Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (30 page)

She inhaled. “You kissed me.”

Their gazes locked. “I was exhausted, overworked, drunk.”

“I know,” she said softly, and her gesture was not conscious or planned—she reached out and cupped his face and the feel of his unshaven skin, his hard jaw, and the edge of his mouth beneath her palm made her faint with need and desire.

He inhaled harshly and seized her hand, but he did not remove it from his cheek. Instead, he held it there and turned his face, kissing her palm heatedly. Francesca cried out.

And somehow she was in his arms, but his grasp was brutal, and he anchored her by the hair pinned at her nape, and his mouth claimed hers, the way she had dreamed it would. Hot, hard, insistent. His tongue thrust past her lips. Francesca felt the wall at her back. She felt her pins falling out, her hair falling down. She felt his loins, heavy and aroused, against her own hips. He kissed her as if he wished to take her there and then.

She found his shoulders and clung to them, for her life.

With his tongue deep inside her, he moved his hands down her back and somehow found her hips. He held her hard against his body, and she became even more aware of his huge arousal. She had to moan, but that only made him slide one hand farther down her backside, anchoring her to him.

She wanted to die. She wanted to fly. She wanted, desperately, to tear off his clothes and then her own.

Suddenly he tore his mouth away from hers, and his lips pressed against the side of her neck, again and again, just as his hips pressed against hers, urgently, demandingly, and then he pushed her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and he simply held her, hard and tight, against his own shaking body.

She was shaking, too. Like a leaf. Francesca became aware of her thundering heartbeat and his, an answering drumroll against her breasts. She became aware of his rigid stance, of the power, barely controlled and leashed, within his body, within him. His legs were rock-hard, braced against her thighs, almost hurting her with their strength. His arousal remained obvious, insistent. This man was doing everything he could not to give in to his most basic instincts, she realized. He was doing everything he could to treat her with respect.

It took a long time, but finally, her breathing began to slow.

His heartbeat also began to steady.

His trembling eased and ceased.

Finally, he straightened and looked into her eyes. Francesca could not smile or speak. She was stunned with the intensity of the passion she had felt, from both him and herself. The passion—the urgency. She could only stare—until she realized how dire his expression was. How dire, how grim.

Fear flooded her.

“Bragg?” she whispered. Something was wrong, terribly so, and his name came out frightened and unsure. She was frightened and uncertain now. “What is it?”

“I am corrupting you,” he said tersely. “You had better go; you are late. But tomorrow, Francesca, we must talk, once and for all.”

And somehow she knew it was a conversation to be avoided, at all costs.

S
UNDAY,
F
EBRUARY 2, 1902—9:30 P.M.

Francesca gave up trying to decide what Bragg might wish to say to her the next time that they spoke. But unease filled her—and it was accompanied by dread. No good, she thought, would come of their conversation.

She was also late. Francesca wished she had not broken her word to Julia, because next time, her mother might not be so accommodating when she wished to run about the city at an unusual hour. She hoped Julia had retired for the evening. That would make life so much simpler—for the moment. Because Francesca could not shake the feeling that life would never be simple again.

Jennings had reached the corner of 63d Street and Fifth Avenue and was turning onto the avenue. The brief snowfall had ceased. Fifth Avenue and the park were carpeted with fresh snow. Snow dusted the trees and sat atop the park’s stone walls. Stars were emerging in the blue-black night, along with a sliver of incandescent moon. It was a beautiful sight, but Francesca sank deeper into her gloom, failing to appreciate it. On the corner ahead, she could make out the high, steeply pitched roof, the turrets and chimneys of the Cahill mansion. As she espied it, she noticed her brother striding down the steps and out of his private entrance on 62d Street.

Her coach crept forward steadily, the clopping of hoofbeats muffled by the snow. Evan started on foot toward Fifth, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his head down, a scarf thrown carelessly about his shoulders. He had not worn his hat. As he was walking, he must be on the way to the Metropolitan Club, which was but a half-block down, or some other establishment that was almost as close. Her heart sank a bit further. It was Sunday evening. Couldn’t he stay home?

And where was he going—or rather, whom was he meeting—and why?

“Jennings, pull up, please. I wish to speak with my brother.”

The coach was braked immediately. As it slowed, Evan looked up, and seeing the Cahill brougham, he halted, waiting. Francesca unlatched and pushed open her window, recalling their rather nasty argument the day before. “Hello,” she said with feigned cheerfulness. “Is it warm enough to walk? I am on my way home. Do you wish to wait and use the coach?”

“Hello, Fran,” Evan said, coming up to the door and peering through the window at her. “I am only going to the club, so I am on foot.” He smiled at her. Apparently all was forgotten, if not forgiven. But then, Evan was not one to hold a grudge.

Except, apparently, with Andrew, in the matter of his forthcoming marriage.

“The Metropolitan?” Francesca asked. “Come in out of the cold. Jennings will drop you there.”

Evan hesitated, then opened her door and leaped in. “It’s actually a nice evening,” he said, settling down beside her. “It’s warmed up, with the snow and all.”

“I would hardly know,” Francesca said, frowning now.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” She tried to smile at him and failed.

“Is it Connie? At least you and mother have seen her. She’ll be fine, Fran,” he said, patting her knee with real affection. “By now she is home, and she and Neil have begun to patch things up.”

Did he really think it would be so easy? Was she the only one who was worried about Connie? Francesca looked at him. “Spoken from a man with a mistress,” she could not help herself from murmuring.

Evan had leaned forward. “Jennings, drop me up at the club, please, and then take Francesca home.”

“Yes, sir,” Jennings replied, and the coach rolled forward.

Evan turned to her. “Fran, I am not married yet. And Sarah Channing hardly loves me. I think she is afraid of me, if you wish to know the truth. She would not care if she knew about Grace Conway.”

“You mistake her quiet manner for timidity and shyness. I did, too, at first.”

He sighed. “Please, do not go on and on about the merits of Sarah Channing. Is that why you have waylaid me? I know you wish to speak with me. I can see it in your eyes.” He sighed again, more heavily. “I am prepared. Do your worst.”

“What does that mean?”

He folded his arms, regarding her. “I am expecting a lecture, about not breaking things off with a certain lady whom I am very fond of. I am sorry we shouted at one another last night, Fran. It is not your affair, but that did not excuse my temper. I blame my lapse on a rather improper amount of gin.”

“You got soused. I’ve never seen you that way before,” Francesca said, and it was the truth.

“It is simple. I am a man on his way to the gallows. Why not drown my sorrows?” He smiled at her, but it did not reach his blue eyes.

Francesca hated seeing such sadness there. And she was angry with Andrew for not thinking of his son’s feelings, for refusing to even consider undoing the match. She smiled and brushed a stray lock of black hair from his eyes. “Evan, let’s call on Sarah tomorrow together,” Francesca said impulsively.

“Let’s not.”

“So now you dislike her? I refuse to believe that; you are too much a gentleman.”

“I neither like her nor dislike her, but I saw her the other night. At the opera, remember? You were there. I was courteous and attentive and she, well, perhaps I had better not say.” He turned away, but not before she saw him grimace.

“It’s important. Please,” Francesca cajoled. “You may feel differently about her when we are through.”

“I might feel differently about her if she had an opinion and dared to utter it,” he said with real exasperation. “And have you noticed that she is reed-thin and as plain as a doorknob?”

“She is petite. She has the most beautiful brown eyes I have ever seen. Her complexion is porcelain-perfect—”

“Enough! If you think to convince me that she is pretty, you will not succeed. She is plain, Fran. Plain, plain, plain.” He scowled. “And I am being kind.”

“I think you are determined to resist her.” It was a sudden insight, one that Francesca hoped was true. The brougham had halted before the imposing granite building that was the club. “I think you would resist any lady Papa brought to you for the purpose of marriage. Perhaps you are simply not ready to wed.”

“How astute! Unfortunately, Papa is stone-deaf on this particular subject. The man dictates my entire future, like a tyrant, and will not heed one word I have said.” He turned a dark gaze on her. “Or that you have said, on my behalf, and I thank you again, for that.”

Francesca had pleaded his case, in vain. She had been shocked by her father’s refusal to reconsider the union. “Let’s take this one step at a time. It is a long time until June. Much can happen between now and then. Why don’t we call on Sarah together, you and I?”

“It is a long time until June!” he exclaimed, incredulous. “June is four months away!”

“Are you panicking?” she asked with worry.

“Wouldn’t you? If Mother had done this to you, if, say, Mr. Wily was to be your husband in June, wouldn’t you be in a panic?”

She met his gaze and for the very first time she truly understood his plight. “I would not walk down the aisle,” she said simply.

He grimaced. “But you would not then be thrown in debtor’s prison.”

That was true. “Oh, Evan. Well, either you must fall in love with Sarah, or we must find a way out of this. I shall begin working on your dilemma immediately.”

He smiled at her and kissed her forehead. “If this were not so dire, I would be frightened.”

“Do not be afraid. I shall think this through very carefully, I promise you.”

“The way you did with Connie?” He grinned and reached for the door.

She ignored that. “Tomorrow afternoon at four?” Francesca asked. She would show him Sarah’s studio. Perhaps, when he saw his fiancée’s talent and when he saw her with fire in her eyes, his feelings would take a turn for the better. Surely it could not hurt. Meanwhile, she would do her best to come up with a plan, at least to postpone the nuptials.

“Very well.” Evan was about to rise. Francesca restrained him.

“Now what?” he asked, but not with any rancor.

“Evan, something you said to me last night has truly been bothering me.”

He searched her gaze, no longer smiling. “I was drunk.”

She winced. “Yes, you were. And I do hope you are not intending to drown your sorrows tonight?”

“No, of course not.”

She hesitated again.

“Spit it out, Fran. As I know that you will, sooner or later.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, last week my understanding was that your debts were of a certain sum.” It was a sum she would never forget, for it was vast—impossible. Evan owed $133,000 in gaming debts.

Evan’s eyes became hooded. “I do not think my debts are your concern, Fran.” His tone was even and he turned to leave.

“Wait! But they are my concern! When you are my brother and I adore you! When Papa is forcing you to marry—”

He cut her off. “He is blackmailing me. Let’s not mince words now.”

She shivered, taken aback. But he was right, as much as she hated to admit it. In her heart, she still could not believe what Papa was doing. “You haven’t been gambling again, have you?”

His face changed. It closed completely, and his eyes became cold. “I am late,” he said.

Dismay flooded her. “Do you think to gamble to spite him now? Evan, what if we can raise the money to pay off your debts? Do not increase them!” she cried as he leaped out of the coach.

He stared at her as he closed the door. “No one will lend me that kind of money.”

“Perhaps not. But how do we know if we do not try?” she cried.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared.

Francesca realized that she was perspiring. “Stay away from the tables. Gaming will not solve anything.” He did not move and he did not speak. “And Papa has asked me to speak to you. He says you have ignored him.” She waited anxiously for his response.

It was a bitter laugh. “What a coward he is,” he said. “Do not bring me any messages from him. And I have not ignored him, Fran; I have cut him out of my life—and my heart.”

“Evan!” she cried, aghast. But he was walking away. Francesca unlatched the window, opened it, and poked her head out. “You do not mean that! Papa loves you, just as I know you love him!”

Evan faced her, walking backward. “Love? Like hell he loves me, because if he did, he would not force me to marry some homely little spinster that no man would ever look at twice, a woman whom I find completely boring, a woman whom I shall have to tolerate for the rest of my life. As far as I am concerned, he has lost his rights as my father. I do not
have
a father, Fran.” He turned on his heel and strode up the wide granite steps of the Metropolitan Club, where two liveried doormen immediately let him in.

Francesca realized her eyes had filled with tears. She rapped on the partition and said, “Jennings, I will go home now.”

M
ONDAY,
F
EBRUARY
3, 1902—11:45
A.M.

The old stone church was on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 58th Street. Francesca stepped down from her cab as several mourners entered the eighteenth-century Presbyterian church, their faces suitably somber, heads down. Francesca paused, clutching her purse, just outside of the entrance. She had read that Paul Randall’s funeral service was to take place that day at noon, followed by a burial just north of the city in a popular Yonkers cemetery. She had skipped her eleven o’clock biology class in order to attend the church service. Her every instinct had told her that she must not miss the funeral, even though one of her teachers had warned her that she had been absent far too frequently last month.