Chapter 20 #2
“Miss Cahill, please, come in,” Alfred said, his eyes remaining wide as he let her inside.
“Can I get you some tea, perhaps, while I tell Mr. Hart that you are here? He is not expecting you,” he added, and while she had often called impulsively in the past, the butler’s statement seemed to be a reprimand.
He had noted her dishabille. But Francesca did not really care that her hair was coming loose or that her jacket was askew, that she wore no rouge and was undoubtedly as white as a ghost. She faced him, folding her arms across her chest. “Alfred, you do not have to be formal with me. Yes, I am distraught. Yes, I should go home and compose myself. However, I have just learned that Hart and my father have had a terrible falling-out and that my father has broken our engagement!” Alfred started.
Francesca continued in a rush, “And surely Hart has not accepted the sudden demise of our engagement! I am not going home, Alfred, oh no. I must see Hart.”
“Oh dear,” Alfred said, his tone hushed. “Mr. Hart is in a drawing room with some of his family. Miss Cahill, please, why don’t you sit down in the gold room. I shall bring you some tea and sweets—it will calm you, I think—and then I shall tell Mr. Hart that you are here.”
“Nothing will calm me and especially not chocolate and tea,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “Alfred, I must see Hart now. What is his mood? How is he? Has he indicated anything to you?”
“He seemed fine when he came in a bit earlier, Miss Cahill,” Alfred said reluctantly. “Miss Cahill, I respect you so. Would you mind very much if I dared to be terribly bold with you?” he asked, leading her across the huge entry hall.
Francesca and Alfred had reached a silent and mutually agreeable understanding some time ago. Alfred wholeheartedly wished for her to marry his employer and he had made it clear he thought that nothing could be better for Hart. “Of course,” she said.
“I feel certain that Mr. Hart will not appreciate a scene,” Alfred said, glancing at her with real worry. “I have seen him tolerate unhappy ladies in the past. One scene and they were never to be seen or heard from again.” A bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead.
Francesca touched his arm. “Thank you, Alfred, for your concern, and I shall keep that in mind,” she said.
Even as panicked as she was, she was sane enough to know that Alfred was right.
Hart would despise a scene, and if he had the same doubts he had last night, she might even put the final nails in the coffin of their union by carrying on recklessly.
Still, their future was at stake and she had to know what he intended to do about it.
“But let me remind you, he was not engaged to any of these other ladies.”
Alfred inclined his head slightly. “That is true.”
Francesca swallowed, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hat was crooked and she attempted to right it, but she dropped the two hairpins. As if she cared about her hat. She smoothed down her jacket hem and nodded at Alfred.
He opened the double door. “Mr. Hart, sir? Miss Cahill is here to see you.”
Francesca began to tremble. She glanced into the drawing room and saw Hart seated with a scotch, grimly staring at his drink. Clearly, his humor was black. That was a good sign, was it not? For surely it indicated that he was as upset with what Andrew had done as she was. And he slowly looked up.
For one moment, she stared back, aware of an incredible tension in him.
And then he rose, setting his drink aside.
Francesca became vaguely aware of the others in the room.
Grace and Rathe Bragg sat on the sofa near his chair.
Rourke was in another chair and Maggie was on a love seat with Joel, an open book between them.
Although she knew Maggie continued to stay at Hart’s house, she had not expected to see her just then.
All eyes were trained on her now. Clearly, everyone was remarking her unkempt appearance—or was it her nearly-hysterical state?
But Hart’s eyes were the worst. They seemed cold and very black and somehow menacing, indeed.
Francesca forgot everyone else, staring at Hart, thoroughly taken aback.
Hart approached, his expression impossible to read. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, she said, “I would like a word with you, please.”
His jaw flexed. “We will step into the library,” he said without formality and he watched her so closely that she shivered.
Something was not right.
Just like last night.
He turned to his family and Maggie. “Excuse us.”
No one said a word.
Francesca could not look at anyone, even knowing that later she would have to apologize to everyone, and she quickly turned and rushed ahead of him down the hall.
He followed her and she could hear his strides, long, hard and controlled.
The library was a spacious affair with pale green walls, dark wood and gilded furniture, not to mention many stacks of bookcases. She whirled, facing him.
He closed both doors behind him and turned to her. “Why-ever are you so distraught?”
She was silenced, but only for a moment. “Are you going to tell me what happened today?”
“I was wondering exactly that, myself,” he said, walking past her to a bar cart.
She did not hesitate. She raced after him and seized his wrist, preventing him from lifting the decanter of scotch. “I have no clue what you mean. Papa ended our engagement and he said you made not a single objection!”
Hart faced her, his jaw hard, and the storm clouds were there in his eyes. “Yes, he did.”
She made a disbelieving sound. “And you did not object?”
His expression tightened. “I did not.” He hesitated and added, “But not for the reason you are thinking.”
“For what reason, then?” she cried.
“Timing,” he said flatly.
“Timing?” She could not believe her ears.
“Timing, my dear, is everything in this life, but that, apparently, is a lesson you have not learned.” He was cold, almost cruel, and he turned away from her, pouring a scotch.
One, not two, she saw miserably. “Does this mean the day will come when you will object?”
He did not answer, his back to her, lifting the glass to his lips.
As he drank, she saw how rigid his shoulders were. He was angry, and it felt as if he wanted to be mean and nasty, too. She was sick. Why was he angry with her? What had she done? And would he now seize Andrew’s behavior as the excuse he needed to end their engagement? “So we are over, then?”
He set the glass down so hard that the bar cart jumped. He turned. “We will never be over, Francesca,” he said harshly.
It was perhaps the most romantic thing anyone could say to her, and it was certainly the most romantic thing he had ever said.
But the meaning was ruined by his black glare and his angry tone.
Her spirits fell with sickening force. “I do not understand you, not at all,” she somehow whispered, consumed with dread.
He gave her a mocking look. “Why not be realistic, Francesca? Your father has not changed his low opinion of me—and if I were him, I would think the same way.”
“You want him to break this off, don’t you?” she asked in despair.
His jaw flexed, a muscle rippling there. “Actually, I did not. Actually, I do not like explaining myself and justifying my behavior to anyone,” he said with vast warning.
If he wanted to use this as an excuse to end their engagement, it was truly over then. “I am aware of that,” she said miserably. “And if it is over, if we are over, then I am the fool Bragg has said I was.” She swallowed down a lump of tears.
He made a mocking sound and it was ugly. “I heard you had a picnic today.”
She froze. What was this? He knew she had been in the park? And suddenly everything became clear. She thought about how she had been alone with Bragg in the park after Leigh Anne had left, how she had comforted him—and how it must have looked to any passerby.
Hart confronted her. “What? Can you not admit to such a pleasant afternoon?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her heart lurching with dread. “But it is not what you are thinking.”
“Ah, and you do know what I am thinking?” he mocked.
She swallowed hard. “Their marriage is in trouble, Calder. They are both in so much misery and I only wanted to help.”
“By spending the afternoon with Rick.”
“You said Raoul was my driver, my bodyguard. Clearly he is your spy!” she cried, tears finally blurring her vision.
How much had Raoul told him? She prayed he had not said that she had been in Rick’s embrace, because Hart would never believe it had been an act of comfort and friendship and nothing more.
“Raoul said nothing. Joel is the one who raved about his afternoon.” Hart’s black gaze bored into hers. “Of course, I then summoned Raoul and interviewed him at length.”
He knew. He knew she had held Bragg in her arms. “I was comforting him,” she said, trembling. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Yes, of course, for that is what you do best—comfort my half brother. Do you still love him?”
She cried out.
Hart seemed to shake. “Now is the time for real honesty, Francesca. I need to know. I demand it!”
She knew she must choose her words with care. “This is not what you are thinking.”
“Do you love him?” he ground out.
“Yes—but not the way that you mean,” she cried.
Hart turned away, his hands shaking.
“I love him as a friend,” she said firmly—desperately. “And that is my right.”
He downed some of the scotch with a harsh, guttural laugh. “Yes, the friend you spent an entire night on that train with—the friend whose bed you warmed before you ever were in mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
He stared.
She was, amazingly, afraid of him now. But she touched his arm and he flinched. “You are the man I have chosen. You are the man I want to wed.”
A moment passed. “Do you still love him?”
She recoiled. Her mind raced and she felt tears come. “No,” she whispered. Yes, she wanted to say. But as a friend, damn it, as if I were his sister, not as a lover, not as a wife.
He suddenly flung the scotch glass with all of his strength, across the entire room, no easy feat.
It fell short of the far wall and miraculously did not shatter when it hit the floor.
Francesca flinched. “You were in his arms,” Hart shouted.
“Yes, I interviewed Raoul, at length. You were in his arms. I went to your father to fight for our engagement and you were in his arms.”
“I was comforting him,” she tried, the tears falling freely now.
“I know all about his marital problems,” he said savagely.
“It is the talk of this family. So now what? Your father disapproves of us, but he loves Rick! Will you wait for Rick to divorce his wife? Will you marry him on the grave of a divorce made to his invalid wife? Shall his broken marriage be the altar upon which you make your eternal pledges of love?”
She tried to say no, but could not speak. Instead, she shook her head, more tears falling.
He turned his back on her, starting from the room.
“It wasn’t romantic,” she gasped.
He did not pause.
“It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t passionate! But you would not understand, as you do not understand friendship or loyalty!”
He whirled so rapidly that she flinched, even with half of the room separating them.
And then he was striding back. “You were my friend,” he said.
“And I have been nothing but loyal to you. I have not looked, even once, at another woman sexually since I asked you to marry me! When Daisy came to my office the other day, I was more than loyal to you!”
He was towering over her now. She tried to take his hand but he flung it away.
“I am still your friend,” she said, and realized how pathetic the declaration sounded.
She wanted to tell him that she loved him and always would, but she was afraid that he would not care, not now, not anymore.
“You don’t have to compete with Rick,” she begged.
“There is no reason to compete with him!”
He laughed disparagingly. “I have been competing with him my entire life.”
“Then stop! And trust me. My feelings haven’t changed. You’re the man I want to marry, Calder. Not him.”
His expression remained black, but she could see he had a grip on his anger and that it was under control. But she could also see something even worse—disbelief.
“You don’t believe me?” she managed to say, aghast.
“I know this much.” His smile was brief, mirthless and twisted. “If he were free, we would not be together.”
“That’s not true,” she cried, seizing him.
He shook her off, turning away. And as he started from the library, she raced after him. “You said we would never be over.”
He made a mocking sound.
“Are we over?” she demanded.
“You tell me,” he said darkly.
She couldn’t speak. They were standing on the edge of a terrible precipice and one false step would finish them, she was sure of it. Somehow, between her father and Rick Bragg, the odds had been stacked against them.
“I see you are simply speechless,” Hart said cruelly.
“No,” she whispered. “I am not speechless, I am merely terrified.”
He walked out.