Blue Waltz (10 page)

He turned back to the crowd—but stopped abruptly before he completed the turn.

Houses, and widows, and coats of arms wrongly assumed fled from his mind, chased away by the mind-numbing sight that met his eyes. For there she stood, every detail remembered precisely. The woman who had plagued his mind. "Bluebell," he whispered.

"What, dear?" Louisa asked.

The roar in his ears was deafening. She was here. He had imagined her in a thousand different places. In the North End, one of many in a large family; in the South End, as the daughter of an Irishman. But never here. He had never imagined her here in the very midst of his world, standing with an ease that said she belonged.

"Stephen," Louisa persisted. "What is it?"

"That woman." Stunned, Stephen nodded toward the woman he had met at the Bulfinch House. "Who is she?"

Louisa peered through the crowd. "Who, Stephen?"

Adam's eyes followed as well. "Yes, who?"

"The woman, standing alone, in the lavender-and-gold gown. Who is she?"

It took a moment for Louisa to find the woman in question, but when she did, she gasped her delight. "Oh, my stars, that's the Widow Braxton, Stephen. Your neighbor."

CHAPTER 8

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, Stephen hardly believed it. Bluebell Holly was the Widow Braxton—the crazy Widow Braxton?

Louisa laughed, clutching her feathered fan to her breast. "You really haven't met her, have you, darling?"

"My word," Adam breathed. "She's beautiful. Stunning, really."

"I think so, too," Louisa responded. "As does every man in the room. Even the women are hard-pressed not to admit that she's striking. After all everyone has heard, you can imagine what we expected."

But Stephen hardly listened—and cared even less. He already knew the woman was beautiful, he already knew that her eyes were magical, and her lips enough to drive a man to distraction. What he hadn't known, however, was that she had lied to him. Bluebell Holly, indeed.

"Good God, Louisa," Adam said. "This is the daughter of a Landford and a gardener?"

"Groundskeeper, dear. There's a difference, you know."

"Of course, of course." Adam continued to stare across the room at the widow. "But tell me, what else do you know about her?"

She glanced between Stephen and Adam, seeming to debate if she dared go on, before she said, "I don't know much more to tell. As I said, it was all kept very hush-

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hush. You can imagine that Raymond Lanford rued the day he ever allowed that man onto his estate to tend a single blade of grass. He died, you know,- Mr. Landford that is, not too long after the daughter ran away, with his wife to follow him to the grave soon after." Louisa shook her head. "Such a shame. Neither the Landford girl nor the groundskeeper were ever seen again. And not a word about them was uttered to my knowledge until their daughter, Belle, showed up a few months ago."

Stephen turned away from Louisa with a start. He scanned the crowd, searching. "Belle," he whispered. "With eyes so blue it was almost painful. Not Bluebell, but Blue Belle. Blue Belle. That must be it."

"What must be it, Stephen?" Adam asked.

Stephen seemed surprised to find his brother standing there.

"What are you talking about?"

At length Stephen focused on his brother. "Nothing. I was just mumbling to myself." He turned back. Just then a knot of people broke up, revealing her. She hadn't lied about her name. He was irrationally pleased.

He watched. Her smile was soft, at ease. She took in the room, seemed to study a Chinese vase, find enjoyment in a Chippendale chair. She appeared content to stand alone. But then a woman he had known his whole life, but whose name he couldn't recall, approached Belle and began to speak with animated gestures. Soon Belle was joined by another woman, then another, until a circle of women surrounded her.

Stephen watched as her smile faded and her body visibly tensed. He could see that she felt cornered. He had thought she looked so at ease, as if she belonged. He was wrong, or at least partially, because just like the night he met her—only last night, if that was possible—she ap-

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peared once again to be invincible, but strangely weak. And like last night in the Bulfinch House, he felt the sudden need to go to her—to protect her. But before he could move, the women stepped away. It was then that their eyes met.

Emotions leaped in her eyes like so many flames in the nearby fireplace. They stood forever, neither moving, lost in each others' gaze.

He expected her to feel many things when she saw him. Guilt, shock, embarrassment, panic. She had slipped from his house, after all, no better than a common scullery girl. But he was totally unprepared for the dazzling smile which she offered him like a gift. No guilt, no discomfort, only surprise and perhaps pleasure at seeing him there.

"Louisa," Stephen said* never turning away from Belle, afraid to look away for fear that she would disappear yet again. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to introduce me to my neighbor."

"That's a grand idea," Adam interjected. "I'd love to meet our neighbor."

Stephen eyed his younger brother for a moment, unsure of what he felt. Could it be that Adam was interested in this woman out of all the women he had run across? Was it possible that this woman was the one woman who could capture his brother's imagination and make him happy—this woman who plagued Stephen's mind at every turn? Was Adam as mesmerized as he?

"Come along, fellows. What fun! I'm going to have the pleasure of introducing Boston's two most eligible bachelors to the newest and most intriguing lady in town. The girls will all be atwitter."

Stephen watched Belle as they approached. She stood very still, her porcelain features washed clean of

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emotion. Common sense told him she would be nervous. But he was learning rather quickly that common sense failed to apply when dealing with this curious woman.

"Belle, dear," Louisa began, "I have the pleasure of introducing you to Stephen and Adam St. James. Brothers, you know. Your neighbors, in fact. I just learned that you had never met."

Adam stepped forward before Stephen had a chance. "Mrs. Braxton. Adam St. James."

Belle's smile was friendly and welcoming as she offered her hand. "Mr. St. James. It is so nice to meet you."

"And this is his brother," Louisa offered, "Stephen."

Belle turned, and their eyes met once again. Stephen stared at her, his dark eyes penetrating. "Mrs. Braxton," he said simply, with a slight tilt of brow.

She stared back, her smile faltering, though only momentarily, until she extended her hand. "Mr. St. James. A pleasure to meet you."

As if they had never met before.

Stephen held her hand, longer than was appropriate, before she finally pulled away with a look and a quiet laugh that had nothing to do with vulnerability, rather amusement—as if she found the scene secretly amusing. Stephen set his jaw. She was laughing at him.

Louisa cleared her throat and giggled nervously, before she reached out and took Belle's hand in her own. "It's time we go in for dinner. Adam, why don't you escort Belle to the dining room? I've placed her between you and Stephen."

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They were seated at ten round tables of eight instead of one long table as Belle had expected. And true enough, Belle found herself seated between her neighbors, with the remaining seats taken up by an older

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woman, the widow Roberta Hathaway; a Reverend and Mrs. Paul Fielding; and a Mr. and Mrs. William Smythe.

"So tell me, Mrs. Braxton . . ." Adam began.

"Call me Belle, please."

"Well then, Belle, tell me how you're finding Boston?"

Everyone at the table turned to her, clearly waiting for her response. Seven sets of eyes, staring. Sounds faded until all was quiet in her head, the scene looking more like a frozen daguerreotype than real life.

"Belle?"

She turned to Adam with a start. "Fine. I like it fine enough. Though it isn't at all what I expected."

"So very different from Wrenville?" Josephine Fielding asked.

Belle stiffened and tilted her head. "No secrets here, I see."

Everyone sat still. Adam looked on with a smile. Stephen simply looked on. No one said anything until the Widow Hathaway leaned forward on the other side of Stephen and peered at Belle. "Not a secret to be had, my dear. Not a one. People all living close together, everyone knowing everyone else's business. It's tiresome I tell you," she said, banging the table with her hand, making the silverware jump. "But such is life."

Belle liked her instantly. "And probably not so very different from Wrenville in that respect." She looked at Mrs. Fielding. "You simply surprised me. I haven't told a soul where I came from. To find that everyone knows anyway is disconcerting."

Josephine shifted in her seat and seemed to search through her mind trying to find something appropriate to say.

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Belle didn't wait; she turned to Stephen. "So tell me, Mr. St. James, what happened to all your parties?"

Stephen rested casually against the chair back, the stark black sling holding his arm tight against his chest. "What parties?"

"You're teasing." She gave him a reprimanding look.

"No, I'm—"

"Stephen," Adam interjected, his voice low and embarrassed, "the parties," he said with emphasis.

It took a moment, but eventually Stephen understood. "Oh yes, the parties, Adam's parties. I was out of town. And I assure you there will be no more such affairs in the future."

Belle laughed at this and glanced at Adam. "I should have known. I was having a difficult time reconciling your perfectly respectable brother with raucous parties."

"You know him?" Adam demanded. "I thought you just met."

The question surprised her. Her eyes met Stephen's. Yes, they had met. More than met. This dark, dangerous pirate-man had saved her from the cold.

After a moment, she looked away and forced a laugh just as several pigeon-breasted footmen placed steaming bowls of soup before them.

"This looks delicious," Belle answered instead.

"You've met?" Adam persisted, ignoring the soup.

Stephen still stared at Belle as if he too waited for her response.

"Briefly," she murmured, just before she sipped the soup. "What is this? It's delicious."

Everyone looked down at their bowls at the same time. "Well, I believe it is some sort of consomme," Mrs. Smythe offered hesitantly.

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Mrs. Fielding took a sip. "Brunoise. Consomme Bru-noise, I think."

"How do you know that?" Belle asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Mrs. Fielding sat back. "Well, I don't know, really. I guess it's the turnip and chervil that distinguishes it from other consommes."

"I wish I could cook like this," Belle said.

Josephine's eyes grew intense. "But surely you have a cook."

"Well, yes, and Maeve is wonderful. But still, I'd love to be able to cook something like this. Or at the very least, be able to recognize turnips and chervil and such." Belle went on with her soup as everyone at the table stared at her.

"Stephen, you never told me that you met our neighbor!" Adam ignored the soup as he looked back and forth between his brother and Belle.

Stephen reached over and picked up the rounded spoon to the right of the long row of knives. "At the time I was unaware of who she was."

Belle eyed him, her lips quirked up in a smile. "Would it have mattered if you had?"

Stephen's spoon halted midway to his mouth. After a frozen second he cleared his throat and consumed the soup.

"Ah," the Widow Hathaway interjected smoothly, "the next course."

The soup bowls had barely been taken away before thick cuts of roast beef with onion dressing, Duchess potatoes, and red cabbage were set before them. But with the fare came an almost palpable tension.

Belle felt it. She would have sworn Josephine Fiel-

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ding cleared her throat nervously. Even Adam seemed uncertain.

Belle watched as Stephen stared at the meat on his plate—the meat that would undoubtedly take a knife, fork and two hands to cut.

How would he do it? she wondered. And she wondered as well why it mattered to him. She nearly said as much. But just then, she glanced back at his face and words caught in her throat when she saw it again, that look in his eye she recognized. Pain and frustration, all mixed up with pride—hating the inability to do for oneself, hating the weakness.

Her world began to buzz and spin. But unlike that night at the Bulfinch House, this time she wouldn't flee, indeed, couldn't flee short of staggering out of Mrs. Elden Abbot's dining room with some vague apology about having to leave. No, she wouldn't do that. Instead, she concentrated on cutting up her own meat into orderly, square, bite-sized little pieces, the precision of the action easing her. The others began to talk nervously all around her as if embarrased, clearly uncertain as to how to handle such an awkward situation with such a notoriously forbidding man.

Conversation grew more strained as Stephen sat silently, the tension from his body radiating in all directions. Belle was sure that Stephen sensed their unease. She felt his rage grow as if it were her own.

"So, Mrs. Braxton," Reverend Fielding said, clearly uncomfortable. "How do you like our Public Gardens? I'm sure you had nothing like it in Wrenville."

The voice came at her as if tumbling down a long hollow tunnel, echoing in her head. For a moment her hands stilled in their labor and she did nothing more than stare at him blankly.