Chapter 19
Noon
He knew Francesca was not at home, but as he handed off his gloves, he glanced toward the stairs, almost expecting her to come down them at any moment. Not amused by his own unbridled interest, Calder Hart mocked himself.
But it would always be this way and he was astute enough to know that.
Somehow, Francesca had become a vital ingredient in his life.
Somehow, he had come to eagerly anticipate her presence, as if he never saw her at all.
He had meant it when he had told her that she had become the sunshine in his life. He was not pleased.
He had spent his entire life relying on no one but himself.
He had learned the day his mother had died that he was absolutely alone in the world, never mind his older half brother, Rick.
Francesca might have become vitally important to him, but he must not ever lose his independence. He was resolved not to.
He had recovered from the disaster of the previous night.
Briefly, Daisy had so upset him with her insights into his character and her predictions of the future that he had wanted to push Francesca away.
He remained distinctly displeased with himself, because the one truth he lived and breathed was his desire to protect Francesca from the worst that life had to offer.
But last night he had done exactly the opposite.
Last night he had hurt her, selfish bastard that he was.
Now it was another day and his mental acuity seemed to have returned.
He should have foreseen this. Daisy had been unhappy with his engagement and the demise of their relatively new relationship.
He did not think he was being excessively arrogant, but he thought she harbored real feelings for him.
It would not be the first time a woman, either lady or whore, had fallen in love with him.
In any case, the moment she had walked into his Bridge Street office, he should have prepared for battle—no, for war.
She had wanted to upset him, and she had managed to do just that.
How ironic it was. He thought to battle his ex-mistress, but the real enemy was the truth she had so aptly revealed—the truth that was himself.
Today it did not matter. Today he had a grip on his unholy, decadent past. Today he was that nearly noble man, the man who made Francesca’s eyes shine in such a way that it gave him the greatest pleasure.
Daisy was right. He was a hedonist at heart.
His past was proof of that. But he could keep that side at bay.
He would have to, because Francesca must never look at him in horror, utterly comprehending the truth.
He had become far too fond of his new life and the woman now so predominantly at the heart of it.
He would take care of Daisy once and for all.
“Mr. Cahill is in his study, sir,” the butler said, politely leading the way through the spacious marble-floored foyer.
Francesca’s father had sent him a note that morning, requesting that he present himself at his earliest convenience. Had Francesca spoken to him about moving up their wedding date? After his rotten behavior last night, he doubted it.
Cahill had been at the Montrose affair last night; Hart assumed he was being summoned for an interrogation and a set-down.
As he hoped to have a good relationship with Francesca’s father, he would have to accept any chastisement, a burden he was unaccustomed to bearing.
Hart hoped he could be as humble as the moment required.
Andrew was seated behind his desk, his hands clasped together, looking very solemn indeed.
Hart stiffened as he entered, now wary, as Andrew rose to his feet.
He nodded at the butler, who closed the mahogany doors behind him, leaving the two men alone.
Even though it was April, a small fire crackled in the hearth.
“Good morning,” Andrew said, moving from behind his desk. The two men shook hands. “Do have a seat.”
Hart had no intention of sitting in front of Andrew’s desk while the other man took the large chair behind it, as the position he would be in was psychologically inferior.
He walked over to the sofa and sat, stretching out his long legs, refusing to show any tension, although extreme caution filled him.
He recognized a battlefield when invited to tread upon one.
Andrew Cahill was distinctly displeased—as he should be.
He smiled as Andrew came forward, forced to sit down in a chair facing Hart, giving Hart the position of power after all. “We have much to discuss,” Cahill said flatly.
“Please, do not delay.” Hart smiled at him.
“The subject is, of course, Francesca.”
This Hart already knew, as they otherwise had no affairs in common. He did not bat an eye. “Of course.” He would not give an inch—not yet.
“I think I will strike directly to the point,” Cahill said, his shoulders rigid now, his expression foreboding. “I have always held that you are not worthy of my daughter and that you will only cause her undue grief and pain.”
“I doubt any man is worthy of Francesca,” Hart murmured.
“Francesca was clearly unhappy last night. Have you already begun to pursue other women when the two of you are not even married yet?” Cahill had become flushed.
He stared coolly. It was very hard to believe that Cahill would attack him so openly. But he was determined to remain pleasant and obsequious. “I was not pursuing anyone. There is only one woman I am interested in, my fiancée.”
“Really?” Andrew was in disbelief. “Several guests remarked on the tension between you and Francesca. Several guests noted your dalliance with Miss Fischer. I did not care for your behavior last night, Hart. The two of you are supposed to be in love!”
His heart lurched uncomfortably. “I have never claimed to love your daughter, sir. I have vowed to cherish her, protect her, admire and respect her, while providing her with a life she will thrive upon.”
“You hardly cherished her last evening!”
“I allowed Miss Fischer a mild flirtation, which, of course, is not a crime.” He sighed, his expression appropriately humble, he thought. “You are, of course, right. Last night I did not cherish your daughter as I said I would.”
Cahill was clearly surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
“I never thought the day would ever come when I wished to wed anyone, Andrew. Yesterday I started to think about the commitment I am making.” He smiled with a shake of his head as Cahill’s eyes widened.
“You know very well that I was a confirmed bachelor before I met Francesca, a confirmed bachelor and an unrepentant rake. I never expected the day should come when I would freely wish to marry anyone. But then, no lady is like your daughter, sir.”
Cahill grunted.
He seemed to be giving way. Hart continued earnestly, “While I have vowed to give up my ways—freely, I might add—my reprehensible behavior at the Montrose supper was a result of the anxiety I have just expressed. Anxiety, I might add, that any previously confirmed bachelor in my position might expect upon making that monumental commitment to wedlock and, hopefully, wedded bliss.”
Andrew stared at him.
Hart wondered if he had overdone it.
And Andrew shook his head, flushing. “You are too smooth for your own good. Do you really think I believe a word you have just said? Clearly you have some feelings for Francesca, but you will never change your ways. A man like you simply cannot change who he is.”
Hart stiffened, for instantly he could hear Daisy as clearly as if she stood before him. Do you really think to reform? You cannot change, Calder, not for her, not for any woman, and not for very long.
Briefly, he hesitated. Whom was he fooling? Was he only fooling himself?
And the doubts came rushing back. He should let Francesca go.
Then he heard Cahill cough and instantly he came to his senses.
He was in the midst of a battle now, one he must not lose, because he had made up his mind and he was never going back to that place of gray despair, that place in which he had lived his entire life until so recently, that dark, dank place in which there was no Francesca.
“Will you fault me now for my honesty?” He smiled self-deprecatingly.
“Or for feelings that any man in my particular position would have? If I could undo my behavior of the night before, I would. It will not happen again. Andrew…I am determined to change. You have my word on that.”
“I do not trust your word. Nor do I trust that you are indeed being honest with me. So save your silken words for someone far more naive than I. I only wish I really knew your game.”
“There is no game,” Hart said coldly now. “And my word is always good.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Or will you now claim integrity of character?” Cahill leaped to his feet, his eyes ablaze.
Hart slowly stood and eyed his adversary.
What was this? There was far more here, he mused, than anger over his brief lapse last evening.
And even as he awaited the blow, he began to categorize Cahill’s business affairs and think of how he might gain leverage over his most precarious interests.
“I do not claim integrity of character,” he said.
“But I do claim integrity for my word,” he said.
Cahill made a mocking sound. “You may make any claims you wish and I will continue to stand firm in my opinions, sir. And I can fault you otherwise, and that I intend to do.”
He cast aside all pretense now. Cahill wanted this war, and so be it. “Really? Do I detect a gauntlet being thrown?”
“I do not bother! It has come to my attention that you continue to keep a mistress while engaged to my daughter. How dare you, Hart! I am appalled—beyond appalled. You should know that your engagement is off.” Hands on his hips, appearing dangerously apoplectic, he stared.