Blue Waltz (33 page)

He longed to feel her rosebud nipples from beneath her velvet gown, to caress them with his tongue, make them rise.

Ignoring shoulds and shouldn'ts, Stephen swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Bracing one knee on the mattress, he lowered her, his body following hers until he was stretched out over her, his hard lean thigh coming to rest between her own. With her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her head flung back, he

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caressed her body with his lips as he moved the fabric away to touch skin until they each laid together entwined, their clothes tossed aside, forgotten on the floor.

When she tried to cover her leg, he pushed her hands away. "I love you, Belle, all of you." Then he ran his fingers up her arm to her breast, making her forget.

He took one nipple in his mouth, as he had longed to do, laving the bud until she moaned, her back arching to his touch. Her fingers wound their way into his hair.

When he moved between her legs, she raised her knees. He pressed against her sweet opening. She was tight, too tight, he thought fleetingly. But she whimpered, and moved against him, causing him to slide deeper, ceasing all thought. He pushed forward, her back arching, as she tried to take him in. But then he came to a barrier.

Belle Braxton, undeniably, was a virgin.

"Belle," he began, confused.

But Belle only pulled him closer, tears streaming down her cheeks to fall unheeded into the bed. "Love me, Stephen," she repeated, moving against him. "Stop asking questions."

And then he thought no more.

With one strong thrust, he broke through the proof of so much that was wrong. He cried out with sheer, maddening sensation. She quickly muffled her cry of pain against his shoulder. Heat alchemized into desire, then into uncontrolled passion, raging, burning them both in the storm. He moved within her, his lips devouring her body. And just when he heard her cry out and felt her body quiver with its release, he remembered the day he was afraid he had become the moth to her flame. He was no longer afraid. If this was what it was like to burn, then so be it. And just as he thrust one last time, crying out with his own release, he was certain he would never be the same.

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Long moments passed before his heart slowed. He could feel hers imitating his own.

"Belle," he murmured, his body still against hers, holding her tight, skin pressed against skin, his eyes oddly burning. He felt so much, but had such inadequate words to explain. Love certainly only scratched the surface of his emotions. But as his heart slowed, and the intensity of the moment passed, other feelings set in. The confusion returned, along with all the questions, and though he knew he should set them aside, he couldn't. "I don't understand. What has your life been before you came here?"

Raising up on his elbows, he looked deep into her eyes. Dark hair lay wild against the light pillow casing. Blue eyes looked back at him, bright against pale skin. But she would not speak. He dropped down and groaned into her shoulder.

Belle felt the vibration of his deep voice down to her soul, rumbling, stirring. Never in her dreams had she imagined that lying with Stephen could fill her with such intensity. But it was more than passion that his intimate touch had awakened in her. Much more. She felt alive as she had never felt before—alive with yearnings that once awakened she was certain would never lie dormant again. Belle felt as if Pandora's Box had been opened, revealing a need for Stephen that went well beyond what deep down she had suspected. And that scared her.

Belle felt as if she might break. And like Adam had wanted so often to do, Belle wanted to talk, tell Stephen all her hopes and fears. But she had seen firsthand how no matter the love Stephen felt for someone, he had

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shown that his love could not span the valley of difference. He might want her desperately now, but later? What would happen when she couldn't meet his exacting expectations?

But then she caught sight of her favorite overstuffed chair. Pretty and perfect. Repaired. By her dear Stephen. Returned to her only days before. A bud of hope crept into her soul. Maybe he could accept her for who she was. Maybe she was wrong, maybe he wouldn't try to fit her into a mold of "the perfect woman," something she could never be. He had seen her leg and had not rejected her. He was here, wasn't he? Sharing a piece of heaven with her like a gift from the gods.

Her mind filled with an excitement and happiness she hadn't felt since she was a child. He loved her. He had said so. And lying there beside him, she knew she loved him, too. It didn't matter that she shouldn't. It didn't matter that he might deter her from her path. She loved him, with all her heart and soul.

She took a deep breath, pulling in the courage to tell him of her feelings, tell him about her husband. But Stephen spoke first, stopping her words.

"Tell me about your past, Belle. I can help. It's not too late for you to start a new life." His dark eyes brightened, the full lips that had caressed her so intimately curved into a smile. "I haven't had a chance to tell you, but I've hired a seamstress to make you a whole new wardrobe, and a French chef to teach you to cook. I even managed to hire Mrs. Walderpole to teach you the finer points of entertaining."

The words she had been on the verge of speaking stuck in her throat. Hope was dashed, again, devastating her. How had she ever believed, even for a second, that he wouldn't want to change her?

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Her eyes burning and her throat tight with unshed tears, Belle rolled away, then stood, pain washing through her body.

"What's wrong?" he asked, startled.

She pulled on the velvet dress that lay like a puddle of shimmery color on the floor.

"What did I say?" he demanded, the tone of his voice rising. "I thought you'd be pleased."

Her hair tumbled down her back. She turned back to him, her fingers working the fastenings, her hair swinging out from the sudden movement. "Nothing, Stephen. You said nothing. And I don't need your help, never have, never will."

He stared at her forever, then swung his legs over the side. Standing, he snatched up his pants. Belle could only watch, despair flooding through her. He was so beautiful, she thought, just as she had said that first evening in the Bulfinch House. Only now she knew the extent of his beauty. Chiseled back tapering to slim waist, the hard curve of buttock, suddenly covered by black pants when he pulled them on. Despair rocked her body.

She walked to the French doors that led to the balcony. A few inches of powdery snow covered the ground, a miniature range of mountains rose and fell, running along the balustrade. A gust of wind blew in when she pulled the door open. Staring out, she was unaware of the cold.

"What are you doing?" Stephen demanded. He strode over, his boots pulled on, his shirt nearly buttoned, to shut the door.

"Do you hear them, Stephen?"

His steps faltered. "Do I hear what?"

"The voices."

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He looked first at her then out into the cold. "What are you talking about, Belle? Get away from there."

Just when he reached the door, she stepped out, her bare feet leaving imprints in the snow.

"Damn it, Belle. Get back in here!"

Arms extended, she twirled awkwardly.

"Belle!"

His bootprints wiped hers clean, but before he could reach her, she climbed up onto the balustrade. Stephen froze.

"Belle," he said on a harsh intake of breath.

"It's like being on the edge of a canyon, standing up here, high above the street, covered with snow. If I close my eyes, I can make-believe the house fronts are cliffs, and the cobbled street is the rock-strewn bottom."

At the sound of his footstep, she jerked back, her eyes daring him to come nearer. Stephen stopped instantly. After a minute, she relaxed.

"Aren't you going to ask me how in the world I would know what a canyon looks like if I've lived my whole life in Wrenville?"

"I'm going to ask you to come down from there."

Belle only smiled. "When I was a child, in addition to telling me all about Boston, my father told me all about canyons . . . and places far away. He's been to many canyons. All his travels, you know." She looked at him harshly. "He does exist, no matter what you say."

"This isn't the time to get into that, Belle."

"True." The harshness fled. "He says out west you can see forever, and from miles away you can see smoke rise in the air, giving shape to the wind. I love that, the idea of wind made real by paintbrush strokes of white smoke. When he comes for me, I'll travel with him. Did I tell you that?"

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"Belle," he said sharply, taking another step forward.

Her eyes widened with alarm.

"Come down from there," he said, his steps ceasing.

She looked down at him with a coy smile. "Remember Lucinda?"

"No more stories. Get down from there."

"You remember. The woman who once lived across the street."

A cold, paralyzing fear suddenly snaked through his body. "Belle," he said desperately. "What are you doing?"

She turned slowly to look out over the world. "I wonder if this is what Lucinda felt like, perched on the rim of a canyon like a bird, so free and alive, as if she could fly, breaking away from all that bound her down, just before she plunged?"

"Dear God. Please, Belle, come down from there."

"Do you think it really was the wind, Stephen?" She looked back at him. "Or did she jump?"

With a start, as if the idea startled her, she turned quickly, too quickly, to glance down the four stories to the ground. Her balance, precarious under the best of circumstances, teetered. Her eyes widened, and her hand reached out, trying to grasp at something to save her.

Time hung suspended. Breathlessly, painfully, Stephen watched in horror. His mind worked as if it swam in the churning river mud which coursed down the center of many a canyon. Dread, fear, and despair consumed him. "No!" he roared, forcing his limbs from inaction. With lightning speed he reached out and grabbed the soft flesh of Belle's arm and yanked her to safety.

His eyes blazed first with relief then anger once he saw, not contrition or fear, but humor dancing in her eyes.

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"Do you think that was what happened?" she persisted. "That she didn't mean to fall, but there was no one there to save her?"

He couldn't believe it; she had nearly plunged to her death and now she was teasing him. "Damn you!" he roared. "You could have been killed. Doesn't that matter to you?"

She only laughed. "That seems to be the way with me. Always on the edge, always pulled back."

"You are crazy!" He released her arm with disdain, anger snapping into irrational rage. "No wonder you were still a virgin. Your husband probably didn't want to have anything to do with you."

Her smile vanished. Her porcelain features turned glacial. Stephen was stunned by the transformation and cursed himself for his stupidity.

"You're right," she said with a venom made more deadly by its proximity to her smile. "My husband didn't want to have anything to do with me, not once he saw my leg. He couldn't tolerate my limp. He couldn't abide the sight of my broken body. My hideously crippled body. I was a freak to him. So, no, I didn't love him. I hated him. You've been pushing me to that admission for days. Are you satisfied? Are you happy that you know? You weren't going to be content until you knew that I didn't love someone else. So I admit it. I hated my husband," she yelled for anyone to hear. "But you can think again if you want me to admit my father's not coming for me, because he is. He is!"

Stephen watched, dumbstruck, unmindful of the cold and snow. The scene sickened him, not because of how Belle was acting, but because he realized, as he stood there in the early February cold, that in his attempts to make her see what he thought she should see, he was

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pushing her to the limits of her endurance. He still had no idea what her past held. He still had no idea how her leg had been brutally broken. He only knew that she lived in a world not quite of man, and not quite of make-believe, not quite sane and not quite crazy, as she tried to deny the truth of whatever dark past she held, or perhaps just wanted to forget. Since he had met her, he had done nothing more than try to make her remember.

And though he believed that in some recess of her mind she knew that either her father didn't exist at all, or if he did that he wasn't coming for her, something closer to the surface kept those realizations at bay. Or, he hated to admit, for reasons unknown she simply felt compelled to continue to lie to him. The thought seared him. He loved her, as he had loved no one else. And he could think of no way to help her. She had made it clear she wanted nothing from him.

She had asked him to leave her alone, but selfishly he had denied her request. After the soul-shattering love-making they had just shared, Stephen didn't know how he could ever let her go. But he realized then, standing coat-less in front of her barefooted form on a balcony covered with snow, that he must.

Relentless, gaping loss curled around his heart. But it didn't matter what he felt, he admonished himself. What mattered was Belle. "I'm sorry—about everything. And after the ball tomorrow night for your birthday, I'll leave you alone and you'll never have to see me again."

They stood, staring at each other, their breaths coming in harsh, cold puffs. But neither spoke. Finally, Stephen turned to go. And as he left, he never saw the despair that had returned to her eyes, or the hand that reached out to him, or the words that hung frozen on her lips.

CHAPTER 25

Stephen strode angrily through the streets of Boston toward his office, his head down, never giving a thought to taking his carriage despite the frigid weather. He was unaware of the sting of cold on his hands or hatless head; he was only aware of Belle. Belle. Sweet Blue Belle.