Blue Waltz (11 page)

"A little too big for my tastes, Mr. Fielding," she said with surprising ease. "In fact, look at that painting over there. It reminds me of the Public Gardens." She nodded toward the opposite end of the room. Everyone turned, and with a sleight-of-hands that would have done a magician proud, Belle switched her plate with Stephen's.

A heartbeat passed, before she felt his tension increase, rolling over her like a wave of frigid cold water. Her world grew silent. Time held no meaning. She had insulted him, she thought with heart-wrenching certainty, when she had only been trying to help.

She told herself she didn't care, but she knew it wasn't true. She cared very much. And she hated that she cared.

Her body tensed much as Stephen's had. She wanted to go, flee out into the cold night. Why was it that she couldn't do anything right?

The question was painfully familiar. She had asked it of herself so many times she wondered why it wasn't emblazoned on her chest. She- took a deep breath, then very softly—very, very softly—started to hum.

She didn't hear the others comment on the painting. She only heard the tune as it spun in her head, around and around, dipping and swaying, tangling with her thoughts.

"One of these days," Stephen began, his tone deep and low, "I'm going to put a name to that song."

His voice startled her. Her heart lurched, but when she glanced at him and their eyes met, it calmed. He had

94 Linda Francis Lee

a look on his face that would have been deep and brooding to most, but Belle saw that his dark eyes flickered, however slightly, with gratitude. He wasn't angry, she realized, relief washing over her much as his tension had earlier. He was grateful and pleased, and she started to reach out to him.

"What song is that, Stephen?" Mr. Fielding wanted to know.

With a blush of color, Belle dropped her hand away.

Looking at Belle rather than the reverend, Stephen said, "Just a song I seem to hear everywhere I go these days."

"Really? Hum a few bars. Maybe I can help."

Everyone waited, all apparently eager to hear the tune. Stephen sensed that at any second Belle was going to flee, panicked, much as she had last night. Without regard for those who were around them, he started to place his hand over hers. But he never got much further than the thought when her distress magically evaporated like a tiny spill of water on a blistering hot day and she clasped her hands together.

"It could be like a game, really," she chimed. "A game where a person hums a tune and everyone else tries to guess the title. We could call it the Humming Game."

Stephen sat nonplussed as did everyone else, until Adam threw back his head and laughed.

"You are priceless, Belle Braxton," he said, taking her hand much as Stephen had wanted to do. "In fact, I think we should play right now. I'll go first."

The Fieldings and the Smythes shifted uncomfortably. But Roberta smiled. "No, dear boy, I'll go first." And indeed she did.

It seemed beyond belief. But there was no denying the fact that woven into the fabric of near silence at their

Blue Waltz95

table and the murmur of conversation at the tables around them, was the deep baritone of the Widow Roberta Hathaway's tune.

At first no one said anything, and Stephen thought for certain that they were going to lock Roberta away any second, with Belle close behind her, maybe even Adam for good measure. But he couldn't have been any more surprised when Josephine—Josephine Fielding, the president of the Women's League—leaned forward in her chair and called, "The Merry Wives of Windsor!"

"Just so!" Roberta exclaimed.

And before long the entire table was involved, with the exception of Stephen, who sat back and watched in amazement. The table became so lively, in fact, that they began to attract attention. But Stephen was hardly aware of the attention, he only watched Belle. He was alternately intrigued and bemused by someone so outrageous.

Belle had guessed Josephine's tune, then promptly launched into a song of her own, unrelated to the tune she had hummed earlier. She actually used her hands to conduct herself with delicate fingers dipping and swaying in the air, eyeing each person at the table with blue eyes sparkling excitedly. Her excitement was contagious, and when the tunes had ceased with the arrival of subsequent courses, and conversation spun off into a million different directions, Stephen watched as if studying a curious phenomenon.

Belle was direct, impulsive, original, and had a droll wit. She said unconventional things which others thought but dared not speak, and amazingly, she said them well. Suddenly, he wondered if that was why people said she was crazy. He wondered, too, if it wasn't perhaps true. But as he sat back in his chair, the meat she had cut for him gone, he found it difficult to remain indifferent. He

96 Linda Francis Lee

felt some nameless something infiltrate his mind. It wasn't the lust or even sorrow he had felt the night before. It was something else, deeper, harder to grasp. And thoughts of craziness disappeared into the candlelit room.

Belle turned to Adam, her smile radiant. "I haven't had a chance to thank you for giving up your home, Adam. It is so lovely and I will cherish it always."

Adam shifted uncomfortably.

At the sight of Belle's smile, so gentle, directed at his brother, Stephen felt that nameless something shift inside of him, shift to something harsh and unforgiving. "About the house, Mrs. Braxton," Stephen said, his tone sharp.

Belle started in her seat, her blue eyes suddenly dark, her smile gone as if it had never been there. "What about the house, Mr. St. James?"

"There's a problem with the contract."

Adam groaned.

"Really? I can't imagine what it is. I can't imagine that there could be a problem, Mr. St. James," she continued, leaning closer, "unless you make one."

He looked at her for one long disconcerted moment without speaking, before he lowered his voice and leaned closer. "I am unsure if you are extremely naive, Mrs. Braxton, or quite good at manipulation."

He expected her to suck in her breath, to be outraged. Belle Braxton only smiled and touched his arm. "I am unsure if you are truly as ill-tempered as you seem, Mr. St. James, or if you merely put on a very good show."

Thankfully the only person paying any attention to them was Adam, and he appeared to be torn between disbelief and the need to disappear.

Stephen stared at Belle's hand, which touched his arm, barely, just a hint of warmth coming through his

Blue Waltz97

coat sleeve. And he wanted more. Her fingers were long, though not too long, white and smooth, with short, well-kept nails, tiny crescent moons at the ends. "Careful, Mrs. Braxton." He practically whispered the words. "You really should be wary of me. Ask anyone. I don't like being toyed with." He glanced at her fingers on his arm once again, before returning her gaze. "Or at the very least, you should be concerned for your reputation."

This time Belle glanced down at her hand on his arm, though she didn't move it away. "A twenty-nine-year-old widow with more money than she knows what to do with has little need of a reputation, sir." Her smile became tight, somehow superior, before she lifted her hand away.

Yet again, Stephen was left with the impression that somehow this woman, this.crazy woman, had bested him at some game for which he had yet to learn the rules. But before he could regain his balance, she nodded toward his sling, changing the subject with no apparent concern for continuity. "So tell me, Mr. St. James, what happened to your arm?"

Stephen was distinctly aware of the hiss of breath between Adam's teeth.

"A shooting accident," he said simply, shrugging his good shoulder. "In the country. Embarrassing, really." Stephen sat perfectly still, with a quick glance at Adam, daring him to contradict him.

"Tell me, Belle," Adam interrupted, "have you made any changes to my . . . rather, your house."

Belle ignored him. "Regardless of where you were shot, be it the country or . . . anywhere else, shouldn't you be using the arm by now? It's been weeks."

"Why do you say that?" He had only met her the night before.

98 Linda Francis Lee

Waving her hand in the air, Belle said, "Who cares why? You should be using your arm."

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Braxton, the doctor," Stephen said coldly, "thinks otherwise."

"Hogwash! Your doctor obviously doesn't know the first thing about anything." She reached over, took a hold of his bad wrist, and pulled slightly. Stephen grimaced. "See," she said, "it hurts."

It was all Stephen could do to keep from putting the woman in her place, but something stopped him. Was it hope—that same feeling he'd had when walking toward her while she had lain asleep in his bed—that same feeling he hadn't had since his parents hadn't come home?

"If it didn't hurt, if you didn't have any feeling in the arm, it would be one thing. But, good Lord, that arm has healed and now it's just stiff. It needs to be worked, and it can. It's your head that isn't working, along with that foolish doctor of yours."

If it had been hope Stephen had felt, it fled in the face of her insult. His stiff implacable form stiffened even further and Adam nearly dropped his head onto his folded arms on the table.

"Now I've offended you." She sighed. "Unintentionally, of course. And simply because I spoke the truth. Well, as I see it, that's your problem, not mine."

Just then the footman placed a dessert in front of Belle. Excitement sparkled in her eyes. "It looks wonderful. What is it?" she asked no one in particular.

Stephen shook his head in dismay. Would she never do anything he expected?

"It's a cherry tart," Adam said.

"Cherry tart. It looks delicious."

"You've never tasted a cherry tart?" Adam asked in disbelief.

Blue Waltz 99

"No, never." She cut a bite with her fork and put it in her mouth.

Stephen watched her curiously before, in spite of himself, he leaned close. "Where have you been all your life . . . Blue Belle?"

Belle looked up, startled, her fork held forgotten in her hand.

"Where have you been and what have you been doing that you haven't had a cherry tart?"

The light in her eyes dimmed. With apparent effort, she set her fork down, slowly, carefully, then started to rise. But before she could flee, Stephen reached out and grasped her hand. "Don't," he implored her without thinking, his normally fathomless eyes betraying emotion. "Don't disappear on me again."

She took a deep troubled breath, staring down at their hands, sun-bronzed against light. "Not twenty minutes ago you said I should be wary of you."

Her words caught him off guard, leaving him at a loss. But he didn't let go, couldn't seem to let go. "True," he said finally. "But first, eat your cherry tart, then be wary of me."

It seemed to Stephen that she sat there forever, staring at something very different and very far away from their hands which lay together on the linen cloth. And just when he expected her to lift her eyes to his and offer him one of her radiant smiles, she pulled her hand free and stood.

"Thank you, but no," she whispered. "I'd best go." And then she did just that, heading for the elegant doors which led to the stairs that would take her below.

Stephen nearly followed her. He pushed to his feet, the rest of the guests at their table turned to stare. But the image of her gaudy dress and her awkward gait mixing with the memory of her outrageous and irreverent behavior seared his mind. And in the end, he simply sat back down and watched her go. Not realizing he had begun to hum softly, quietly, he told himself he was relieved she was gone.

CHAPTER 9

"What do you mean, Mrs. Braxton isn't available for letters just now?"

Wendell stood in the doorway of Stephen's study, a wax-sealed letter on a silver tray extended in his white-gloved hand. Stephen stood behind his desk, his good hand palm down on the top, his other holding a small leather-bound ball stuffed with horsehair.

"Well, sir, the maid took the missive, said 'Hold your horses,' I believe, then shut the door in my face, made me wait on the front steps for a good long while, before she returned, handed the letter back to me and said, 'My mistress is unavailable for letters just now.' With that the woman shut the door in my face yet again."

"Unavailable! How can anyone be unavailable for letters, I ask you?" Stephen pushed away and began to pace, his bad hand squeezing the ball rhythmically. "All I wanted to do was show her my progress," he muttered.

"Yes, and such good progress, if I could be so bold as to say so, sir."

Stephen glanced down at his hand, distracted. "Who does she think she is?"

"Pardon, sir?"

Stephen's gaze focused on the butler. "Nothing, nothing. Just talking to myself." He cringed at this. "Talking to myself. Before long I'll be as crazy as she is supposed to be just by trying to deal with her." He shook his

102 Linda Francis Lee

head before tossing the ball on his desk, then picking the letter up off the tray. "All right, then, I'll just go over there myself," he said with grim purpose.

"To the Widow Braxton's?" Wendell asked, his normally unflappable demeanor flapping a bit. "As I said, she's not receiving."

Stephen didn't respond, but gave the man a look that said as clearly as words that he had stepped out of line. Then, without a hat or coat, Stephen stalked out his front door, then up the first set of stairs he came to. "She'll receive me, by damn," he muttered, taking up the brass ring with his good hand and bringing it down on the lion's head base with a crash.

His sharp, impatient knock was answered by a butler. "May I help you, sir?" the man inquired in droll tones, his chin jutting forward with importance.

Stephen held out the letter. "I've brought this for Mrs. Braxton."

"Very good, sir." Hastings took the letter, turned away and started to shut the door.

Stephen flattened the palm of his hand against the blue plank. "I expect a response."