Chapter 16 #2
He laughed a little. “I have a strong feeling that you can and you will. I actually think he will try to be a good husband, Francesca. I think he cares deeply for you.”
She was somewhat reassured. “Is he still watching us?”
“He is watching you. Do you want me to hold you a bit more closely?” Rourke asked with a devilish grin.
“Yes.” And as Rourke pulled her too close for propriety, she had to peek over his shoulder at the subject of their conversation.
Hart was coming toward them. He looked very annoyed. All indolence was gone.
“Well, I think you have won—he is coming this way,” Rourke said, low.
Hart tapped on Rourke’s shoulder as they abruptly stopped dancing. “I think I will cut in,” he said to Rourke. “If you do not mind?”
“Of course not.” Rourke smiled. He gave Francesca an encouraging look and stepped aside.
Hart took her in his arms. Briefly, their gazes met. Francesca’s moment of satisfaction vanished and she tensed, watching him now as he whirled her across the dance floor. His expression was dark. Something was wrong, oh yes.
“I take it you have had a busy day?” he asked politely, his smile distant.
Francesca gripped him more tightly, aware of the guarded look in his eyes, in his tone. His body rippled with a tension she could not identify.
If she were a woman like her sister, she would greet him warmly and not pry into the cause of his dark mood. But she was not her sister. As her mind raced, she said, “Yes. We found Kate Sullivan’s husband. He’s dead.”
He swept her around the dance floor, as effortlessly as Rourke had, but his hands were not Rourke’s, oh no. They were large and strong and warm, one on her waist and the other holding her hand. “It was a recent demise, I assume?”
She nodded. “It might be a suicide. He might even have been the Slasher.” And she ceased dancing but she did not let him go.
He halted in midstep as well.
“What is it?” she heard herself ask. “I can see that something is wrong.”
He stared at her. It was a moment before he spoke.
“Nothing is wrong. I have had a difficult day.” He hesitated.
“I apologize. I am sorry if I have given you the wrong impression.” His smile was forced.
“You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful, but you know how much I like that dress on you.”
She hesitated. Hart was one of the most charming men she knew, but now it was as if he spoke prepared lines of dialogue that he did not feel. Now there was no charm. “Are you angry with me because I did not wait for Raoul?”
He seemed indifferent to the notion. “I hadn’t realized. Raoul did not mention it—he is not my spy.”
It wasn’t Raoul, she thought, and she was terribly worried now. “What is wrong, Calder? You seem very disturbed. Has something happened? Please, you must tell me.” She smiled a little at him. “We are engaged. You can share all of your deep dark secrets with me.”
He flinched, looking taken aback, and then he took her arm and guided her away from the center of the dance floor. “We are being remarked upon. People might think we are at odds.”
“It feels as if we are at odds,” Francesca said quietly. “Are we? You have always enjoyed sharing your thoughts with me.”
His jaw flexed. “No. I am not angry with you, Francesca, how could I be?” And this time he attempted a smile and utterly failed.
And even though his words rang with sincerity, his distress was obvious. She was shaken now. “Was it the meeting with the ambassador? Did it not go as you planned?”
He made a dismissive sound. “Even if it had been a miserable affair, I would hardly care. I am only expanding those ventures because it seems to be the thing to do. I do not need the extra wealth.”
If he wasn’t angry with her and if nothing untoward had recently happened then she could only draw one conclusion. “Have you seen Rick today?”
“No, I have not.” His gaze darkened. “Leave well enough alone, Francesca. Would you like a drink?” And finally he smiled a little at her.
She seized his arm to prevent him from finding a waiter.
A tiny voice in her head told her to let him be and try to discover the cause of his dark humor another time.
But she said, “One day we will be married. Or at least, that is what we plan. But our marriage will never work if you shut me out. I can see very clearly that you are disturbed, even unhappy. Please, Calder, tell me what this is about.”
And he was angry now. “Again, I have had a difficult day, and I am sorry if I have upset you.” His tone was harsh and abrupt, final. “I have no intention of boring you with the details, either. Leave well enough alone.”
She recoiled. How would they get along for an entire lifetime if he intended to behave like this when something went afoul?
He seemed to read her mind. “You knew my reputation when you accepted my proposal. No one forced you to accept. If you wish to change your mind, I will not object.”
She was so stunned that she gaped. Then she cried, “What are you saying? You…are you saying that you wish to end our engagement?” She was too shocked to feel anything but monumental surprise.
He stared, his expression so brittle it appeared in danger of cracking apart.
It was a moment before he spoke. “We need to stop pretending,” he said.
“I am not a noble man. That is a script I wrote for you because you wanted me to write it. But it is only a goddamn script, Francesca. The facts of my life speak for themselves. I am a selfish, self-serving man and I am not Rick Bragg. You may take it or leave it, my dear.”
She cried out, horrified, wanting to protest his description of himself, but she could not get a single word out.
“I’m sorry,” he said flatly, his face now devoid of emotion. “I’m sorry I am not who you want me to be.” He bowed. “I’ll go get us champagne.”
“Your sister is one of the finest hostesses in the city,” Bartolla said, beaming with pleasure as she held on to Evan’s arm.
They had arrived at the Montrose residence and she had just handed off her velvet wrap.
Now, glances were turning her way, both male and female.
The male glances were startled and longing, the female glances were green with envy. Triumph filled her.
She smoothed down the dark burgundy velvet gown she wore, having next to nothing underneath.
Small straps encrusted with diamantés held the plunging bodice up; burgundy velvet gloves, the buttons diamanté, covered her arms well past the elbows.
As she walked, the gown clung to her hips and thighs.
She knew that because she had admired herself in a full-length mirror for some time before leaving the Chandler household.
“Connie is a fabulous hostess,” Evan said, seeming distracted.
She pressed her bosom against his arm. “You are such a dear to bring me here, when we are immersed in our own personal crisis.”
His jaw flexed and he glanced at her. His voice very low, he said, for the hundredth time, “Are you sure, Bartolla?”
And for the hundredth time, she nodded, looking dismayed, whispering, “Please, Evan, please. You don’t have to do this. I can return to Europe to have our child and no one will ever know.”
His jaw looked ready to crack apart. “You will do no such thing,” he said flatly.
She turned away, hiding her smile. He had insisted that they would elope immediately. “There’s your sister, and Lord Montrose. Come,” she said, leading him over.
“Connie, my lord, how wonderful to see you both. And how lovely the decor is!” she cried.
Connie smiled, kissing her cheek, while Neil Montrose, a very tall, handsome man, kissed her hand.
Bartolla strutted a bit before him, smiling warmly at him, as well.
But his regard merely skimmed her low-cut bodice once, a reflex most men had.
She realized he had his arm around his wife and his body pressed closely to hers.
“I’m glad you made it,” he said to his brother-in-law.
Evan smiled grimly. “How could I refuse an invitation from you and Con?”
Bartolla pushed out her chest, wishing she could poke Evan in the ribs, for his expression was so morose. Connie noticed her action; amazingly, her husband did not.
“That is a stunning dress,” Connie said. “You wear it so well, Bartolla.” She spoke without malice. In fact, she seemed incredibly content.
Bartolla suspected they had recently made love. “Thank you.” Bartolla smiled and decided not to waste her time on Neil Montrose.
Neil said to Evan, “Julia and Andrew are here. I hope the evening will not become uncomfortable for you.”
Evan clasped his hand. “Neil, thank you for your concern. But I have other matters on my mind now, matters that do not involve my father.”
Neil released his wife and put his hand on Evan’s shoulder, briefly stepping aside. Bartolla strained to listen to them. He said, “I had lunch with Andrew the other day. He is upset, Evan, and rightly so. Can you not think about some kind of compromise? You are his only son.”
“Neil,” Evan warned, “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I am afraid that the issues between my father and I are not your affair.”
Montrose hesitated, his very turquoise eyes unwavering on his brother-in-law. “I am afraid I cannot be indifferent to your plight. Connie and I are both, frankly, worried.”
“I am happy,” Evan said, looking anything but. “So you need not worry about me.”
Bartolla knew she must take her lover aside and chastise him for his lack of social graces.
She sighed and suddenly noticed Calder Hart, standing in the other room with several women, all of them stunning and all vying for his attention.
Hart’s expression was hard to read. Bartolla could not decide if he was indifferent, bored or interested.
She glanced around, but saw no sign of Francesca.
“Where is your sister?” she asked Connie, and found that Connie’s gaze had also veered to Calder Hart. Her expression was openly concerned.
“She went outside onto the terrace,” Connie murmured, tearing her gaze from Hart with obvious reluctance.
“He is certainly a magnet, is he not?” Bartolla laughed but wondered why Hart was not fawning over his future bride.
Connie looked at her oddly. “I think he is in love with my sister.” And she turned to glance at Hart again.
All kinds of interest flared. Were Hart and Francesca arguing?
A very young and very pretty brunette, whom Bartolla did not know, was clinging to him now.
Her gaze narrowed. Hart could take care of himself.
He must be enjoying that young lady’s attentions or he would have disengaged himself.
“I doubt Hart has ever been in love,” Bartolla said.
Then she quickly smiled and added, “Until now.”
Connie turned her back on the scene in the salon, clearly displeased with her future brother-in-law.
Evan and Neil stepped back to them. Evan said, “Is Francesca here?”
“She is on the terrace, I think,” Connie said.
“I need to speak with her.” He glanced at Bartolla, and then said to his sister, “She is on another case.”
“I know. Apparently the Slasher struck again last night.”
Evan turned white. “God, I didn’t read it in the World!”
“It was in the Tribune,” Neil remarked.
Bartolla did not like Evan’s reaction.
“Who was it? I mean, surely it wasn’t Maggie—Mrs. Kennedy—Francesca would have told me immediately!” He was aghast.
Bartolla slipped her arm in his, furious and hiding it. Did Evan have some kind of affection for that horrid little homely seamstress? She was certainly beginning to think so!
Connie touched his arm. “Of course it wasn’t Mrs. Kennedy. She has moved into Hart’s home with her children. The woman’s name was Sullivan, I think.”
Evan made a huge sound, clearly of relief. “Mag—Mrs. Kennedy has moved into Hart’s home?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said firmly. “She will be safe there.”
Bartolla pressed close. “Darling, don’t you think your concern for your sister’s seamstress is a bit…out of place?”
He seemed startled. “She is a friend of the family, Bartolla, and you know I am very fond of her children.”
Connie and Neil exchanged a glance, which Bartolla did not miss. Her cheeks started to burn with humiliation. Would he display his absurd and misplaced affections to the entire world?
“How kind you can be,” she said, smiling. “I am so proud of you.” She kissed his cheek.
He did not seem to notice. “Can I get anyone a drink?” he asked.
“We’re fine,” Neil said. Then he turned to his wife, smiling into her eyes. “All of our guests have arrived and we should separate and mingle. Will you promise me the first dance after we dine?”
Connie beamed. “You know I will.”
He leaned down and kissed her far too intimately for a husband and wife in a public room.
“Can you get me a glass of champagne?” Bartolla asked Evan.
“Certainly,” Evan said.
Feeling vicious now, her glance strayed to Hart. “I’ll be outside, with Francesca,” she said.