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Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (19 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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Leigh Anne Bragg saw her from across the room and waved airily, smiling.

Bartolla smiled back and stood. She knew there was nothing innocent about Leigh Anne Bragg, but that only made her an extremely interesting woman. And the fact that Leigh Anne was so clever that she never confided anything about herself only made their friendship more challenging. Bartolla could never be certain what the other woman was really thinking or feeling, even though they had spent entire afternoons together last summer in the south of France, even though they had briefly run in the same circles in Venice and Florence.

Every man in the room turned to watch as the two extremely beautiful women hugged.

“You are more beautiful than ever!” Leigh Anne exclaimed as she took her seat. She wore a dark green suit that matched her eyes, trimmed with mink, which Bartolla suspected had cost her a small fortune, as the material was clearly Chinese silk and extremely expensive. Had Bartolola been wearing the same suit, she would have worn it with every emerald she owned. Leigh Anne wore a single diamond pendant on a black ribbon, which nestled in the hollow of her throat. Her long jet-black hair, which was thick and straight, fell unfashionably to her shoulder blades, like a cape. She had not one stitch of makeup on. She did not need any. Her lashes were thick and black, her cheeks tinged with pink, her lips ruby red. If Bartolla were less secure, she might hate and envy the other woman.

But Bartolla had never been jealous of another woman. She was simply not jealous by nature.

She saw that Leigh Anne wore her small engagement ring,
the diamond being perhaps a carat and a half. She also wore her wedding band.

“Thank you. Widowhood suits me, I am afraid,” Bartolla laughed.

They both laughed.

“And you have not aged a day. You are as lovely as ever,” Bartolla said, smiling.

Leigh Anne’s face fell. She leaned anxiously forward. Bartolla felt rather certain that she had not one anxious bone in her entire body. “Do you think so? I have been so distressed, Bartolla, so terribly distressed, ever since I heard the news.” Her eyes were wide and innocent and fearful all at once. Tears seemed to moisten them.

How delicious this is
, Bartolla thought. It was going to be such an interesting winter. “Yes, I am so sorry.”

“They say he is dying,” Leigh Anne managed. “My father is dying, and my mother is beside herself, as is my sister.” She cast her eyes down at the table. “If he dies, I shall be responsible for everyone.”

Bartolla hadn’t even known there was a sister, and she hadn’t realized they were going to discuss Leigh Anne’s father. “I am so sorry,” she repeated, instantly bored. And then she had a thought. “I am sure your husband will feel some responsibility toward your family, dear.”

Leigh Anne smiled brightly. “I do not know what I shall do,” she said, looking on the verge of tears. Clearly she had no interest in biting the hook Bartolla had cast. But then she said, “And now there is this woman.”

Bartolla straightened, trying to look surprised, inwardly amused. Oh, yes. It would be such an interesting winter, not that she had anything against Francesca Cahill. In fact, she truly liked her, as she was a very independent woman, just like Bartolla.

And just like Leigh Anne. “What woman?” She blinked.

“Why, Cecelia Thornton was the first one to tell me about her—and then you sent me that letter!” Leigh Anne took her hand. “Bartolla, thank you so. For being such a dear friend
and for having that letter hand-delivered, or it might have been weeks before I learned of her.”

“What else could I do?” Bartolla murmured.

Leigh Anne straightened now, placing both hands, apparently, on her lap. Her demeanor was demure. She murmured, glancing up from under her long lashes, “Now. You must tell me everything there is to know about this Francesca Cahill.”

Eleven

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 7:00 P.M.

Francesca was rigid with tension, which could not possibly be a result of nerves, as their supper guests arrived. Julia was greeting Rathe and Grace Bragg as they stepped into the hall, but Francesca stood at its far end, on the threshold of the salon where they would sip a cocktail before their meal. She had refused to dress with care for her mother’s miserable effort at matchmaking; then, at the last moment, when it was far too late to tong her hair, she had had her maid, Bette, help her tear off an old and boring dove gray gown, replacing it with her new turquoise one, which she had worn the night before to the Plaza. She had managed to loosen her chignon and pull a few wisps of hair out so they feathered her face and neck. She had even dabbed rouge lightly on her lips. She knew damn well what she was doing. She wanted Hart to think her beautiful, as foolish as that desire might be.

Julia and Grace were embracing, but not warmly, and their exchange was both cautious and polite. Francesca could imagine why, for what common bond would a wealthy socialite share with a crusading suffragette? Rathe was saying that Hart and Rourke would be there at any moment, as Hart had gone to pick up Lucy at the Plaza and Rourke was checking up on Sarah Channing.

Her father had just come downstairs and he paused beside her. “You are so beautiful tonight, Francesca,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were sad.

Instantly, Francesca recalled the terrible argument she had witnessed that afternoon. She took his arm and kissed his cheek. “Please make up with Mama. Please.”

He said, “This is not your affair, Francesca,” quietly, but still, his words were a shock.

And he was wrong. “Papa! It is my affair! You are my parents—and Evan is my brother!”

He patted her shoulder, smiled firmly, and left her standing there. “Rathe! It is so good to see you!”

Rathe strode forward and the two men clasped hands, smiling now, their expressions as warm and friendly as their wives’ had been cautious and wary. Suddenly Lucy stepped into the house, devastatingly beautiful in a Persian lamb coat that had been dyed burgundy to match her dress. Hart was behind her.

As she and Julia clasped hands and exchanged greetings, Hart’s gaze found Francesca instantly. She felt more tension overcome her and she forgot to breathe.

His gaze found her, slid over her, and then he was smiling at Julia and murmuring a polite and charming greeting. Oddly, Francesca felt her cheeks warming. She quickly turned and stepped into the salon, needing to compose herself.

What was Julia thinking? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Why were reputable young women expected to marry and bear and raise children? How could she convince her mother to leave her alone!

Francesca crossed the opulent room, which was a smaller version of the grand salon, and she pushed open the terrace doors. It had remained frigidly cold all day, but she was somewhat numb inside of herself to begin with now, as she had decided not to think too much in order to get through the evening. So what difference would it make if she became numb on the outside as well? She felt a bit like a poor player in an even poorer stage drama. But far worse was the fact that, even with her emotions carefully on hold, she had a feeling of real dread, which she just could not deny. She simply knew that the evening was going to be a terrible fiasco.

She tried not to think about it.

She walked to the edge of the slate-floored terrace and
stared up at a sliver of moon. A million stars danced in the sky overhead—it was far too cold to snow. Which was fine—they’d had a record year for snowfall, anyway, and the winter had just begun.

She closed her eyes, shivering. Bragg was probably in his library at No. 11 Madison Square, alone, a glass of brandy at his elbow, immersed in police paperwork. Thinking about him now caused a hurtful pang in her heart. The girls were probably finishing up dinner in the kitchen, the table and floor a mess, unless Mrs. Flowers, the new nanny, had somehow taught Dot that throwing food was not a form of play. And was Katie still sulking? Had she begun to eat like a normal child? Peter would be at the sink, playing housemaid as well as cook. She smiled at that particular image, picturing him in an apron. How her heart wished that she were there. The scene was such a domestic one.

But she was not his wife, and now, it did not appear that she would ever be his wife.

An image of how she thought his wife looked flashed through her mind. A petite image of dark-haired perfection. She hugged herself harder. Any day now, Leigh Anne might appear in her … their … his … life.

“Are you insane?” Hart breathed against her neck.

His breath had been warm and soft. Francesca jumped, turning to face him, as he settled his black dinner jacket upon her bare shoulders, not even asking her if she wished for it or not. Briefly his large hands lingered as their gazes locked. And for one moment, as she looked into his eyes, she could not speak.

She pulled away. “I do hope not.” She could not smile. She was dwarfed by his jacket, and it made her realize how big he was and how small she was in comparison. The satin lining was like silk upon her skin and remained warm from his body. Worse, his jacket smelled distinctly male. A touch of spice, a touch of wood, and some fine Scotch or Irish whiskey.

And something else, she decided, her heart hammering. It was easy to decide what that something was, given Hart’s
inclination to spend any and all extra time in a paramour’s bed.

His eyes were moving over her features slowly, as if mesmerizing each and every one. “It is no more than ten degrees out tonight, Francesca. Why are you brooding outside?”

“I’m not really brooding,” she said, a complete lie.

He tilted up her chin. “A book, remember? To me you are an open book, and I know you are out here testing the limits of your ability to perform mental gymnastics. Why not relax and enjoy the evening?”

She almost smiled, then caught herself. “Perhaps I don’t wish to relax.”

His black gaze was steady. “Do you wish for me to make an excuse and leave?” he asked quietly.

“No!” She hadn’t even thought about it, and the vehemence of her reply surprised them both.

He grinned. “I am flattered.”

“Don’t be. But I do have a request.”

His slashing brows lifted.

“Go inside and pour a double scotch. We’ll share.” That would be the best way to survive this night, she decided.

“Oh, ho,” he said with another grin. “This shall be an interesting evening.” He gave her a long and lazy look and strolled back into the salon.

Francesca felt frozen. And not from the cold. There had been amusement in his regard, and warmth—so much warmth—and something else. It was extremely hard to define what that something else was; after all, they were only friends and would never be anything more. How could a mere look from Calder Hart be so provocative? He had a way of looking at her that hinted at sexual speculation.

Did he even know what he was doing?

She shivered.

He returned, two glasses in hand. “This will warm you up,” he said.

She was happily diverted and truly amazed. “How did you manage this? Did my mother see?” she asked, pleased. This would certainly improve the evening.

“She did, although she pretended not to,” Hart said, clearly amused.

“You can do no wrong in her eyes,” Francesca said, disbelieving, and then she took a sip. “Yummy,” she sighed.

“I see I have thoroughly corrupted you. I am pleased,” he laughed, also sipping his drink.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, after taking a second drink, enjoying the scotch thoroughly.

“How can I be cold when I am under a sky filled with stars with such a beautiful woman beside me?” he asked with a quiet smile, one of contentment.

She felt her smile vanish.

His did, too. Then he sighed. “I am sorry, Francesca, but that kind of flattery, which I am used to giving to women without even a thought, simply formed itself.”

“It was rather superficial.” She hated being the recipient of the kind of thoughtless charm he directed upon the rest of her sex. “I wish you wouldn’t treat me the way you treat other women.”

“My dear, I hardly treat you the way I treat the rest of your gender.” He gave her a significant look. “That issue we laid to rest on Saturday, I believe.”

They had. For if he chose to treat her as he did other women, right now, she would be in his bed and not on the terrace sipping whiskey.

“Actually,” he said, appearing a bit surprised and thoughtful, “it is true. I am not cold, and I am in my shirtsleeves,” he remarked. As if she did not know. He stood inches from her, and every time he raised his glass, his custom shirt rippled over his chest, arms, and shoulders. She glanced at his chest and shoulders again. “The sky is extraordinary tonight, and frankly, so are you. And I do mean my every word, Francesca.”

She backed up. “Hart.”

“Do not be a ninny. We are friends, good friends now, I hope, and you know as well as I do that you are unique. One could never find a carbon copy of Francesca Cahill should he search the entire world over.” He turned his attention to
his scotch, as if he found the liquid in his glass fascinating.

His praise was stunning. Francesca was oddly paralyzed, and then a small thrill began to wash over her, which she was reluctant to feel but helpless to stop.

“Does my praise bother you, Francesca?” he asked softly.

“Yes, no … yes.”

For a moment he looked at her and did not speak. “If I cannot be honest with you, then we cannot be friends,” he said simply.

She took a big gulp of scotch, felt her insides now thoroughly warmed, and said breathlessly, “You are right.”

“I am usually right.”

She eyed him. They were on safer ground now. “Not always?” It was hard not to smile a little, so she did.

He grinned. He had perfectly spaced, extremely white teeth and one dimple in his right cheek. Still, he did not look boyish when he grinned; he looked more like an archangel sent to tempt the innocent. “Not always, Francesca. And at last, you allow yourself a smile.”

“God, that is a relief!” she quipped, ignoring his comment. “You can be so insufferable at times, one might conclude that you are of the mind that you are always in the right.”

“Not I. One does not lift one up by his bootstraps, attaining a shipping and insurance company, an enviable art collection, and several stately homes, through arrogance and close-mindedness.” He lifted his glass in a salute. Then he sobered. “So? Are you ready to tell me why you were out here alone, frowning with worry, your expression so sad, when I first stepped outside?”

She inhaled, all of her problems tumbling through her mind. How much should she tell him? Should she tell him anything at all?

She realized that she so wanted to confide in him. Standing beside him now, alone in the night, she almost basked in his strength and power. He was strong, smart, and opinionated, she would always respect his advice, and, oddly, she felt that her secrets would be safe with him.

How odd.

But she had attained a warm and fuzzy glow, now, that was exceedingly pleasant. She wasn’t drunk, simply … relaxed. Perhaps the scotch was the reason she wished to wag her tongue so boldly.

“Francesca? What kind of internal debate are you waging?” He was amused again. His good humor made his nearblack eyes sparkle as he regarded her over the rim of his glass.

She watched him sip and swallow. She watched a muscle move in his strong throat. “I have the oddest urge to tell you all. But of course, I dare not make you my confidant,” she said.

“But why ever not? Hasn’t it occurred to you that I might make a valuable confidant and an even more valuable ally?”

He had said as much once before. She stared.

“I only want to help. But the truth is, I don’t think I even have to ask. If you are distressed, there can only be one cause.” His humor instantly began to fade.

She stiffened, tore her regard from his—no easy task—and sipped her drink. She was not going to discuss Bragg with him, not when they had been having a perfectly fine time, not when such a discussion would only cause him to lose his temper and her to become upset.

“So now what has he done?” Hart asked, an edge to his tone, his glance dark and even wary.

She had finished half of her drink. She looked up. “Evan has left Father’s company and the house. He intends to break off his engagement to Sarah and find new employment and a flat. Mama is heartbroken.”

Hart smiled. “Good for him.” He raised his glass in a mock salute to her brother.

“You approve?”

“I do. And I would say his stab at independent thinking and behavior is long overdue. Besides, he and Sarah do not suit.”

Francesca agreed with him completely, and she was surprised.
“You do not think he needs a woman like Sarah to temper his ways?”

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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