Blue Waltz (25 page)

222 Linda Francis Lee

that she was greatly attracted to him. She wanted him, whether she was willing to admit it or not.

Things were definitely falling into place. Marriage was a perfectly logical arrangement. He needed a wife. She needed a husband. And since she was going to be his wife, he had gone out that morning and found a seamstress to make her a new wardrobe. While he was at it, he had hired a renowned French chef to teach her how to cook, and a leading authority on manners to teach his dear Belle the finer points of etiquette.

He pulled his coat on. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he told her.

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"Oh, Adam, everything will work out," Belle said, trying to believe the words herself. But it was difficult. Anxiety crept back into her soul.

Adam was hurt, but she didn't know how to help.

Anxiety grew into panic, wrapping around her, making it difficult to breathe.

We will dance, Blue Belle.

The words hit her hard. "Not now," she whispered into the room. She pushed away.

Tears streaked Adam's stubbled cheeks.

"Adam, dear, why don't you go splash some water on your face? There's a basin in my room."

She needed a moment alone, to gather herself.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Adam disappeared through the doorway that led to her bedroom.

In the grandest of ballrooms.

With wild eyes, she searched the room. She searched for something to command her attention, something to wash her mind clean. But the music was gone, and she still had found nothing else to take its place.

Except for Stephen.

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"Has anyone told you today how beautiful you are?"

Belle twirled around at the sound of the voice. His voice. As if her thoughts had made him appear.

"Stephen," she breathed, afraid that her imagination was playing tricks on her.

Her heart pounded. Adam and painful memories were pushed aside, at least for the moment, as Stephen stood no more than a few feet from her, so handsome that he took her breath away. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt and thigh-hugging black pants, so unlike the stiff black coat and trousers he normally wore. His black hair was tousled, as if he had been out in the wind, and she had the sudden need to run her fingers through the mass, smoothing it back, relishing the feel.

Tears stung her eyes. God, he made her feel things she didn't understand—more than simply quieting her mind. Her eyes nearly fluttered closed as those unfamiliar feelings washed over her.

"Good thing I'm younger than Hastings. He's right behind me, as usual, attempting to throw me out on my ear."

Relief swept through her. His words were real. He was truly there. Once again, he had saved her. "Oh, Stephen," she practically sang. "How lovely it is to see you."

He chuckled and stepped forward into the room. "This is a change. I'm not used to receiving such a welcome." His smile turned devilish. "There must be a reason," he teased. "You must want me to engage in some outrageous act and I have fallen into your hands by arriving on my own."

His smile was lopsided and she yearned to reach out and touch his lips. Perhaps he was correct. She did want to coerce him into an outrageous act. She wanted him to kiss her and hold her . . . and vanquish the darkness.

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"Miss Belle!"

Hastings stopped in the doorway and slumped against the frame, his normally perfectly combed gray hair falling across his forehead, his breathing labored as if he had run the whole way.

"Sorry, Hastings," Stephen said. "Had to do it. If it were up to you, I'd never get to see Mrs. Braxton." He walked back and actually wrapped his long, strong arm around the servant's shoulders. "Rest assured, I'm pleased that you feel so protective of her."

Hastings was as shocked as Belle at the change in the notoriously proper Stephen St. James. Putting an arm around a servant? Belle had the unexpected thought that perhaps there was something in the weather that was making people act strangely.

Stephen slapped the man on the back good-naturedly, then turned him back toward the stairs. "She's safe with me, not to worry."

"But . . ." Hastings looked at Belle.

"It's all right, Hastings." She met Stephen's gaze. "He can stay."

After a moment of clear indecision, Hastings said, "As you wish," before disappearing down the hall.

"He's a good man," she said softly.

"I agree with you now, though just a few weeks ago I was ready to wring his neck."

Belle turned away, her gown swirling a bit around her ankles. "I think he still wants to wring yours."

"Probably," he responded, his smile boyish as he stepped further into the room.

His good cheer, however, was lost on Belle when she suddenly remembered Adam. What could she do? What should she do? Panic threatened once again. But then Stephen came up beside her, and when he did, their

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shoulders collided softly. The touch was electric. She felt it. She was certain he felt it, too.

But the moment collapsed, Stephen's chiseled features hardening, when Adam stepped through the doorway, out of her bedroom.

Adam stopped at the sight of his brother. "Stephen," he said, his tone self-conscious.

Belle's relief died an unmerciful death at the look that came into Stephen's eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Adam asked.

Stephen stared at his brother. "A better question might be, what are you doing here?" His dark eyes ran the length of him. "Or need I ask?" His question hung in the air, his meaning clear.

Belle went to Adam, wrapping her arm around him. "You should ask. And the two of you should talk."

Stephen looked on, the sight making his throat tighten. Belle stood next to Adam, caring and concerned, protective. His jealousy grew.

Suddenly, he was years younger. He saw his mother comforting Adam, whispering words of love. Stephen felt the stinging bite of regret. He had always been jealous of Adam's easy relationship with their mother. So often as a child Stephen had longed to throw himself in her arms and cry. But that wouldn't do. His father wouldn't have approved. Even Stephen, at such a young age, had known that there was a different set of rules for him than for his younger brother. Sometimes he hated the fact, though at other times it made him proud. He had made his father proud. Growing up, that had been all-important to him. As a result, he had chosen to have a solid relationship with his father over an easy relationship with his mother. And as he stood silently, his throat tight and aching as Belle wrapped her arms protectively around Adam, Ste-

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phen realized with a sharp pang of regret that his mother had known he had made a choice.

Would he lose Belle, too? Would Adam's easy way gain Belle's love?

With his heart clenched and cold, he started back toward the door.

"Stephen!" Belle said. "Please don't go."

"Don't leave because of me," Adam added. "It's not what you think."

Was it? Wasn't it? Stephen didn't know.

He looked back. They stood together, Adam and Belle, as motes of dust, caught in a long ray of sun, drifted through the room. He knew they shared some sort of affinity that he neither understood nor could duplicate. And like so many times in his past he felt alone, disconnected.

Belle came forward and touched his arm. "Stephen. Please don't leave."

Stephen cleared his throat uncomfortably, then started to step away.

"Don't go," she whispered, the words like a caress.

His heart tightened in his chest. He didn't want to go. When he turned back, Stephen saw something different in her eyes. With a start, it occurred to him that her words hadn't been a caress. They had been a plea. Her eyes were desperate, filled with that haunted desperation he hated to see. He realized then that regardless of whatever it was that she shared with Adam, his brother couldn't extinguish the darkness in her eyes. But somehow, he could. The thought gave him hope.

As if sensing this truth, Adam headed for the door. "I've got to go," he said with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

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"Please stay, Adam," she said. "The two of you need to talk."

"No. Not now, at least," he equivocated. "I have an appointment."

And then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs.

Belle and Stephen stared at the empty doorway.

"Talk to him, Stephen. He needs you." She turned to face him. "Just as I need you . . ."

Surprise snaked down his body.

". . . to kiss me," she added almost desperately.

He stood speechless. And when he finally spoke, his voice was strained. "I don't think that is wise," he finally managed.

It wasn't embarrassment that he saw fill her eyes, but hurt, as if he had rejected her. "Oh, Belle, don't look at me like that."

"You think I'm horrible. First, I'm never quite the lady you think I should be; now, I'm throwing myself at you, proof that I'm no lady at all."

He knew he should make rational explanations. He knew he should tell her that he wanted to hold her and to kiss her, but that he respected her, and therefore would wait. The words, however, stuck in his throat. As always, he wanted her, propriety and better intentions be damned. "You have proved nothing but that you care for me as much as I care for you."

A sudden wariness sprang to life in her eyes. But then it was gone, as if imagined, when he took her into his arms. She tensed only for a moment before she melted against the hard strength of his chest.

He kissed her hair, then her forehead, his lips trailing lower until he kissed her cheek. And then, amazing him, she turned her head ever so slightly until her lips met his.

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He groaned at the touch, savoring the contact, running his hands up her arms to the slim column of her neck. Their kiss became heated. He nibbled at her lips, his tongue flicking, feeling. At his insistence, she hesitantly opened her mouth, her body melting into his when their tongues intertwined. She pressed closer, as if seeking the fire his fingers ignited as they danced over her body.

"Stephen," she murmured, her eyes closed.

He pulled back to look into her eyes. He held still until her eyes fluttered open, vivid blue colored with desire.

"How is it, Belle, that you make me lose control?"

Before she could speak, he pulled her back with a groan, his lips capturing hers in a savage embrace.

His mouth slanted over hers, almost desperately. "Oh, God," he murmured against her lips, growing hard and long against her belly.

His hand trailed down her back, pressing their bodies together.

She felt his heart pounding against his ribs, though they were pressed together so tightly, Belle was uncertain where his heartbeat ended and hers began. Unwanted memories were gone as her fingers found their way into the thick strands of his glossy dark hair. Her senses reeled when his tongue demanded entry to the hidden recesses of her mouth once again to explore and taste, leaving her shaking with longing.

"Belle," he murmured. "Sweet, sweet Belle."

Her body was flushed with desire, awash with waves of a new and overwhelming need. With trembling limbs she clung to him, lost in the swirl of mounting passion that centered at the core of her being. Her body throbbed with sensation, and she wanted more.

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His hands trailed up over her hips and along her sides until the heels of his palms pressed intimately against the full swell of her breasts. The contact made her heart pound even harder, with both fear and anticipation. When she felt his long, strong fingers move to the row of tiny buttons down the front of her dress, she thought of stopping him for no more than one sanity-filled moment. She wanted to feel his hands caress her bare skin. She wanted his touch. Finally, she thought. Finally she would know.

The buttons on her gown gave way, and her chemise fell free with surprising ease under his deft manipulations. She nearly commented on the fact but was stopped when his fingertips touched her skin.

She sucked in her breath when he breathed her name. Her head fell back and her body trembled when he opened his hot mouth on the pulse in her neck.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her out of the sitting room and into her bedroom. With great care, he lowered her onto the thick feather bed, until she lay on her back, his hard chest pressed against hers.

"You are so beautiful," he said, his gaze worshipful.

"So are you," she whispered, making him smile.

But his smile disappeared when he looked down and took in the rosy peaks of her breasts. Without another word, he lowered his head and pulled one nipple deep into his mouth.

She arched her back against the bed and moaned. Never had she felt such a sensation. Her hands came up and tangled in his hair, pressing him closer. He laved one nipple, then the next, while his hand reached down and gathered the long folds of her skirt, until he touched the sweet curve of her hip. He moved slightly to the side until only one strong leg covered hers.

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His hand trailed over her body beneath her velvet gown and she whimpered with the intensity of her response. She wasn't sure which would be worse—for Stephen to stop, or to continue. She felt as if she were burning up, hot, molten, wanting more, but what exactly she was yearning for, she had no idea.

She gasped when his fingers slipped beneath her pantaloons and brushed against the triangle of hair between her legs. "Stephen!"

"Shhh," he whispered. "Let me love you."

And then with maddening attention he teased the lips of her sex. She held on to him, afraid to let go. When his fingers stopped, she was nearly overcome with embarrassment when of their own volition her hips moved against his hand.

"Sweet Jesus," he groaned, his manhood burgeoning almost painfully. "You are filled with so much passion." And then he was lost.