“No.” He took her arm and looped it securely in his. “Francesca, how could you ever make a fool of yourself? In fact, the commotion you are causing is twofold. The eligible men here want to know who you are and why they have not discovered you before; the other women are jealous.” They left the ballroom and most of the crowd. “Your new friend Bartolla Benevente has her claws out, for one.”
Francesca blinked. She had to glance back. Bartolla remained surrounded by her cadre of admiring men, flirting and carrying on. Francesca could even hear her infectious laughter from across the room. But even as she spoke, the countess was glancing toward Francesca and Bragg. “I hope you are wrong,” Francesca said. “I really do. I have come to like her. In some ways, we are very alike. And we are allies now—we both want Sarah and my brother freed from the chains of their engagement to each other.”
“The chains of their engagement? Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? Sarah might prove the best thing that ever happened to your brother.”
Feeling more eyes upon her, Francesca glanced over her shoulder one last time before stepping into the library, where a pair of gentlemen were in a quiet and earnest conversation. As she did so, she caught Hart staring at her and Bragg. He was expressionless, and he turned and walked away the moment Francesca realized it was his gaze she had felt so strongly on her back.
“If Hart ever makes an improper advance toward you, I will break his neck with my own two hands,” Bragg said harshly, having seen his brother as well.
Francesca, who had become rigid, whirled. “Please, don’t speak that way! He’s your brother.”
“He’s my half brother, and he has been nothing but trouble since . . .” He stopped very angrily.
“Since when, Bragg? Since the day he was born?”
“Don’t.”
“I want the two of you to become friends.”
“It will never happen.”
“You did not want to see him tried and convicted for Randall’s murder!” she cried.
He sighed as the gentlemen walked out, smiling briefly at them. “If he had been guilty . . .” he began.
She cut him off. “He wasn’t.”
Inside the library, a very large room with several seating areas and one book-lined wall, he faced her. “Why do you always defend him?”
He had taken her by surprise. She hesitated and then asked, “Are you jealous of him?”
He also hesitated. “Yes, I am. Because he is free and I am not—where you are concerned.”
She smiled then.
“And this pleases you?” His tawny brows lifted, but she could see that his inherent good humor was getting the best of him now.
“Yes, it does.” She was tart. “So where were you all day?”
“I had several official meetings, Francesca. Sleuthing is not a normal part of my day. We did find the letter Lizzie O’Brien wrote to Mary before her death, early this morning. I dispatched Newman to Philadelphia, and if she is still at the address, we may very well hear from him as early as tonight.”
Excitement filled her. “Will he bring her back with him?”
“Only if there is an urgent reason to do so. He has been instructed to question her thoroughly when he does find her, and he knows where I am.”
Francesca accepted that. As she thought about what Lizzie might or might not say, Bragg did a double take as someone walked past the door, in the hall. It had been a woman, and he left Francesca standing there by herself, striding to the hall and staring down it.
Surprise was her very first response, followed by unease. She quickly hurried over to him, as he was turning back to her. The person disappearing down the hall was a very petite woman with hair so dark it was almost blue.
With the unease came dread. “Bragg? Do you know that woman?”
He shook his head, but two bright spots of color were apparent, high up on his cheekbones.
“You seem upset,” she whispered, filled with worry. Who was that woman?
“I am sorry.” He smiled at her, but it was strained. “For one moment, I thought it was Leigh Anne. At a glance, they are very similar in appearance.”
She stared at him and said, almost ill, “You only saw her from behind, and for one moment. Are you certain it’s not her?”
He shook his head. “Leigh Anne is even smaller, her skin fairer. And I did see her from a profile. No, it is not her, and besides, she will not come to New York.”
Francesca just stared at him, utterly shaken. In fact, she almost felt devastated. His wife was a single train ride away.
She was in love with a married man.
Why did she keep forgetting that? She wet her lips. “What would you have done if it had been her?”
“I beg your pardon?” He did not seem calm, although he had spoken quite calmly. He seemed distraught—and Francesca could not recall ever seeing him that way.
“What would you have done if it had been her?” she repeated.
“I don’t understand the point of the question.” He was terse.
His tone of voice was a blow. Stunned and hurt, she froze. He had never spoken to her in such a manner.
He turned away, running one hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair.
“Is she still in Boston?”
He turned back, gave her a long look—one that was not particularly happy—and then walked behind her and closed the door. Francesca did not move.
He returned and took her hands. “I am sorry. I did not mean to speak to you in such a way. Francesca, forgive me.”
She pulled her hands away. “One would almost think that you still love her.” Her tone sounded choked to her own ears.
“I have never loved her!” he exclaimed.
“You told me so yourself—you fell madly in love with her the moment you saw her,” she said, and to her dismay, she had the worst urge to cry.
“That was lust,” he said tersely. “Nothing more.”
It felt like another blow. “You were not consumed with lust when you first met me,” she said bitterly.
He stared. “How would you know?”
She stiffened. “You hardly batted an eye—”
“The moment I saw you, you turned my entire world upside down. I saw you from across the room, before we were ever introduced. You looked absolutely beautiful and even more miserable—clearly, you hated the affair. And when Andrew made the introductions, you started a political debate with me, Francesca.” He suddenly smiled. It vanished. “I remember every word. I remember everything. You were wearing the most plain and prim blue dress. It matched your eyes exactly.”
She trembled. “Is that lust?” She knew it was not.
His jaw clamped down. “No, that’s not lust.”
She turned away.
He seized her arm and whirled her back around. “This is lust, Francesca, God damn it.”
To her shock, his arms went around her in the most uncompromising manner. Before she could even begin to understand what he was doing, his mouth was on hers, forcing her lips open. One of his hands slid up to and held the back of her neck, anchoring her head so she could not move. The kiss somehow, impossibly, deepened. Francesca felt a surge of desire, very much like a bolt of lightning, and it went through her body, inflaming her completely, as he bent her over backward. The back of her thighs came up against an object of furniture. An instant later, she fell back onto a sofa, and Bragg did not release her. He came down on top of her.
She felt every inch of his arousal against her hip, and somehow the shock and excitement of it caused her to cry out. And she managed to think, Dear God, this is what he is like.
He wrapped both of his arms around her and leaned his full weight on her and lifted his head. Their gazes locked.
She inhaled, shaking—his eyes were all heat. Heat and desire.
“Never tell me what I am feeling,” he said roughly. “It is only the vast respect which I have for you which holds me back.”
She nodded, incapable of speech.
He shifted. There was no mistaking what he was doing and what the movement meant; he was hugely aroused and letting her know it, and somehow it was dangerous. He stared.
She stared back, incapable of thought, of movement. There was only feeling—there was only wild excitement.
“There was lust the first moment I looked at you, Francesca, but I am a gentleman and I did not show it.”
She nodded and realized he was going to get up. It was just too soon . . . Impulsively she managed to get an arm free from between their bodies and she gripped his head. His eyes widened. Francesca strained forward, and this time she was the one to kiss him. Her tongue tasted his lips.
His breath escaped slowly as she touched his mouth with hers, gently at first, and she tested the seam of his lips and felt him throb with a surge of fresh blood and she moaned and moved her legs, and for one moment, as he settled there, the amount of excitement was simply impossible to resist. She cried out, needing him then and there, absolutely. He gripped the hair by her nape and kissed her, openmouthed, with his tongue thrusting deep.
Vaguely Francesca heard the door.
Bragg had his tongue in her throat, his palm cupping her breast through red silk and darker lace, his manhood surging against her hip. She wanted to reach down and find him. She heard a footstep. Alarm began.
“Bragg.” She pushed at him.
He froze, and leaped off of her as if shot from a cannon.
Francesca turned her head and saw Bartolla staring at them. The auburn-haired countess smiled and walked out.
Francesca sat up, her hair falling down over her shoulders like a cape.
Bragg looked from the door, which Bartolla had kindly closed, to Francesca, his eyes wide, as if astonished at her, at him, at them. Then his eyes widened impossibly as her state of dishevelment registered—or was it what they had just done?
“Shit,” he said.
It was the worst language she had ever heard him use, and certainly the worst language he could use given the circumstance. Francesca laughed hysterically.
She did not make it undetected into the powder room. A gentleman and a lady whom Francesca did not know saw her and gaped as she made the mad dash down the hall. Repairs were almost impossible. Her hair had been ruined, she hadn’t thought to bring extra hairpins, and worse, her skin was blotchy, perhaps from Bragg’s beard. Francesca had had the good sense to find several hairpins before fleeing the library, and with her fingers she managed to comb her hair before twisting it tightly into a chignon. Perhaps, she thought breathlessly, Connie could fix the mess she had made.
She stopped and stared at herself in the mirror, dropping her arms to her sides. She was unrecognizable now.
She was no longer in Bragg’s arms, but being there was all that she could think about now. She was no longer in his arms, but her heart raced at an impossible speed, and she could not seem to breathe normally. Her skin tingled; her body throbbed. And the woman she stared at in the mirror was clearly and stunningly aroused.
Francesca thought she looked very much like a harlot now. How ironic it was.
What were they going to do?
She had never seen this side of him before. She shivered, but the thrill was a delicious one.
Francesca adjusted her bodice, but it wasn’t quite correct and she could not discern where it was pulling. She gave up. She smoothed down the skirts, and with a deep breath for courage, she left the powder room. She had to find Bartolla and beg her for her discretion.
She was afraid.
The ballroom was filled to capacity now; in about a half an hour, the guests would be asked to find their seats in the next room, for the supper that would follow. As it was still the cocktail hour, the ladies and gentlemen sipped champagne, nibbled on treats, and conversed in small and large groups with one another. Still, it was easy to find Bartolla. She had surrounded herself with another group of men.
As Francesca approached, she began to flush. Evan stood beside Bartolla, so closely that surely her hip touched his. He saw her, began to smile; then his eyes popped and disbelief filled them. Francesca steeled herself for a good set-down.
He left the group. “What the hell happened to you?” he demanded. “You look like you’ve been tossed in the hay!”
“Nothing happened,” Francesca lied nervously. “Please, Evan, not now!”
“I am going to kill whoever took liberties with you,” he began.
She seized his hand. “No. You are going to mind your own business, Evan, while accepting that your little sister has grown up.”
He stiffened.
Francesca added, “Please.”
He hesitated. “Just tell me who it was.”
She ignored him and walked over to Bartolla. “Can we have a word?”
Bartolla smiled at her, as if she had not seen Francesca in a most compromising position. “Of course.” She excused herself and walked away with Francesca from the group of gentlemen.
“Bartolla, I am begging you not to say anything about what you saw!” Francesca cried anxiously.
Bartolla smiled. “I am happy you are enjoying yourself, Francesca; truly I am.”
“But are your lips sealed?” Francesca asked.
“Of course they are. My dear, we are friends now, and I never betray my friends.”
Relief washed over her in huge, engulfing waves. “Thank you.”
Bartolla took her hand and squeezed it. “But I do hope you are ready for what you are doing. A married man is a very dangerous proposition for a young, unwed, and inexperienced woman like you.”
Francesca felt herself turn crimson. “I am not doing anything.”
“Really? That is not what I have seen.” She was amused.
Francesca’s unease escalated dramatically. She prayed that she could trust this woman, whom she hardly knew. “I mean, I intend to remain friends, period.”
“You are in love, infatuated. And so is he. You will never remain friends.”
Francesca shivered and hugged herself. But she did not want to remain friends, so why was she worried and frightened?
Bartolla patted her back. “My dear, don’t think too much. But you might be better off if you had an infatuation for an eligible man—one not quite as experienced as Bragg.”
She pulled away, rigid with more tension. “What do you mean by ‘experienced’? What does that mean?”
“It means he is older than you, he has had his affairs, and he is married. You are a virgin, which makes you a bit of a schoolgirl.”
“What affairs?” Francesca cried.
“I wouldn’t know exactly,” Bartolla said with some exasperation. “A sexy man in his late twenties has had experience, Francesca; that is all I am saying.”
She blinked at Bartolla. “Sexy?” she whispered, having never heard such a word in her life.
Bartolla grinned widely. “Well, he is sexy; I wouldn’t mind a shot at him when you are through.”
Francesca was disbelieving.
“Except, of course, I could not—as I am friends with Leigh Anne.”
Francesca stared.
Bartolla continued to smile.
“Tell me about her,” Francesca heard herself say. And her every instinct shouted at her now that she could not trust this woman.
“What do you want to know?” Bartolla was clearly amused.
“What is she like?”
“She is extremely beautiful. A hundred times more so than I . . . or you. Perhaps it is because she is so amazingly small and fragile. Men flock to her like bees to honey.”
In a way, Francesca knew Bartolla wished to distress her. And she was succeeding. “Go on.”
“But I think it is her face that is the coup de grâce. She has such an innocent face. Very full cheeks, a heart shape, and huge blue eyes. Her mouth is always in a pout. Men love swollen lips.” Bartolla shrugged. “It can be annoying, actually, because she has not one whit of innocence, but to look at her, you would think she is a little angel.�
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Wonderful, Francesca thought, just wonderful. “How could she have left Bragg?”
“I don’t know. She refuses to discuss him. Ever. But that refusal says everything, doesn’t it?”
Francesca hugged herself. “What do you mean, Bartolla?”
“It means there is still passion there. If she is still angry with him, after all of these years, wouldn’t you agree?”
Francesca heard her and thought about Bragg’s reaction to the small dark-haired woman who had walked down the hall. She felt ill and afraid. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “There is still passion there.” And she could only pray that it was hatred.
Bartolla patted her back. “They haven’t seen each other in four years. I wouldn’t worry about it now.”
Francesca forced a smile. Then, behind Bartolla, she saw Sarah approaching swiftly, a delighted smile on her face—and with her was Calder Hart. Dismay filled her. She was upset—he would see. She had been making love—he would see that, too, in a heartbeat.
“Francesca! Bartolla! Mr. Hart has invited us to see his collection of art. At any time!” Sarah cried, smiling widely.
Francesca could not summon up even the tightest of smiles in return. With dread, she finally looked past Sarah.
Hart’s face was impossible to read. But his eyes moved over her features slowly, and clearly he was taking inventory. Then he looked at her shoulders, her chest, her bosom, her hips. His gaze ended at her toes.
Francesca couldn’t be more dismayed. She said, “Why, that is wonderful, Sarah.” She had to cry. She did not know why. But where could she go to do so?
“Your shoes are black,” Hart said calmly.
Francesca had never had the chance to order shoes to match her dress. Her black slippers were far too heavy for her gown, but she had hoped no one would notice, and she had forgotten about it. She found herself meeting Hart’s eyes. “Yes,” she said, and her tone sounded husky with unshed tears. “Sarah is as passionate about art as you are,” she managed.
His implacable, unreadable expression remained. “So she has told me.”
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] Page 25
