Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (6 page)

“Half past seven,” she returned.

He beamed at her. “I’ll be there, Miz Cahill.” Then he turned to Hart. “G’night, sir.”

Hart chucked his jaw. “Get some sleep. I can see you shall have a busy day tomorrow.”

They waited as Joel knocked lightly on his door. A moment later Maggie Kennedy opened it, clad in a flannel wrapper, her red hair in a long braid. Her blue eyes widened when she saw Francesca and Hart. “Miss Cahill! I mean, Francesca! This is a surprise.”

Francesca smiled warmly at her. “Maggie, we wanted to see Joel safely home. We have taken on the Emily O’Hare case,” she added.

“Thank the lord,” Maggie whispered, her gaze tearing. “I am so glad, for I know you shall find her safe and sound.”

Francesca wasn’t certain of that last part, not at all, but she smiled anyway. Hart nodded politely and then went out to the waiting coach. As he handed her in, he murmured, “I am impressed.”

His hand was large and warm on her bare elbow as she carried her coat. She was thrilled, and she smiled at him as she took her seat. “That was hardly an unusual interview,” she said, trying to appear indifferent to his praise. It occurred to her that they were now alone and it was a long ride uptown.

He settled down beside her and Raoul slammed the carriage door shut behind them. “You gave them hope.” He leaned back against the plush squabs, rather indolently. Only Hart could make such a simple position seem utterly decadent.

She tried not to think about his virility and said, with worry, “And I do hope it wasn’t wrong of me to do so. I do hope it wasn’t false hope that I gave them.”

“I have little doubt you will locate Emily, Francesca.” His gaze was warm, enough so to melt a frigid block of ice.

She started, surprised by the extent of his confidence but very pleased indeed.

“You may grin like a sated fat cat,” he chuckled.

She beamed. “You will give me a very big swollen head, Hart, if you keep on flattering me so. And somehow, I do not think you would find a vain woman attractive.”

He laughed. “I know you are not vain enough, my dear, and I find confidence in you charming.” His smile faded. He gave her a long and thoughtful look.

It went right through her heart to her loins. Francesca sat up.

“I find you charming, Francesca, and I suppose the fact that you are unpredictable will keep me on my toes,” he added, more to himself than to her.

“I am so sorry about that ridiculous note,” Francesca said, then, in a rush, “Calder, I didn’t know what to write! I should have spoken with you before leaving.”

“Please don’t ever lie to me again,” he said simply. “I have never lied to you, and I expect to be repaid in kind.”

She nodded, somehow undone and very flustered now.

He smiled a little at her and turned away. They were traveling up Fourth Avenue now, alongside the excavation for a new railroad tunnel. She seized the opportunity to stare at him, enjoying his strong profile. And finally, the events of the entire evening washed over her. Her arrival at the ball, her brief exchange with Bragg, her encounter with Hart in the servants’ hall, and his ensuing announcement of their engagement. Tension stabbed her. An image of Bragg’s shocked expression assailed her mind. All sense of well-being vanished.

She had hurt him. She hadn’t meant to. How could they have made the announcement in such an untimely manner?

He continued to gaze out at the passing buildings. Traffic on the avenue was less than light—a lone hansom accompanied them, the bay’s hooves clopping loudly in unison with Hart’s team in the night. He was more than dangerously seductive—he was dangerous, period. Hart had been the one to make the announcement. It had been his decision—the timing had been his and his alone.

He glanced languidly at her. “I would be careful with those reward posters.”

She felt ill now. “Why?”

“Every Tom, Dick, and Harry will claim to have seen
something. You will have a hundred supposed witnesses to Emily’s disappearance, I think.”

She hadn’t considered that possibility. “You are right. Well, we will have to carefully winnow through all the false claims. I really believe that someone had to have seen what happened to Emily. Someone is out there with information that I need.”

“You are probably right. What’s wrong?”

She looked up and met his midnight gaze. “What we have just done has finally sunk in.”

“And that is?” He watched her carefully now, like a hawk.

She held up her hand. Even in the cab, the big diamond glittered, catching the light. “I think our timing might have been better.”

His jaw seemed to flex. The interior of the coach was softly lit, so it was hard to say. “Let me guess. You are worried about my poor half brother’s feelings.”

“Yes, I am.” She sat up straighter, defensively. “It wasn’t right. I saw his face. He was disbelieving. And he was hurt.”

Hart leaned toward her, his eyes black now. “He has no right to be hurt, Francesca, and we both know it—only you will never admit it.”

She inhaled, mentally preparing for an unpleasant battle. “Calder, I know he is married. I know he loves Leigh Anne, even if he refuses to admit it to anyone and not even to himself. But he is very fond of me. And you know that! His feelings are genuine, and he has every right to be hurt.”

“Not in my opinion. In my opinion, he only seeks to keep you from allowing yourself to care genuinely for me.”

“That is nonsense!” she cried, flushing.

“If he truly wanted you, Francesca, he would have slammed his front door—and his bedroom door—in little Leigh Anne’s face.”

How cruel he could be. She turned blindly away, trying not to think about Bragg and Leigh Anne sharing a bed together. And while she knew Hart was right, she said, “I
encouraged him to stay with her. I begged him not to throw away his political future. With Leigh Anne at his side, I feel certain he will one day win the Senate seat. But if he were divorced, no such outcome is assured.”

A dark silence greeted her words.

She dared to look his way.

His smile was twisted. “Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you encouraged him to continue his marriage for the sake of politics, when really you had another, ulterior, motive?”

She knew his blow was about to come. “What other motive could I possibly have?”

“His marriage has allowed you to be where you desperately yearn to be—in my arms . . . and soon . . . in my bed.”

Had he been closer, she would have struck him. She wrenched at the ring to throw it back at him. He seized her hand. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“That was cruel,” Francesca said breathlessly. “You asked me to be honest with you, as you are honest with me. I have never been anything but kind to you, and I ask you to treat me the same way!”

He was silent, and he did not release her hand. Then, “Did it never occur to you that your departure last month, with only that frivolous note for comfort, was an act of cruelty?”

“What?!”

He leaned close, his grip tightening. “Did it ever occur to you that the way you speak about him—to me—is cruelty?”

She stared into his eyes, then at his mouth, which was provocatively close. “But you don’t love me.”

“I don’t believe in love, but I am damnably fond of you, and you know how I treasure you, Francesca,” he said tersely. “And there are times—like now—when I feel like killing off Leigh Anne myself and tossing you and him together to be done with it all, at last!”

“Please, don’t speak that way,” she begged.

He released her hand, moving back into the space he
had previously occupied. “I am sorry if my emotions are not always noble ones. I am sorry I am not the epitome of virtue as he is.”

“You are very virtuous,” she whispered weakly, “when you wish to be. When you forget about competing with Bragg, when you forget about shocking pleasant company.”

He made a rough sound, and it might have been one of acquiescence.

Francesca hugged herself. “What possessed you, Hart, to make that announcement tonight?”

“It is Calder, Francesca, not Hart, damn it.”

“Please.”

Hart stared without comment.

“We should have never made it public that way,” Francesca whispered. “But I forgot he was there, my mind was so addled from lovemaking.” When he remained silent, she added urgently, “Please, tell me you had also forgotten he was there.”

He met her gaze. “I knew he was there.”

She inhaled.

“But that doesn’t mean I made the announcement to spite him, which is what you are thinking.”

She wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. She hugged herself.

“I made that announcement to end your indecision, Francesca. I made that announcement because you accepted my proposal a month ago, and proved to me in the hall tonight that you had not changed your mind. Yes, my decision was a selfish one. But frankly, one of the reasons I am who I am today is because when I want something, I do what I have to in order to get it.”

She swallowed. “I am not a painting.” Hart was a world-renowned collector of art. “Nor am I a collectible.”

“And I have always been opposed to marriage, in theory and in fact. But since meeting you, I have decided to undertake matrimony—with you as my wife. No, you are not a thing, Francesca, far from it. You are a unique—no, an amazing—creation of contradictions, wit, and will, not to
mention beauty. I need not defend my desire to marry you. I probably should have discussed making the announcement tonight.” He suddenly hesitated. “I am used to doing what I want, when I want, Francesca. Most bachelors are. In my case, I fear I am worse that way than most. However, you did run away in a very unseemly manner—the trigger for my behavior tonight. All of it,” he added with a rueful look.

Francesca was having trouble getting past his statement that she was an amazing creation of contradictions, wit, will, and beauty. She shook her head to clear it. “Are you apologizing to me for announcing our engagement?”

“Yes, I am. However,” he held up a hand to forestall he surprised comment, “if I had the entire night to do over, while I would not have behaved like a beast in the hall, I would still make that announcement.”

She sat back against the squabs, wide-eyed and staring. “Hart,” she finally said, “you are a very difficult man.”

He smiled. “I know.”

She began to smile, as well, then was struck with an image of the voluptuous Mrs. Davies on his arm. She hesitated. This was a subject she need not bring up—he had promised her fidelity, but she had run away and he had thought the engagement to be off. Still, she despised the other woman without knowing her and could not stand the thought of her with Hart.

“Is something on your mind, Francesca?”

She jerked, told herself to say “No,” and instead said “Yes.”

He seemed amused. “Do tell.”

“I didn’t have a chance to meet your friend . . . Mrs. Davies,” she said carefully.

He didn’t seem to understand what she was really saying. “She is an old friend,” he said dismissively. “I doubt you would enjoy meeting her—” He stopped and stared. “Francesca, I made you a promise.”

“But I left the town—and you thought our engagement was over,” she said tersely.

His eyes widened, riveted on hers. “Surely you know I am a man of my word?”

She could barely believe her ears. Was it possible that he hadn’t rushed into another woman’s bed?

He took her hand. “I promised to be faithful, and if a man like myself cannot play a waiting game when the stakes are this high, then he is hardly a man.”

She could only stare, thrilled and simply breathless now. “Calder? Isn’t this the moment when you pull me into your arms?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “No.”

“No?” She was more than surprised.

“In case you didn’t notice, we somehow survived our little indiscretion in the servants’ hall tonight and your father is less than pleased with our decision. I am meeting him at your house tomorrow afternoon, Francesca. I intend to win the battle I must wage for your hand, at all costs, and therefore, I am delivering you intact and untouched to your door in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Papa will come round. Because Mama always gets her way and she adores you, and you know it.”

“Bless Julia,” he said with a warm smile.

Her heart turned over. He was so unbearably handsome. And at times, he was also unbearable. But she didn’t mind. She knew she could, in the end, outwit him. The real problem was, he did not believe in love and he never would.

She quickly looked away, aghast with herself, because it was suddenly so clear that everything might be different if he were espousing undying love for her, as Bragg had done. But Hart was never going to be in love with her. He would be a warm friend and a wonderful lover, but that was as much as he would ever give to her.

Hart cut into her thoughts. “We will be at your door in five minutes, Francesca.”

She started, flushed, and barely met his eyes. “I am actually very tired,” she said.

“And now you are once more running away from me?
Why?” He reached for her hand, finding it even though she had no wish for him to hold it.

“It has been a long and unusual day,” she said, not looking him in the eye.

“Yes, it has. Did you know I would be at the ball, tonight?”

She finally met his gaze. “Yes.”

“And did you wear that red dress for me?”

She lifted her brows. “What red dress?”

He laughed. “The one I shall tear off as soon as you wear it for me when we are married,” he said.

She went still. Then, “It was very expensive—”

“Oh, I mean it.”

She stared, images rioting through her, images she did not want, not now.

He smiled a little and said, “I am still waiting for the portrait you promised me. Sarah and I have discussed it at length.”

She wet her lips, her pulse racing uncomfortably. “I will make an appointment to sit with Sarah immediately,” she said. Sarah Channing was a brilliant artist and a good friend. Hart had commissioned Francesca’s portrait well over a month ago, the very first time he had seen her in the gown, stipulating that she must be portrayed wearing it.