Blue Waltz (8 page)

Full breasts, slender waist, delicately rounded hips. Desire. Hard, aching desire.

"Least of all me."

Beautifully perfect—except for her leg. Stephen pressed his eyes closed and turned away, turned to his desk. When he opened them again, he saw the simple piece of ribbon he had found on the floor of the guest bedroom. He had awakened, stiff and disoriented. At first, he'd had no idea why he was sitting there in a hard-backed chair, in a room that he had given no more than a fleeting thought to in all the time he had lived in the house. But then he saw the rumpled sheets, and he knew, he remembered. Bluebell. Bluebell Holly, with eyes so blue it was almost painful.

Practically jumping up from the chair, he had scanned the room, looking for her. He expected to find her looking out over the park, or curled up in a chair

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waiting for him to wake. But the park below remained unwatched and the chair across the room sat empty. She wasn't there. She was gone.

Frigid cold seeped into his soul. He had been alone for so many years, but he had never felt as lonely as he had when he found Bluebell gone. But that was ludicrous. If he had felt cold, it was due to the fire dying out, and if he had felt alone, it was because the household had yet to awaken and fill his home with smells of freshly baking bread and respectful laughter. He should be thankful the woman had slipped out of his house on her own so he didn't have to deal with her that morning. Yes, he was thankful. He wanted nothing to do with Bluebell Holly, he reminded himself just as he had the night before. She was absolutely no business of his.

He grabbed up the ribbon from the desk top and crumpled it in his fist, ready to throw it in the fireplace when Adam banged his fist on the desk.

"When will you accept that, Stephen? When will you accept the fact that no matter how hard either one of us tries I will never be another you?"

Stephen focused his gaze on his brother. He could hardly remember what they had been talking about. "Did I tell you they have a lead on the gunman?"

Adam's eyes widened and his body tensed. "What are you talking about? I thought you weren't going to pursue it?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"No authorities. No reports."

"I didn't want it all over town. I'm not interested in having that little debacle talked about over afternoon tea by everyone in Boston. I'll not be fodder for the gossip mill. But I hired a man to look into it. He doesn't have much, but with little more from you than the name Tom

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to go on," he eyed his brother suspiciously, "he has his work cut out for him. Are you sure you don't remember who he was?"

"I told you," Adam replied, his voice tight, "I met him briefly, in a pub. All I know is his name is Tom. We had words over a card game."

"I thought it was over a horse race."

The two men, of equal height, though of two very different appearances, stood staring at each other.

"Leave it alone, Stephen." Adam's voice was laced with stern resolve. "Just leave it alone. It's been taken care of."

"Someone barges into my home, tries to kill you, shoots me instead, and I'm supposed to act as though it never happened?"

"Leave it alone," Adam repeated.

"Like hell I will!"

"Like hell you won't!" This time, it was Adam's control that exploded. "You may think I'm worthless and can't do anything right, but I will do whatever it takes to make you leave this alone!"

One slash of dark brow raised. "Is that a threat, brother?"

Emotions scudded across Adam's classically carved face like so many storm clouds in an otherwise flawless sky. With a sudden curse, he turned away. "There are times when I wish we weren't related. You're dead inside, Stephen. You have no feelings. You are cold and hard, ruthless. You know nothing about living or caring for people, really caring for people. You only care about propriety."

The words hit Stephen hard. Another day he might have been angry. How many times had he tried to explain to Adam that it wasn't propriety he cared about, rather

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responsibility? But this day too many other emotions churned in his mind to make room for this discussion. Suddenly, he was tired, though it was a fatigue that went beyond mere lack of sleep. And no matter what Adam believed, the fact remained that Stephen had been given little choice in his responsibilities. He had performed them to the best of his abilities. Nothing more, nothing less.

A tiny ray of sun, faded and weak against the thick clouds in the sky, peeked through. It caught in a pool of water that lay on the ground outside the window, sending a hint of multicolored rainbows out into the world. Stephen suddenly thought of rainbows and pots of gold, precious jewels in buried treasures. He had given up his belief in such things long ago. But suddenly he remembered a time when he did believe. '

"Do you remember Sutter's Hill?" Stephen asked suddenly, his voice strong but quiet.

"Sutter's Hill?" Surprised echoed in Adam's voice.

"Yeah, you know, up on—"

"Old Man Wilbur's land."

"Yes, Old Man Wilbur." He chuckled. "He was a mean old man."

Adam smiled slightly, tentatively. "You used to say he was a mean old coot."

Stephen's laughter rang loud and true. "Me?" Had he really?

"Yes, you," Adam replied, still looking out the window.

"Do you remember," Stephen continued quietly, "the day we climbed up into Old Man Wilbur's tree?"

Adam shook his head and grimaced. "My backside is sore just thinking about it."

Laughter laced with words as Stephen spoke. "I

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couldn't sit down for a week. He was as mad as I've ever seen after he caught us tossing berries at him."

"He probably never would have figured it out if the whole blasted bucket of berries hadn't fallen out of the tree."

Both men laughed softly. But their quiet laughter trailed off when they both recalled standing at their front door, on either side of Old Man Wilbur, his dirt-covered fingers attached to their ears.

Stephen grimaced. "Father didn't think it was quite so funny."

"No, I don't suppose he did. But you know," Adam seemed to consider, "I've always wondered if Mama wasn't trying to hold back a laugh."

"No!" Stephen hesitated, thinking. "Really?"

"Sure. Where do you think I got the idea to gather the berries in the first place?"

"From Mother?" Stephen's voice rang with incredulity.

Adam nodded.

"She told you to drop berries on Old Man Wilbur's head?"

"Well, not in so many words, Stephen. But one day she told me about doing the same thing when she was young." He furrowed his brow. "I believe her victim was an Old Man Cabot. She, however, didn't get caught. Or if she did, she left out that part of the story."

"I can hardly believe it," Stephen said with a shake of his head.

"Don't you remember how after Papa gave us whippings then left for the office, she had Cook make us hot cocoa with an extra dollop of whipped cream?"

Memories of long ago shimmered in Stephen's head. He remembered his mother as she smoothed first Ste-

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phen's then Adam's hair, before placing cups of cocoa on the table for them. Stephen hadn't given it much thought at the time. He only remembered feeling miserable at having so disappointed his father. But now that he thought back on it, he did remember his mother and her smile, and the special gift of cocoa with extra whipped cream.

Adam had always been closer to their mother. Stephen shouldn't be surprised that she would tell him such a story. A pang of regret washed over him. His memories of his father were vivid, but his memories of his mother were virtually nonexistent. His father had been a dominant force in his life; his mother only floating in the background. Perhaps Adam was correct.

"I guess I do remember," Stephen said finally.

"Do you remember the plays we used to put on?"

Stephen groaned. "How could I forget?" Though in truth, until that moment, he had forgotten.

"The laughter and the fun," Adam said.

"Before Mother and Father died."

Adam sighed. "That seems to be how time is divided for us. Before they died, and after."

They didn't look at each other, but stood side by side, looking out through the mullioned window, looking out across the street and into the park, their large, strong hands in their pockets, except for the one that hung in a pristine black sling. But standing there as they were, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, someone might have noticed the resemblances between the two men. The different skin tones and hair colors wouldn't stand out so much as to override any recognition of the similarities. The same height. The same chiseled cheekbones and jaws. Necks strong. Shoulders broad. So many similarities in men who had grown to be so different.

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"So, what do you think about the Abbot's party?" Stephen asked finally.

Adam's broad shoulders rounded for a moment, before he shrugged and gave his brother a rueful smile. "I guess I could make the time to go."

"Good," Stephen said simply with a brisk nod of his head, wanting to say so much more but having no idea where to begin, or how.

But before Stephen could utter another word, the mantel clock chimed the noon hour, disrupting the quiet.

"I'm beat," Adam said, turning away from the window. "I think it's time I got some sleep." He laughed, his characteristic good cheer restored. "I'll need all the rest I can get if I have to spend the evening with Louisa Abbot and her friends."

Stephen didn't respond. He merely smiled and watched his brother go. Suddenly the thought of spending the evening with the likes of Louisa Abbot appealed to him as much as it apparently appealed to Adam. Not at all. Stephen nearly laughed. How strange to agree with his brother. But he realized it wasn't so much that he agreed with Adam as it was that he found himself thinking once again about the woman. About Bluebell Holly.

Where was she? he wondered. What had happened to her? And strangely . . . would he ever see her again?

CHAPTER 7

The dress was stunning, Belle decided. Perfect for a party —the Abbots' dinner party, specifically, which she had decided in a weak moment to attend.

She tried to twirl around in front of the framed cheval glass that stood in the corner of her sitting room, but contented herself with simply swaying gently from side to side.

The dress was made from a rich lavender satin, with long puffed sleeves, a fitted, short-waisted bodice, and a full, petticoat-padded skirt. Over the dress she wore a shimmery gold girdle with designs made from light and dark lavender strands woven into the cloth, which fell gracefully about the skirt, and was caught up on either side by catches of solid gold.

Belle hardly recognized herself. It seemed impossible that the woman in the mirror was the same person she knew herself to be. She reached out and touched her reflection. Like a whisper, she ran the backs of her fingers down the glass from her cheek to her neck. She was going to a party, in a dress that was stunning, just as she had always known it would.

Leaning forward she pressed her cheek to the mirror, her breath frosting the silvered glass. When he finally arrived, her father would be so pleased, so proud. Yes, when he arrived. For their dance. On St. Valentine's Day. Just as he promised.

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A shiver of excitement raced down her spine. First the house, then the dress, and now the party. The pieces of her life were coming together with the exactness of a nautical chart. She was navigating the sea and was avoiding the rocks as best she could. Tonight she would sail into the harbor of society. Hopefully she would gain a mooring.

Rose walked in just then with Maeve right behind her. Rose was as tall and slim as Maeve was short and squat. At the sight of Belle's dress, Rose's eyes opened wide. Maeve gasped.

"That's the dress that was delivered today?" Maeve demanded.

"Yes, it is. Isn't it lovely?"

"Lovely?" Rose's widened eyes softened and grew indulgent. "Well, yes. In it's own way it is lovely."

"I explained in precise detail just what I wanted. And precise detail is what it took. Good heavens, you'd think that seamstress had never sewn before."

"You asked someone to make that dress, that dress specifically?" Maeve seemed incredulous.

"Well, of course. I described everything about it from the high-buttoned neckline down to the billowing petticoats beneath. Billowing. Such a word, billowing," she added, before she gave a quick shake of her head. "I didn't want to take any chances that the dressmaker would get it wrong. And even then I had my doubts. I'd say, full skirt, and she'd stare at me dumbfounded, before repeating what I had just said as if she had not a lick of sense about fashion." Belle laughed. "Not of course that I have any sense about such things. In fact I have none. But this is one of the dresses I have dreamed about for ages."

"But missy," Maeve began, using the endearment she

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had begun calling her employer, "the dress . . . is . . . well . . ."

"What is it, Maeve? Spit it out. I've never known you to be tongue-tied."

"You see," Rose interjected, "it's just that . . ."

"It's just that the gown," Maeve stated, her shoulders back, "beautiful as it may be, is hopelessly out of fashion."

Belle's eyes widened and she turned with a start back to the mirror. "What do you mean, the gown is hopelessly out of fashion?"

"Just that, missy. The seamstress was dumbfounded, I'm sure, 'cause this type of dress has been out of style for a good twenty years."

"Thirty," Rose clarified with a nod of her head.

"Thirty years?"

"Yes, lovey."

"That can't be!"

"It's true," Rose said.

"That's impossible."

"Mr. Hastings will tell you," Rose said.

"That's a grand idea." Maeve raced to the door, her arms chugging like side rods on a train, before she hollered down the stairs. "Mr. Hastings! Mr. Hastings!" When she stepped back in, she smiled. "That'll get him here in a hurry."