Blue Waltz (16 page)

"Looks like this game is going to be finished before it ever gets started," Lewis commented.

"On the contrary. My apologies," Stephen stated, his tone crisp, surprising them all. "Enjoy your game." And then he left.

The men around the table weren't certain what to make of the sudden departure, only Belle didn't seem to care.

"Pass those cards around, Adam," Belle said, excitement lacing her blue eyes. "It's time to play."

Adam stared at the empty doorway.

"Come on, Adam," Belle said. "Not to worry. He won't be back. He had that look about him that he gets when he's been offended and knows he shouldn't have been offended, or at least that he shouldn't care that he's been offended." She shook her head. "It's a wonder you're not more like him. But thank the Lord you aren't."

Adam cringed, giving Belle pause. She was about to say something when the clock struck the half hour. "Oh, my Lord, the cakes!"

The men started in their seats and stared at her.

"I forgot the cakes," she cried. "Adam, I need

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sugar." She leaped out of her chair and snatched up the cup and thrust it at him. "Can you get me some sugar and bring it over to my house? I can't wait." She hurried to the door, then skidded to a precarious halt. She turned with a lopsided flourish. "All of you are invited over. We've made enough cakes for everyone." Then she dashed out of the room, only to stop short when she caught a glimpse of Stephen in his study. He stood at the window, looking out.

After a moment of just watching him she spoke. "I've made cakes," she said softly from the doorway.

Without turning back, he said, "So I've heard."

Red singed her cheeks. "Yes, hard not to when I'm hollering all over the place. I'm never quite the lady you think I should be."

He turned away from the window. Their eyes met and held. She saw the look—the one that said he was wondering if indeed the rumors were true, that she was crazy. Of course she had heard them—who hadn't? For a minute she cared. For a minute she wanted to turn back time and do things differently. But that, she knew with a sigh of defeat, was impossible.

With effort, she looked away, fading back to that place where censure and disdain couldn't touch her. "Nor will I ever be the lady you think I should be," she continued, her voice once again loud and laughing. "Nevertheless, you're still invited over for cake."

With that she gathered her long skirts and vanished; the only proof that she couldn't actually vanish like a magician was her voice rushing through the house when she hollered back, "Hurry with that sugar, Adam!" just before the door slammed shut.

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Stephen was angry with himself when not thirty minutes later he stood on the steps at her front door. Adam and the others had already gone over. Stephen held his hand firmly at his side as he stared at the hard plank of deep blue. Without warning, a conversation of long ago sprang up in his mind.

"It has to be blue." His mother's words. Followed by his father's laughter.

"Blue, my darling? I've never heard of a blue front door."

Stephen remembered his mother had pressed her head against his father's broad chest—his heart, Stephen thought suddenly. "We all need something blue in our lives, love."

And sure enough, the next day, the door had been painted blue. His father, a man who had been strong and intimidating when he wanted to be, Stephen realized for the first time ever, had given in to a frivolous bit of nonsense.

The thought staggered Stephen and he nearly turned away.

Ever since he had returned from Europe to find a party going on in his house, his life had ceased to make sense. Between Adam and Belle, Stephen found himself questioning facets of his world that didn't need questioning, and doing things that didn't need doing, like coming over here. He knew he should return home. He knew he should seek out a woman who was even and dependable, a woman who would be a respectable addition to his proper home. Instead, he was drawn to a woman who only did what he least expected, not to mention was least appropriate at every turn. It was like being attracted to a hurricane, only to be tossed about and battered. But, he conceded in spite of himself, as with such a deadly storm,

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there were times when he was at the center of her attention that he felt a startling calm, a tiny piece of heaven.

With no help for it, he knocked.

"Afternoon, Hastings."

"Good afternoon, sir." Hastings didn't step aside.

"I was invited this time," Stephen muttered, wondering how he had gotten into such a position—with a butler, no less.

"Ah yes, for cake, that would be." Hastings gestured for Stephen to enter. "You will find Mrs. Braxton in the kitchen."

And sure enough he did, not in a parlor or dining room, but in the kitchen. Adam and his friends were laughing and talking, perfectly at ease sitting around a long wooden table in Belle Braxton's kitchen.

"Stephen! You came!" Belle held a small, dull spreading knife in her hand, her blue eyes dancing with pleasure. "I've made a cake especially for you."

Stephen didn't move, couldn't seem to move. Suddenly he saw his mother. In the kitchen, twirling around, laughing, a spreading knife in her hand.

The kitchen had been filled with gaiety, the aroma of cooking, coffee. And happiness. Much like this one was now.

He looked at Belle, who had crossed to the counter and was busy icing a cake. Her hair was wild, streaked gray by flour. He had the sudden thought that she would look every bit as lovely when she was old.

Trying to draw his mind back to safer regions, he took in her attire. Askew, was all he could think. He wondered if she even knew how to dress appropriately. The dress, which had not lost any of the flour that had covered it at his house, was properly enough cut for a change. But, as if in defiance, Belle had pinned a large,

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fake, bright yellow flower to her chest. A sunflower, he thought.

"Do you like it?"

Stephen started. When he met her eyes she had turned back to him and was extending a plate. "The cake?" he asked.

"No, the flower. My tiny piece of sunshine," she explained, "in the dead of winter."

"It's . . . interesting."

"We all know what that means," she said with a laugh. "You don't like it at all. No matter." She emphasized the cake. "Take it, it's for you."

He glanced down at the plate she held before him. His eyes widened at the sight. Quickly, he took in everyone else's. They all held plates with oddly shaped cakes. Birds, he finally realized, though by now birds with legs and tails missing as the pastries were devoured.

"In honor of our first meeting." Her smile dazzled him. "A bullfinch."

And sure enough, Stephen noted, the cake was indeed shaped like a finch, but instead of red, blue-gray, and black, the breast, cap, chin, tail, and wings were done up in pink, orange, and green spotted icing.

"Do you like this?"

Her question was tentative, as if the cake was much more important than her flower. He glanced between Belle and her cake, and felt his tension rise. Cakes shaped like birds, lying on floors, searching out men in museums. His head spun with all the craziness. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe he was crazy for being drawn to her.

And his mother. To have thought, even for a fleeting moment, that there was any comparison to this woman, covered in flour, with hair like Medusa's. So unlike his mother with her proper sweep of hair and pristine flow of

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gown. But then the image came again—his mother laughing and twirling. He had the sudden thought that either his mother was crazy or Belle wasn't crazy at all. His head spun. Sweet Jesus, Belle was driving him mad.

Without ever taking the plate, or without another word, his jaw tight, his throat oddly strained, Stephen turned on his heel and pushed out through the kitchen's swinging door.

Belle stared at the door as it swung to a halt, hating the way she felt. She had no time for diversions, especially with a man like Stephen St. James, who undoubtedly had the power to divert her from her plans. The bullfinch in her hand was proof enough of that.

She pushed the strange sense of loss aside. She had no room in her life for Stephen. Her father would be arriving anytime now. And after that he would take her with him traveling around the world. Surely he would want to show her all the places he had been. Africa and the Himalayas, Spain and France. Her heart began to ease. Soon she would be leaving with her father to travel. And when they came back, they would settle into this house on Arlington Street that would soon be as perfect as the one in her dreams—in her father's dreams.

"Sorry about that," Adam said, breaking into her thoughts just as the other men trailed out of the kitchen as if Stephen's departure announced that the impromptu party was at an end.

But Belle wasn't sad to see them go. She suddenly had no energy to make small talk or enjoy her cakes. She even wished Adam would follow his friends and leave.

"Are you all right?" Adam asked, his voice soft.

She turned abruptly to face him. "Of course I'm all right."

"You have feelings for Stephen, don't you?"

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Her eyes widened. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know. The way you look at him, perhaps."

"The look, undoubtedly, is indigestion. Besides, what makes you think I don't have feelings for you?"

Adam smiled fondly. "Then marry me."

"Good God, what a pair we would make. No doubt Boston would be set on its puritanical ear if we were to set about together."

"My darling Belle. You have a sense of humor that I love. No wonder we get along so well."

"Well, sense of humor or not, I have no interest in marrying you or anyone else."

"Then we are of like minds when it comes to matrimony." His smile dimmed. "Though in the end I wonder if either one of us will be able to avoid it."

"Speak for yourself. I've already been married." For a second, the blurted words caught her off guard. But having lived with the reality of those words for so long, she shook them off after only a moment more. "I don't have to marry again."

If Adam noticed the awkward moment, he didn't let on. He simply laughed. "Only because the old goat left you a pantload of money."

"True. And you should do the same. Marry, that is, someone with money. What about that Clarisse Webster I saw you with the other day?"

Adam grimaced. "Please, Belle, it's too early in the day for such talk."

"Don't you like her?"

"You're avoiding the subject."

"Which is?"

"Stephen."

Belle groaned.

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"I'm certain you have feelings for him."

"The only feelings I have for your brother are impatience, then more impatience. An ornerier man I have never met. And bossy. Good Lord, he would try the patience of a saint, and I'm no saint."

Pursing his lips, Adam's eyes grew intense. "Don't be too hard on him. Though he would never talk about it, he's had more than his share of responsibility in his life."

"Because your parents died when the two of you were young?"

"He told you?"

"Yes. You seem surprised."

"Well, I am. Stephen rarely talks about our past, even to me."

"He didn't tell me much. And more than likely he was just plain angry and snapped at me."

"Then did he tell you that after our parents died he took over all of our father's responsibilities? I was only twelve, and some distant relative wanted me—for the money, I knew even then."

"No!"

"Yes. I was terrified. Not only had my parents simply never come home from what was supposed to be an afternoon outing, but people I didn't know wanted to take me away. But at only seventeen years of age, Stephen fought for me—and won. He's taken care of me ever since." Adam studied his fingernails. "He doesn't think I understand how hard it was for him over the years, but I do." Adam sighed. "No matter what else, he took care of me."

And suddenly she understood. With Adam's simple words, Belle understood the look she had seen in Stephen's eyes that night at the Bulfinch House. She had been correct. Stephen had experienced a moment of

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change—when his parents had died, leaving a seventeen-year-old with the full responsibilities of his father.

"And no matter how frustrated he makes me," Adam continued, breaking into her thoughts, "I'll always know that he is a fine man." He swallowed hard. "Much finer than I'll ever be."

She forced herself to concentrate on Adam. "Nonsense. You're a fine man, I know."

Adam sighed and she felt his sudden stab of pain.

"No, Belle, you just think you know me. You've been fooling yourself. Just don't keep fooling yourself about Stephen. For all his harsh and exacting ways, he's a very fine man, a man who would give his life for you if you would give him a chance."

Belle scoffed. "The last thing your brother wants from me is a chance."

Adam's smile was distant and sad as he headed for the kitchen door. "He wants a chance, Belle. He just doesn't know it yet."

The door swung shut behind him, but his words still hung awkwardly in the air.

Leaning back, Belle pressed against the counter. Plates with partially eaten cakes lay about, and she still held the bullfinch in her hand. Her precious bullfinch, which she had made for Stephen.

Stephen.

Her heart began to pound. Her pirate-man.

If only . . .

But "if onlys" meant nothing. If ever there were two people more ill-suited for one another, she didn't know of them. And she'd do well to remember that fact, just as she'd do well to steer clear of a man who she had sensed the first time she saw him could dissuade her from her path.

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Disappointment surged.