl with a mass of curly brown hair and the bluest eyes imaginable. "I know you would, sweetness. But first, show your father and brother what you've made."

"Look, Father." Six-year-old Alice St. James extended a plate of her own.

"What is it, love?" he asked, opening his arms to his daughter.

Alice hurried forward. "Cookies! Just like Mother's!"

Trevor and Stephen exchanged a grim glance.

"Just like Mother's?" Trevor asked.

Belle laughed, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "No. Alice's are edible."

Stephen's, Trevor's, and even Alice's eyes opened wide.

"Don't look at me like that," Belle said with a laugh. "Of course I know my cookies aren't so good. Do you think I haven't noticed that Adam and Tom are the only two people who will eat them?"

Stephen grimaced. "Only because my brother has a stomach of steel, and Tom wouldn't dare offend you in any way, great defender of him that you are."

Belle smiled fondly. "Well, someone has to." Then suddenly, inspiration seemed to strike. "I know, I'll take them over to Adam's."

"Great idea, Mother," Trevor said. "I'll take them right over."

"I wanna go! I wanna go!" Alice exclaimed, bouncing up and down, her cookies flying all over the rug.

In a flash, Godfrey miraculously reappeared to devour the baked goods in a few hasty bites.

"Oh, my Lord. Godfrey!" Belle demanded. "You're going to be sick."

Stephen groaned.

"Trevor, get Godfrey out of here," Belle instructed.

Trevor took hold of Godfrey's collar and began to pull. Alice tried to help.

Stephen shook his head, but a wry smile curved his lips. "I remember thinking long ago that before I met you my life was in order—everything as it should be."

"What do you think now?" Belle asked, turning back to her husband once the children had gone.

He reached out and pulled her close, pressing a desperate kiss to her forehead. "I think that finally, with children running through the house and a mangy dog at their feet, but most of all, with you at my side, my life is truly in order."

"What about the fact that I still can't cook worth a lick, wouldn't know a stylish gown if it jumped up and bit me in the face, or couldn't say the 'proper' thing to save my life?" Her face filled with a mixture of defiance and concern.

At her expression, Stephen's teasing smile faded, his countenance growing fierce. "Especially because of those things. I love you, Belle. Forever. Just as you are."