Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (20 page)

And she knew instantly that nothing was right and too much was wrong; his turquoise eyes were lackluster, grim, resigned. “Hello, Francesca,” he said.

Greetings were exchanged all around.

“Would you care to join us?” Bragg asked.

Francesca hoped they would. And then she saw Calder Hart walking into the room. She almost fainted. They did not need this now!

He was with a stunning brunette who was about thirty, clearly a woman of means. Another couple was with them. In his white dinner jacket, Hart was, perhaps, the most outstanding man in the room. Francesca wondered who his dinner partner was; she wondered if she would ever see him with the same woman twice.

“We are meeting another party,” Montrose said.

Francesca hesitated and knew the moment Calder had seen them. He grinned across the room at her, spoke to his group, then detached himself from them.
Oh no,
Francesca thought as he began to approach them with long, careless strides.

Francesca said, “Hart is here.” If he caused trouble, she would murder him, she thought.

His gaze was lazily scanning their group. But Montrose had turned, and Francesca thought he looked tense and angry. Or was it her imagination? She glanced at Connie, who seemed more than anxious; she seemed afraid.

Francesca felt like saying, “Well, what did you expect?”

Sarah cried in an excited whisper, “Is that Calder Hart?”

Francesca glanced at her. She knew that Sarah was simply dying to view his art collection. “Yes.”

“Please, introduce me—but do not tell him I am an artist!”

Francesca softened and nodded. “I promise.”

“Rick,” Hart said, pausing at their table.

“Calder,” Bragg returned, and neither man seemed particularly amiable.

Hart turned to her, Francesca, first. His eyes warmed and as he reached for her hand his gaze moved over her beautiful pink dress. “Well, well,” he murmured, lifting her hand and kissing it. “You
never
cease to surprise me, Francesca.”

She gripped his hand hard and gave him a look that was almost frantic. It meant,
Please! Do not let Montrose know that you are hunting his wife!

She was too apprehensive to care about Hart’s admiration now.

He grinned at her and turned to Connie and Neil. “Lady Montrose. You are lovelier every time I lay eyes upon you.”

Connie said breathlessly, “Mr. Hart.”

Francesca stared from her and Hart to Neil. He was flushed. He knew. He had to.

Hart nodded at him. “Montrose. How goes it?”

Neil’s jaw rippled with tension. His smile was a baring of the teeth. “My
wife
is the loveliest woman in this room, is she not?” he asked. And his stance was wide, as if he were bracing for a physical fight.

“Ah, you put me on the spot. There are so many lovely women here tonight, I am afraid to insult anyone.” Hart did not look away from Montrose. His smile did not reach his eyes. The two men reminded Francesca of two bulls in the same pen.

Neil stepped in front of Connie. “Do you think to insult my
wife?”
he asked dangerously.

Connie looked faint now with fear. “Neil,” she whispered.

Francesca realized that Neil wished to provoke a fight. “Neil,” she tried.

But Bragg stepped between the two of them, moving past her to do so. He took Hart’s arm and said, “I believe you know Evan Cahill and Sarah Channing, his fiancée.” Hart gave Montrose another moment, staring at him with
mockery in his eyes, and then turned. “I have not met Miss Channing.” He nodded at her.

Sarah flushed. “Mr. Hart, I have heard so much about you, and I so admire your efforts in support of the arts.”

He started and then smiled, and it was genuine. “Are you also a collector?” he asked, studying her now.

She hesitated. “I hope to be.”

He inclined his head. “And I wish you success.”

“This is my cousin, Countess Benevente,” Sarah said shyly.

It had taken a while to get round to Bartolla, the most flamboyantly beautiful woman in the room. Francesca was surprised that Hart had not beelined for her, but perhaps that was because he was currently pursuing Connie.

Hart looked at Bartolla for the first time since he had arrived at their table. She remained seated, which was a bit odd, as she was the only one to do so. He bowed in her direction. Francesca was rather surprised by his non-predatory behavior, but perhaps he sensed Montrose standing rigidly behind him and was afraid of a knife in the back. Then he said, with a mocking smile, “I do believe that we have met.”

“Yes, I think in London.” She was cool. The flirtatious woman had disappeared.

He did grin. “Actually, it was Lisbon. I never forget a night that includes a full moon, the sea, and candlight.”

“Oh, really? Your memory is better than mine.” She arched her brows imperiously.

“Or perhaps I am thinking of a different supper companion?” he said.

Bartolla smiled, and if smiles could kill, he would now be dead. “Yes, that must be it. You are thinking of a different woman entirely. How
nice
to meet you, Mr., ah, Hyde?”

Francesca sighed—loudly. Everyone turned. She did
not care. Clearly Hart and Bartolla had once been intimate. She should have known.

Hart was laughing, and he did not bother to correct Bartolla’s mistake concerning his name. “Well, it was a pleasure,” Hart said. “And I am off to my party.” He smiled, his gaze moving to Francesca.

Francesca could not be more relieved. Thank God, he was not going to cause trouble tonight. “Good night,” she said to him in a rush, meaning,
Please go, now!

He suddenly turned to Bragg. “Oh, have you heard the news?”

“What news?” Bragg said flatly, clearly wishing for Hart to go as well.

“Leigh Anne is in Boston,” he said.

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY
9,1902—
MIDNIGHT

The evening had been unbearable. She did not know what to do.

Connie moved about her dressing room, already in her pale cream-colored silk-and-lace peignoir. She had yet to let her hair down, and when she faced herself in the mirror over the Tensu chest she used as a bureau, she saw a pale and frightened woman gazing back at her, a woman she did not know or recognize.

But the week had been such an amicable one, she thought in sudden despair. How had it all unraveled in a single evening?

She shivered. Neil had not spoken directly to her all night. The tension between them had been so thick one could slice it with a steak knife. The couple they had been dining with had noticed. The waiters had noticed—everyone had noticed. And of course, it was all her fault.

But she hadn’t done anything wrong. Having lunch with another man, a male friend, was hardly a crime. Nothing had come of that luncheon.

Except for several rather disturbing fantasies, which shamed her no end, increasing the guilt already afflicting her. But in her fantasies, Hart’s face always changed, immediately becoming Neil’s.

What was she doing? And more important, why?

She was flushed now; she could feel the heat in her cheeks. She must not recall those very illicit acts of her
imagination now. What would Neil think if he knew that she had dreamed of him touching her in terribly shocking ways?

She knew
exactly
what he would think. He would think her a whore.

The heat in her cheeks increased. Even when she had been having lunch with Hart, even when they had been flirting grandly, Neil had remained firmly on her mind. There was no escaping him—there was no escaping the betrayal of their marriage. She did not know what to do.

And Neil knew.

He had not said a word, but his behavior that evening, and the way he had acted with Hart, told her that.

Of course, there was no crime in flirtation. Even though Connie knew exactly what Hart wanted from her, it was only a flirtation. Hart had a mesmerizing charm, and it was pleasant and amusing, but nothing more. How could she not enjoy flirting with him? But God, flirting with her own husband before his treachery had been a million times more exciting.

Connie realized that a tear was slipping down her face.

It was hard to breathe. Was this what it was like to be trapped in a small, airless space? Connie suddenly had the gruesome image of being contained in a coffin—of being buried alive in her own coffin.

She shuddered, ill.

She had thought that he and Hart were going to come to blows, right there in Delmonico’s.

What was she doing?

I am punishing him,
she heard a little voice inside her answer, and its tone was cold with satisfaction.

Horrified by that voice in her head, Connie gripped the wrought-iron edge of the Tensu chest, staring at her wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. She did not recognize the woman she was looking at. The woman smiling back at
her was cold and ugly. Of course she was not punishing him!

The past was
over.
She had told that to Francesca and had meant it. Mama had even lectured her on letting it go as well. And Mama was always right.

Besides, the past would never be repeated. Neil had promised her that, and she believed him. The one thing he was, was a man of his word.

Then why was there this horrible tension between them?

And if he knew about her lunch, why hadn’t he said anything?

What if he did not know?

What if she was imagining everything?

But she hadn’t imagined his affair with Eliza Burton!

Connie did not know what to think. Her mind felt as if it had become useless, stupid, spinning round and round helplessly, incapable of forming a coherent conclusion from the many parts. She could not even organize her thoughts, so of course she could not organize her life! And if she could not organize her thoughts, or herself, then how could she organize and manage her marriage? Fool! Failure! Oh, what would Mama do?

Mama would do whatever she had to do to make her husband happy. Because Mama always did what was right.

What Mama would
not
do was flirt with another man.

Never speak back to your husband. Never refute his opinions. Never debate. Always bring him his paper and slippers. Never deny him his rights. Laugh when he tries to be amusing. Frown when he is upset. You are his helpmeet, not just his wife . . . Never betray him. . . .

Connie clapped her hands over her ears.

“Connie?”

Tears were blurring her vision, and the woman standing in the mirror, while beautiful, looked so fragile now that she appeared to be made of porcelain, a lovely painted
porcelain doll, which surely must soon break.

“Connie? Are you all right?”

She realized with horror that Neil was standing on the threshold of her dressing room, and she whirled, dropping her hands to her sides. Instantly she pushed her mouth into a smile. “Neil?” What did he want? Why was he there? It was late; they had said good night; he had gone to bed! she thought frantically.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, and there was real concern in his vivid turquoise eyes. He started to her, but she backed up, and he halted in his tracks.

“Nothing.” She beamed brightly, but did not move. The last time he had come to her rooms at such an hour, he had wanted to take her to bed. But that had been a long time ago.

But surely that was not why he was now present. Surely not. They had not made love in months and months, and just recently he had been in Eliza Burton’s bed. Wasn’t that enough for him? She was suddenly dizzy.

“Are you ill? Is it another migraine?” he asked, his expression almost agonized. He had removed his dinner jacket and replaced it with a paisley smoking coat in shades of red, black, and gold. He still wore his black evening trousers, but black velvet slippers, monogrammed in gold with his initials,
NMC
, the c standing for the baronetcy of Caameron, replaced his shoes. He had removed his white dress shirt, and she could glimpse a swath of hard, bare chest, dusted with dark hair, where the robe gaped slightly open.

She looked away, flushing. She had seen Neil without his shirt several times, and her husband might have been a logger, as he was all huge, thick muscle. “Yes,” she said quickly. Then, “No. I don’t know.” If only he would go! She could not manage this encounter now!

“Come into the sitting room,” he said.

She did not move. What could he possibly want? The answer, unfortunately, was obvious.

She thought about his touch and his kisses. He was not an inhibited or gentle lover; he liked to touch her everywhere, no matter how she might protest, no matter her surprise. Why was she recalling his style of lovemaking now? And her recent fantasies? A tingle began inside of her, but she hated it, and she shoved it away. “I am tired;” she said, and to her surprise, she heard how her tone had changed, becoming odd, flat and hard.

“Come into the sitting room,” he repeated.

Connie stiffened, because it was an order and they both knew it.

Just as they both knew she would never refuse him when he spoke in such a manner. Still, her feet did not move, even though her brain told her to obey. She stood stock-still.

“Connie?” he asked, startled.

Never refute. Never debate. Never disobey
. . .

Something was wrong with her, Connie thought, feeling frantic. She nodded and this time, somehow, she started forward. He did not move, watching her. She had to go past him, and she felt his eyes on her back once she did so. Inside of her, she felt angry that he would stare at her so. Was he disapproving of her now? Perhaps he did not like her peignoir!

She was even angrier that she had obeyed him.

He followed her into the next room, which was situated between her lovely pink-and-white bedroom and her dressing room.

A maid had stoked the fire, and all the lights had been turned on when Connie had first come in. Neil had clearly turned off all of the lights except for one. She went to stand in front of the fire, clasping her hands firmly. How could he be thinking of passion now, after the night they had just endured?