Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (44 page)

But Connie was right. Hart would, eventually, marry. Francesca didn’t even have to think about it to know that she would be terribly jealous and furious when he did.

Would it really be so bad to become Hart’s wife
?

Hart wasn’t a reformer, he did not give a whit about politics, and Francesca knew all of his donations went to museums and libraries. She felt quite confident that he would donate as she asked him to, and while there was nothing wrong with charities involving the arts, she felt strongly that the poor should be taken care of first. Still, there would be no political debates, no political fund-raisers, and he would never share her burning desire to change the world.

Perhaps it was a terrible match, she mused, her heart sinking. Because it was a match that would be made for a lifetime.

And what about the day that must eventually come, when his eye wandered to another younger, prettier woman? If they had the bonds of love there between them, that day would not be threatening. Without those bonds, Francesca knew she would be terribly hurt by any disloyalty or worse on his part.

Of course, she did not have to make a decision now or at any time in the near future.

But she was trembling with fear and anticipation, with trepidation and excitement.

“Fran? Thank God you are up!” Connie cried, racing into the room.

Francesca had been reaching for her hot chocolate, which she almost spilled. “Con? What a wonderful surprise!” She could hardly believe her sister was up and fully dressed and it was only nine in the morning. Not only that; she was wreathed in smiles. In fact, she was flushed, her eyes sparkling—and Francesca instantly became suspicious.

Connie closed the bedroom door and grinned. “I thought you should be the first to know. Neil and I are taking a holiday.”

Francesca prayed that what she was thinking was true. “What?”

Connie laughed, the sound happy. “We have decided to go up to Newport for a long weekend. But we shall go to Paris in the spring.”

Francesca began to smile. “Connie, it’s frigidly cold out. No one goes to Newport in the winter.”

“We are. We shall bring fur throws and knit socks and our skis and we will drink hot cider and roast marshmallows and do other things.” She laughed.

“You have reconciled!” Francesca cried, rushing to her.

Connie nodded and they embraced, clinging and rocking. “I am so in love,” she whispered when they drew apart.

Francesca put her arm around her. “I can see that. I am so happy for you. Connie, Neil adores you. He always has. He always will.”

“I think so, too.” She was beaming. “Anyway, we will leave town on Wednesday. Can you help me shop? I think I need some wool breeches and some very heavy sweaters.”

Francesca raised her eyebrows at her. “That’s all?”

Connie turned a delicate shade of pink. “Well, I was also thinking of something French and lacy and sheer.”

“I will definitely help you shop,” Francesca laughed.

When he awoke, he was surprised to find himself in a nightshirt in his bed, his entire right shoulder and side, almost down to his waist, throbbing in pain. The curtains were slightly parted and he could see that it was late in the day. And as he struggled to sit up, the events of the previous day flashed through his mind. He had been shot, but the City Strangler was dead and the case was finally officially closed.

Leigh Anne suddenly came into the room, an angelic vision in a rose gown, impossibly gorgeous, somehow appearing innocent and demure. He stiffened. She was carrying
a tray with a covered bowl, and the savory aroma of chicken soup drifted to him. She smiled at him. “You’re finally awake.”

He panted with the effort of sitting, every small movement burning his shoulder, his arm.
What new act was this
? “What time is it? Why didn’t you wake me!” He was dismayed; he had work to do—more than a single man’s share—for it was Monday.

Her smile faded as she set the tray down on the small nightstand by his bed. “Rick, it’s almost four o’clock. Finney wanted you kept on laudanum for the pain. He wanted you to rest. I want you to rest.”

He turned to stare at her, angry and incredulous, both at once. “I have work to do,” he gritted. “How dare you interfere with my duties?”

She stiffened. “That is not fair.”

“Very little in life is fair,” he snapped, wishing she might disappear from his room, his home, his life. She thought to coddle and care for him now? It was a bit late. Four years too late, in fact. “I am going to work,” he said, managing to stand. He gritted against the stabbing pain in his shoulder and upper chest. It felt like a knife, and a hundred times worse than yesterday. Then, he supposed, he had been in shock and oblivious to the extent of his wound.

“No,” she said firmly. “You are not going to the office today.”

He had misheard. He turned and faced her. “Excuse me?”

“You are staying in bed,” she said firmly but breathlessly, her eyes wide and locked with his. She appeared vulnerable now. He hoped she was frightened of him—as she well should be. For he felt like bodily ejecting her from his room.

“You dare to tell me what to do?” he asked very softly—dangerously.

She nodded. “Yes, I do. Finney says you are to stay home and in bed for three days—at least.”

“Like hell,” he snarled.

“You’re hurt!” she cried.

“Not that hurt. I have work to do. Or have you forgotten
the extent of my responsibilities?” He stalked past her, flinging open the armoire.

She was silent, behind him.

He removed a pressed shirt, a tie. He turned.

Her eyes spat fire. “I had forgotten. Nothing has changed. You wake up—and go to work. You come home at some ungodly hour—work some more—and go to bed. Nothing has changed.”

“That’s right,” he said, pleased with her assessment. “You don’t have to be here, remember? It was your idea, not mine. You can agree to a divorce this very instant—and not be tortured by my schedule.”

She placed her small fists on her tiny waist. Her bosom heaved, indicating her own distress and temper. “We have an agreement. We have signed contracts. Six months together as man and wife, Rick. I am not leaving you.”

“Well, that’s certainly refreshing, considering that is what you are best at.” He was suddenly overcome with the pain of the discovery he had made four years ago, that his wife had left him. In that instant, the precise moment, which had once haunted him, returned to assail him full force. He had come home late, as usual, and found his house empty of all her things, a single note left behind—the tattered remnant of their love and their marriage. The letter, four years ago, had read:

Dear Rick,

I have decided to take a holiday in France. I meant to discuss it with you, but every time I tried to talk to you, you were either going out the door, involved in work, or falling in exhaustion into bed. I simply cannot live like this anymore. As we never see one another anyway, what difference does it make if I take an extended holiday? Maybe we both need this time apart. I certainly do.

By the time you receive this letter, I suspect I shall have been at sea for some five or six hours. I shall stay at the Excelsior Hotel in Paris for the next month,
and I will inform you of my whereabouts after.

Your loving wife,

Leigh Anne

He hadn’t thought about that exact moment in many years and was stunned to recall every single line of her sordid letter.

“That was an ugly thing to say,” she said with surprising dignity, a wounded look in her eyes.

“I believe it was the truth,” he snapped, on the brink of losing his self-control.

“You are such a coward!” she cried. “I, at least, can admit my part in the failure of our marriage. But I have not heard you say, not even once, that you were even partly to blame. I married a man, not a lawyer. And what I wound up with was even less than that!”

“I shared every single dream I had while we were courting,” he snarled, feeling very vicious now. “I never hid the fact that I wished to reform society. You married me knowing I was a hardworking man.”

“I married you thinking you were going to take a normal job with normal hours! I married you thinking we would have a decent life—not one of poverty! I never dreamed I would be married to a ghost! As a lawyer, you must know you misrepresented yourself.”

“You know,” he began unbuttoning his nightshirt, furious, “other women do not leave their husbands. Marriage is until death. It became inconvenient for you and you left. You didn’t even think to work through a difficult time.”

“You don’t know what I thought—or what I think. You never have, Rick.” Tears filled her lovely eyes and her full lips quivered.

“I don’t care what you think anymore, Leigh Anne. And I certainly don’t mind our little agreement.” He smiled coldly at her and stepped out of the shirt. Her gaze instantly moved over his chest to his manhood. He ignored her and stepped into his long underwear. “I find our arrangement rather convenient. Obviously.”

It was a moment before she spoke. “Yes. That is obvious. You will always want me. You always have. That will never change.”

“In bed—yes, I rather think I will always want you. And why not?” He began buttoning up his dress shirt. “No one is better in bed, Leigh Anne, but I think you know that.”

“I enjoy sex and I am not ashamed to admit it. I enjoy it more with you than with anyone else, especially now,” she said, not even blinking. He could tell by her dilated pupils that she would not protest if he dragged her into his bed now.

And because he was tempted to do so, he hated himself and lashed out yet again at her. “Someone taught you well.”

“You taught me well, you fool!” she cried, trembling.

He stared, refusing to believe her, never mind the swarm of erotic memories. “You know, I have no trouble bedding you every night, but in six months I am getting my divorce. Nothing will change my mind.”

“Right now, I hate you,” she panted.

“Then leave.” He stared.

“Oh no. I am staying. I am staying, Rick, and no matter how cruel you think to be, how sordid, ugly, and mean, there is nothing you can do to change my mind.”

He stared.

She stared back. “Because I think I love you,” she said.

Instantly he flung out his arm and knocked an expensive crystal vase and two books from the bureau to the floor.

She flinched.

“Liar,” he said.

Francesca stood in the huge entry hall of Hart’s home, wringing her hands and telling herself over and over again that she did not have to make any decision now, especially not one that involved her entire future. Her internal protestations fell on her own deaf ears. It was as if the tiny seed of possibility had somehow taken root and become an unmovable and fully grown oak tree. It was as if she had
become some kind of puppet on a string, the puppeteer the Devil himself—Hart.

She shivered. If she really married him, could their friendship survive the trials and tribulations of marriage? She now realized how dear to her he had become. She never wanted to jeopardize their friendship.

He came striding into the front hall, clad in a tuxedo, the most handsome man she had ever seen—and would ever see. He was going out, she thought, dismayed. And jealousy overcame her. Which beauty would he be escorting on his arm? Would he bring her back here to his home, or would they go to hers or to some discreet hotel room?

“Francesca!” he cried, smiling broadly.

Instantly she found herself smiling back. He was so obviously thrilled to see her, and her heart turned over, hard. “Hello, Calder.”

He grasped both her hands, studied her face, and murmured, “Oh ho. You are as nervous as a hare. I am instantly suspicious, when you appear on my doorstep in such a state of anxiety. What’s wrong?”

She wet her lips, tugging her hands free of his. “Nothing. Not really. Well, I have been thinking. But I can see that you are on your way out.”

He stared. “I shall be late.” He took her arm and looped it in his, held it firmly against his side, and walked her into the same small salon they had been in the other day. Shutting both doors, he faced her. “You are usually the most coherent woman I know.”

She tried to smile, failed, and began trembling. “I have been thinking quite a bit.”

He smiled briefly in amusement. “Darling, no one thinks more than you. I doubt you ever give that clever brain of yours a rest. I am almost afraid to ask what the subject of your brooding is.”

“You.”

Now he folded both arms across his broad chest. His smile was gone. “Ah, I see.”

She was also hugging herself. “I have been considering your proposal, Hart.”

He dropped his arms, staring. He had become still.

She couldn’t smile. Her lips felt stiff, like brittle toffee. “It has become tempting,” she whispered hoarsely.

He didn’t move and he didn’t speak.

She wished he would say something. “I . . .” It was hard to speak. She saw herself standing in a church aisle in her wedding gown. She saw Hart at the aisle’s end, in his tuxedo, smiling, waiting for her, a minister before him.
What was she doing
?

“Good,” he said tersely.

Her gaze flew to his. Their gazes locked. She couldn’t look away, she couldn’t breathe, and briefly, she could not speak.

He stared. “Are you telling me that you have come to your senses? That you accept my suit?”

She nodded breathlessly.

His set face did not change. Not for a long, breathless moment. And then he began to smile, slowly, a smile that covered his face and reached his eyes. But it wasn’t broad. Speculation remained. “I am not going to ask why. I am afraid to know what mental gyrations have brought you to this point in time.” But his gaze was filled with a single question now:
Why
?

She wet her lips. “I mean, we hardly have any interests in common and—”

He approached her in a stride, pressed his fingertip to her mouth, silencing her. “Stop. Do not speak and do not move.”

She blinked, but he turned and left the room.

Her heart was overpowering her now with its speed.
Oh, dear God, she had done it
! She laid her hand upon her breast but could not calm it.
Oh, God
. She felt as if she were on a runaway locomotive, and even though the choice was hers, she simply did not understand herself. Yet she could not get off the train. Instinct told her to leap and run. For it would
crash, she was certain—but she was glued aboard it, for better or for worse.