Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (28 page)

Francesca wondered what was captivating Rourke so completely. Was it whatever Sarah was saying? Or was it Sarah herself? Francesca instantly recalled how solicitous Rourke had been when Sarah had fainted last Saturday evening at the Plaza. But he was a medical student. There hadn’t been any other doctor in the house.

And Sarah was engaged to her brother. Still, it was the worst possible match, and everyone but her father seemed to know it. Evan had been packing his bags and moving out of the house the day he had been beaten to a pulp by LeFarge. He had been about to break off his engagement as well.

Francesca couldn’t decide if Rourke’s interest was purely compassionate and doctorly or something else. He was very attractive, and she knew for a fact that he was a ladies’ man. Still, Sarah hardly fit the bill for a womanizing man.

“I can read your thoughts,” Hart murmured, low, looping her arm firmly against his and pressing it to his side.

Francesca leaped. His body was hard and male. There was nothing soft or compromising about it. Their gazes locked.

It was a moment before he spoke. “Francesca, I know you are a woman of extreme passion, but you must set your thoughts aside—at least for the rest of the evening.”

To her horror, she said, “I can’t.”

He hesitated, then slipped his arm around the small of her back, and with his other hand he cupped her cheek. Francesca felt a shockingly urgent tremor ripple through her body. She had known this evening would be an impossible one. “I fear I must distract you,” he murmured in such a low and heated tone that she had images of his bed, with him looming over
her
in it, dancing through her mind.

She slipped into his arms by taking a single step closer to him, surprising them both. “Take me outside,” she said, and she was shocked at how husky and urgent her own tone was.

He didn’t move. Then, “No.” He stepped away from her. “Hoeltz is here. I just saw him. Perhaps we can unearth a clue or two tonight?” He didn’t smile.

Francesca turned away from him, trying to recover her composure. What was wrong with her? First her uncontrollable curiosity this afternoon, and now her uncontrollable desire to leap into Hart’s arms and have him do everything to her that he had done to Daisy just a few hours ago.

“Francesca!” Sarah cried, from behind and approaching. “This is the most clever exhibition! Have you seen some of the portraits here? Hello, Mr. Hart. I cannot thank you enough for suggesting I be included in your party tonight.” She was beaming.

Francesca faced Sarah and found her radiant with happiness. In fact, despite her awful gown, she was beautiful. Francesca had never seen her so happy or in such a glowing state—she could only stare.

“It was Rourke’s idea,” Hart said.

Rourke sent Hart a distinctly annoyed glance. “Who better to bring to an art exhibition than an artist?” he asked.

“There is an amazing portrait of two children by Walter Frederick Osborne!” Sarah cried excitedly. “Have you ever seen his work before?”

“Yes, but I find it too sweet for my taste,” Hart said with a fond smile. “I see you have fully recovered from your illness. I am glad, Miss Channing.”

“So am I!” Sarah cried, animated. “Coming out tonight was the perfect antidote for my melancholy. I am so excited by these artists—did you see the Degas? I adore his ballerinas, but this one is of Spanish dancers, and it is quite modern! Mr. Hart, with Francesca’s permission, I intend to get to work upon the portrait you have commissioned immediately.”

“I eagerly await the moment it is finished,” Hart said.

Francesca looked from Hart to Sarah and back again. Hart had commissioned her portrait when he had seen her return from a tête-à-tête with Bragg at the Channing ball, in a disheveled state that clearly indicated what they had been up to behind closed doors. Hart had not only commissioned the portrait but had specified she should be wearing the exact same red ball gown.

Francesca had been furious, but then, so had he.

She had no time now to sit for her portrait, but she was determined to aid Sarah in her endeavor to gain recognition in the art world—something this commission would do. In fact, she had been moodily resigned to the fact that Hart intended to hang her portrait upon his wall.

Now, she found herself staring at him—and he was staring back. She was no longer dismayed by the notion. But everything had changed. Bragg’s wife had come to town and Calder Hart wished to marry her.

As if reading her thoughts, Hart said to Sarah, not looking away from Francesca, “But you shall make one change. I prefer the dress Francesca is now wearing. As long as her hair is down.”

Francesca could not look away from him, and her body stirred while her heart raced. The red dress held a reminder of that night for both of them, a reminder, she realized, that neither of them wanted. “My hair should be up, Hart.”

Ladies posed in their ball gowns and jewels all the time for portraits, with their hair waved and tonged and swept up.

“No,” he said, his smile small and answering her own. “I want it down.”

Warmth filled her loins. “You won’t be able to hang it publicly. It will be too suggestive.”

“I intend to hang it in my bedroom,” he said.

Francesca didn’t know what to say. She was thrilled—and also breathless.

Rourke coughed. “I am glad we have settled upon the color of Francesca’s dress and the style of her hair.” There was laughter in his tone. “Shall we view the exhibition together?”

“That is a very good idea,” Hart said, taking Francesca’s arm and looping it firmly against his side once again. The gesture was extremely possessive, but in that moment Francesca did not mind.

She rather liked it.

“Can we start tomorrow?” Sarah asked, at Francesca’s side. Rourke was beside her, a careful distance between them.

“I would love to, but I have an eight
A.M.
class and I am so involved in the current investigation,” Francesca said. “Can’t it wait for a few days?”

Sarah hesitated. “Francesca, you are always busy. There will always be an excuse. Can’t you come by after your class? Give me one hour—for some preliminary sketches. But bring the dress.” She beamed. “It is lovely. Not as daring as the red, but I think it suits you even more.”

They paused before a landscape done by a Russian artist. The palette was very cool, the scene of a cabin in the moonlight, but it was grim and desolate. Hart released Francesca.
She glanced at him and looked again. He was riveted by the painting.

She studied him then. Not because she had the chance to enjoy his handsome profile, but because he was so engrossed in a work of art that she did not care for, finding it disturbing. In fact, she knew he had, for that moment, forgotten she was at his side.

She didn’t mind.

“Isaak Levitan,” he murmured, his gaze moving back and forth across the dark, desolate landscape. “The artist is spectacular.” Suddenly he turned to Francesca and the intensity was gone. “I saw this artist’s work at the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900. Do you like it?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “But I know why you do.”

Now he grinned. “And why is that, my darling?”

She smiled back. “Because it is so evocative of the bleakness of the Russian winter. One is swept to another place and another time merely by looking at that frozen landscape and that solitary house.”

He smiled. “I shall make an art critic out of you one day, Francesca.”

“I doubt that,” she said, flushing because of his praise.

His gaze became speculative. “Shall I buy the painting?”

She started. “That is hardly for me to decide.”

“Actually, I will not buy it if you do not approve,” he said.

She stared. “Calder, buy it if you must.”

“Shall I buy it?” he asked again, patiently.

She knew he yearned to have it. She glanced at the frozen landscape again. In a way, as grim as the scene was, it was powerful and provocative. And shouldn’t art cause one to stand and stare and think? “Yes,” she decided.

He laughed and slid his arm around her and pulled her close. She tensed, all of that afternoon’s images flicking rapidly through her mind, as his smile faded. His arm moved up; his hand covered her bare nape. She shivered. They were in public, and when he kissed her now, tongues would surely wag, but Francesca did not care. It felt as if she had been waiting
aeons
for his kiss.

He smiled at her and slipped away. “There is Hoeltz, Francesca.”

Her libido hardly decreasing, disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her, Francesca quickly turned and followed his gaze. Hoeltz was wandering through the crowd alone, a glass of red wine in his hand. He seemed grim and preoccupied—disturbed.

Her gaze narrowed. She hadn’t realized it before because his presence was so unassuming, but while he was slender, he was actually tall. He stood almost a hand or so above most of the crowd. Francesca suspected he was six foot or so. And while slender, he was hardly as gaunt and thin as Thomas Neville.

Sarah said, “Hoeltz? Do you mean Mr. Hoeltz from the same gallery?” Then, “Oh, yes, that is him! I should say hello!”

Francesca whirled, grabbing her wrist.
“You know him
?”

“Yes, I do. Fran, what is wrong?”

She stared, her pulse pounding, her mind racing. “How well do you know him, Sarah?”

She shrugged, appearing worried. “I took an art class. He came to lecture once. And then recently, I brought him several portraits, to see if he would try to sell them for me. He wasn’t interested, although he was very kind and quite encouraging.”

Francesca could hardly breathe.

Hart took her arm. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “We asked Hoeltz if he knew Sarah Channing, and he said no. He
lied
.”

F
RIDAY
, F
EBRUARY 21, 1902—7:00 P.M.

N
EIL
M
ONTROSE COULD NOT
help himself. He paced the salon that was adjacent to the front hall and every few moments would go to a window to peer outside. His wife had not been home all day. According to Mrs. Partridge, she had left the house just after noon with the girls, which was seven hours ago. Where could she possibly be? Were the girls all right? What had happened? Connie always had the children home by five for an early supper. He was frantic.

He did not know what he would do if anything happened to his wife or children. Had something happened? Had there been a carriage accident? The streets were icy in places. But wouldn’t he have been notified?

And now, with the night dark and wintry outside, with his wife late, his children missing—or so it seemed—he wished, desperately, that he and Connie were not at odds. But he had tried everything. She was determined to punish him, and he didn’t think she would ever forgive him for what he had so stupidly done. But he wasn’t ever going to
forgive himself, either, and it wasn’t forgiveness that he wanted. He wanted her—and him—to somehow forget the past and have a real and happy future together.

If she ever gave him a second chance, he would do his best to make everything up to her. But he was losing hope. Clearly she would not accept his apologies, which were more than genuine, they were frantic, and she did not believe his vows—he would never stray again.

Suddenly he sat down, cradling his face in his hands, swamped with grief.
He loved her so
. He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her when he met her—he had only wanted a proper and attractive wife, one whom he might become fond of, one who would bear his children and manage his home. He had sought Connie out because of her family’s money, just as her mother had directed him toward her older daughter for his title. But when he had first looked at her, he had been more than surprised; he had been stunned, because she was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

It had been so terribly easy to fall in love.

It had been love at first sight.

Now he had the most terrible thought. He wasn’t sure that he even knew his own wife. She had become a stranger. But he was wondering if they had been strangers, somehow, in spite of the five years they had shared, four of which were as man and wife.

He ached to speak with her now. He ached to speak with her from the depths of his heart and soul. He did not know how. Like Connie, he had been raised in a certain manner, and serious and even embarrassing conversations with anyone, much less one’s wife, had not been a part of his upbringing or behavior. He was expected to manage his estates and monetary affairs and provide handsomely for his wife and children, period. His own father had undoubtedly turned over in his grave the first time Neil climbed into bed with Charlotte in order to read her a bedtime fairy tale.

And then he heard the oh-so-welcome sound of the rumble of carriage wheels on the salted driveway outside. Neil
ran to the window, shifted heavy gold velour drapes aside, and saw his wife’s coach. He began to shake with stunning relief.

If anything had happened to her or the children, he might have died.

He let the draperies fall, stiffening his shoulders, recovering his composure. It was not an easy task. When he heard her musical voice in the front hall, he left the salon. Connie was handing a bundled-up and rosy-cheeked Lucinda to Mrs. Partridge, while Charlotte was jumping up and down, trying to show the nanny her new doll.

Still clad in her sable coat, Connie saw him and froze.

He forced a smile. “There you are! Thank God! I have been so worried. Where were you, dar—Connie?”

She handed her coat and gloves to the doorman. “I took the children to the park. We went skating. Then we went to Mama’s.” She was obviously tense and she did not smile. “The girls had supper there. I helped Fran dress for an evening out with Calder Hart.”

He disliked and distrusted Calder Hart but had no wish to discuss his sister-in-law or Hart now. “I was worried, Connie. I wish you had sent word that you would be so late.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed you were going out for the evening, Neil.”

“I’m not. I’m staying in. In fact, I have asked Cook to prepare us an elegant supper. He is making roasted guinea hens, which I know you love.” He managed a smile. Wishing she would smile back. She did not.