She glanced around to make sure no one was near, then pulled Kenneth to the side. Above her she noticed a large rectangle of faded color where a picture once had hung. The difference in the color was so faint, she didn't think she would have seen it if she hadn't been standing beneath it. Her distraction was only momentary. "Kenneth, I've been worried about you."
His laugh was surprisingly hollow. "Whatever for? It's not I who's got Jake Deverell panting."
She jerked on his arm. "Stop that! I think you know exactly what I mean. I've heard you pacing at night, unable to sleep. I've seen those worried expressions on your face when you think no one is looking. Now, just tell me. Are you gambling again?" Over Kenneth's shoulder she saw Jake leaning against the balustrade of the grand stairway, watching them. Determinedly, she ignored him. "Are you?"
"No," he whispered, bending closer to her. "I'm not, and I wish you'd just leave me the hell alone. I don't care for your little-mother-hen act one bit."
Kenneth rarely spoke harshly to her; she was somewhat surprised, but not deterred. "So I'm supposed to accept the fact that you're worried about Jake's pursuit of me, but I'm not supposed to say a word when I'm worried about you. Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it exactly." With a curse he drew her into his arms for a quick hug, but then he pushed her backward until she was an arm's length away and held her there with his hands on her shoulders. "Listen, Bella, I love you for being concerned about me, but I'm going to be fine, just fine. Trust me on this. I can take care of myself."
"Can you? Can you really? Should we call Papa?"
He started. "Lord, no! You know as well as I do that when he covered my gambling debts last summer, he said it would be the last time. He said from that point on I would have to get myself out of my own messes, and that's what I'm trying to do."
"Then there is something wrong. Is it more gambling debts? Kenneth, I can help you. I haven't run through my trust fund as you have. And in addition there's my salary from the foundation. I can give you—"
"Stop it! I'm not taking money from you, and I don't want to hear any more about this."
"I'm not a little girl, Kenneth. I'm a woman, and I can help you if you'll give me a chance."
His lips twisted. "I'm all too aware that you're no longer my little sister. You've grown into a fascinating woman. Why do you think Jake's so interested in you?"
"The subject here is you, Kenneth, not me."
He rubbed his forehead. "All right, all right. I did have some gambling losses last month. But, Bella, I've stopped gambling flat out. I've placed my last bet, and that's a promise. What's more, I'm going to be able to pay back my debts without any trouble at all."
She crossed her arms under her breasts. "What do you mean, you're going to be able to? Does that mean you don't have the money right now?"
Grinning, he shook his head. "Don't you know girls as pretty as you aren't supposed to be smart too?" It was a rhetorical question. "Listen, the matter is as good as taken care of. I will be able to pay it back as soon as we return to Boston. Now, will you please ease up on me?"
A tiny pucker appeared between her brows. "Have you won some money since we've been here? Is that how you'll repay the debt?"
"No. I told you I haven't gambled, and I wasn't lying." He ran his hand around the back of his neck. "Good Lord, Bella, stop harping."
"I'm sorry. It's simply that I'm worried."
"I'm sorry to worry you. You're the best sister in the world." Emotion choked his voice, and he gave her another quick, hard hug, then briskly straightened. "Now, that's settled. I'm promised for bridge. Want to join me in the card room? Someone might need a fourth."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I'll see you in the morning." She rose up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "I love you, and I'm very proud you're my brother."
As Kenneth turned to leave, she braced to face Jake, dark and brooding in his tuxedo. She hadn't forgotten he was there, and he certainly couldn't be overlooked. Against the exquisite backdrop of the staircase he looked very pagan.
She chose a straight course across the hall, distancing herself from him, but he was quickly beside her, matching his steps to hers as they walked to the drawing room.
"How can I help you, Arabella?"
The question so startled her, she almost missed a step. "I don't need anything."
"Are you sure? It looked to me as if you and Kenneth were having a fight."
She shook her head. "You misinterpreted the situation. We were discussing bridge strategy."
"You must take your bridge very seriously."
Actually, the game didn't appeal to her at all, and luckily Marlon saved her from having to reply.
"Sir, may I have a word with you?"
"Certainly." Jake closed long fingers around her upper arm and gently massaged the soft skin of her inner arm. "Do you mind?"
A warm excitement skittered through her. "You can do as you choose, Jake."
He smiled slowly. "Can I? That sounds promising."
"Jake—"
"I'll catch up with you in a few minutes."
She entered the drawing room, feeling as though he had left his fingerprints on her skin. She knew most of the people there, either from Boston or having met them in the past few days. A pianist was knocking out the jaunty "Ain't We Got Fun" on a baby grand in one corner of the room. A group was gathered around singing, "In the meantime, in between time, ain't we got fun." It could be her generation's anthem, she thought as she continued gazing around the room.
A jazz baby ingenue sat on the lap of an ardent admirer. Another couple danced the lindy hop. One group played Mah-Jongg, shouting, "Tung!" and "Chow!" uncaring that the condensation from their drink glasses was ringing the finish of the marquetry wood table around which they sat. She had always revered beautiful things, and she had noticed before the careless treatment of the wonderful things in the house. She simply didn't understand why Jake allowed it.
She spotted Vanessa. Her short dress was made up of red glass beads and ostrich feathers, and she was slanted back against a wall with Lucas leaning toward her, his hand propped beside her head. Vanessa glowed with love as she gazed up at Lucas, completely changed from the hard-edged woman Arabella had met in the afternoon. As she watched, Lucas raised his hand and touched Vanessa's cheek. The gesture was so loving, so tender, so full of intimately shared emotion, Arabella felt like an intruder and turned away to begin slowly strolling through the room.
Her mind was still very much on the scene she had witnessed, but here and there she heard pieces of conversation.
"My sister just came back from England before the holidays and she bought a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover there and smuggled it into the country with her. It's the most deliriously wicked book. You must read it."
Passing another group, she heard, "We attended the Gershwin concert in New York a few weeks ago where he conducted 'An American in Paris.' It was extraordinary, almost like a poem set to music that had both jazz and sound effects. Perhaps he'll perform it again soon."
Arabella was too preoccupied for the conversations to hold her interest long. The shared love she had seen in Lucas and Vanessa had directed her thoughts toward Jake, his intentions toward her, and what she should do about it. Young women her age were daring. The last decade had been an exciting time to be young. Much to the dismay of many a mother, foundation garments had gone out the window and what they termed barbaric music had come in. Women smoked, cut their hair, wore short skirts, drank champagne as their mothers had drank tea, took lovers, and everyone thought it was swell.
Ain't We Got Fun. Absolutely, she thought. And she had participated in nearly everything and more, in many instances had led the way. But if she'd indulged herself, she'd also made sure she did a proportionate amount of good for people not as fortunate as she. And amazingly enough, through it all she had steadfastly refused to give her heart or her body to a man.
She had always believed that somewhere there was a m
an for her, someone with whom she could link her destiny, someone who would be her mate for life, the father of her children. But something essential had always been missing from the men she had dated. She hadn't known what was missing until she had met Jake. Now she thought that the missing element might have been Jake himself—and the wondrous way he made her feel when she was with him, along with the way he could heat her blood when he kissed and touched her.
Still, secret parts, important parts of her—like her heart—remained old-fashioned. And there was a belief seeded deep inside her: Love and commitment had to come before lovemaking.
But now… She was falling for Jake so fast, she felt as if she had vertigo. Everything seemed to whirl around her. Only he stood still, watching, waiting, tugging at her even when he was doing nothing.
Her heart was lost, but not her soul. And, she vowed, no matter the temptation, she would never make love with him knowing he didn't love her. Quite simply, the betrayal of her values and the ultimate hurt would be more than she could bear.
"Arabella," someone called from a group standing by the tall marble fireplace. "You've read Virginia Woolf's Orlando, haven't you? Come tell us your opinion. Don't you think it's too too strange?"
She smiled, glad to have the excuse to get her mind off Jake. But it didn't work, because even as she was explaining her favorable views of a heroine who is sometimes a hero, Jake came into the room. She tensed for his approach, but somewhat to her chagrin he went to a sophisticated-looking woman with penciled brows and hennaed hair who gestured to him. Arabella recognized her as a well-known divorcee.
When he reached the woman, she snaked a long, lovely arm around his neck. "Darling, you must give me these chairs," she said loudly enough for Arabella to hear. She indicated a pair of carved Brazilian rosewood chairs by the fireplace. "I'm mad for them."
"Then they're yours."
Arabella gasped. The rosewood of the chairs had been fashioned in elegant swirling movements to exactly match the carving in the marble fireplace.
Jake heard her exclamation and excused himself. He put a hand on Arabella's elbow and led her away from the people to whom she had been talking. "I've got something to show you."
She took his wrist and pulled it up so that she could glance at his watch. "It's midnight. It can't be another new day. Not even you could do that."
He sighed with mock exasperation that, disturbingly, she found most attractive. "Arabella, no one doubts me but you. Why is that?"
She pretended to guess. "An indispensable, well-tuned self-protective instinct?"
He chuckled. "I wouldn't harm a hair on your head."
"You're not going to get the chance."
He sighed again. "Arabella, it's very, very bad to challenge me."
Blood was singing through her veins, making her ruefully aware that he brought all her senses to life until colors seemed more vivid, sounds seemed louder, and he seemed the only man in the world. "That was really more a fact than a challenge, Jake."
"You do persist, don't you?"
He guided her from the room to Marlon, who was waiting in the entry hall with her ermine cape. Without a word she let Jake drape it around her shoulders. Her father had always chided her penchant for seeking adventure and flirting with danger, but she knew that deep down he trusted her, and she trusted herself. Tomorrow night she would be back home, away from this glorious place, away from this glorious man. She wanted to be with him and go wherever he was taking her.
They left the house and walked across the snow beneath a star-filled sky and a silver moon. The night was still and quiet, the air crisp and cold. When they reached an immense iron-and-glass conservatory, he ushered her inside. The lights were dimmed; the air was warm and perfumed and she could hear a fountain splashing.
"I feel like I'm in a moonlit garden on a spring night," she murmured in wonder.
"I'm glad you like it."
She didn't like it, she thought. She loved the special treat he had given her, taking her away from the others to bring her to this enchanted place.
"Did you think I wouldn't like it? Everything about SwanSea is fabulous, you know that."
He shrugged, his face shadowed and moody. "It serves a purpose. It provides a place for my friends to play."
They began walking, choosing one of the paths that led through the beds that contained hundreds of varieties of exotic flowers and plants. Here and there couches and chairs were placed—comfort and luxury among the beauty.
"I don't believe those people back there in the drawing room are your friends."
Her astute observation brought a half smile to his face. "Why not?"
"Friends wouldn't treat your home so shabbily. They were dropping ashes onto the carpets, leaving rings on the wood."
"It's nothing to worry about. The staff will clean it up as soon as everyone has gone to bed."
"But the damage will have been done. Why don't you demand that your guests treat your home with more respect?"
"Because their behavior doesn't concern me." His tone was of good-humored exasperation.
They had come to a stop by a large marble fountain in the middle of the conservatory. She took off her ermine cape and swirled it over the back of a damask-covered couch. "May I ask you a question?"
His lip quirked. "Anything, Arabella."
"How could you have given those chairs away to that woman?"
"Elise?" He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and eyed her consideringly. "She wanted them."
"But obviously they were specially made for the house. They match the fireplace."
"Elise is an old friend. She owns a furniture store in Boston, so her interest in the chairs is natural."
Old friend. More than likely, the woman was a former lover. "But what if she sells them?"
"I don't care what she does with them. They're hers now. Arabella, I don't understand why you're so caught up with this." He heard the sharpness of his voice and silently cursed. He hadn't meant to let his anger slip through to her, but before he'd joined everyone in the drawing room, there had been a telephone call from Edward. As usual, they'd argued, and "his father" wanted him back in Boston as soon as possible. "His father" could damned well wait.
She rubbed her arms. "It's just that SwanSea is your home. It seems to me you would treasure it."
"You think because I grew up in the North End I should be overwhelmed by SwanSea's magnificence?" He kept his tone light, but his words carried a bite. "I should feel lucky, right? A filthy Irish street kid having all this. My, my."
"Don't try to turn this on me, Jake. I grew up on Beacon Hill, and if this were my home, I wouldn't allow anyone to behave in it as if he were in a barn."
"Such passion." He touched one of the brilliants at her shoulder. "And you're squandering it on something that's no more than stone and mortar."
"Did you give away the painting in the entry hall?"
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"There's a spot on the wall where you can tell a painting once hung. Did you give it away too?"
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "No, Arabella. If my instructions were carried out properly, the painting is in the attic, face to the wall. It's a portrait of Edward Deverell."
"But why would you do something like that? He built SwanSea. Great heavens, he adopted you and gave you all this."
"I'm one lucky guy, aren't I?"
"You sound so bitter. Why?"
He raked his hand through his hair. "Look, I didn't bring you out here to talk about either SwanSea or Edward Deverell. For God's sake, give it a rest!"
She'd been aware she was going too far even while she was doing it. But she had been driven to try to understand this man who was the cause of such tumultuous feelings within her. "All right." She looked around, then reached for her cape. "I've seen what you wanted to show me. It's lovely, but I think I'll go back to the house now."
He grabbed her arm.
"Wait. I didn't mean to snap at you. Besides, you haven't seen what I brought you to see."
"I know why you brought me out here—to make love to me."
"Arabella"—his voice was a soft chastisement—"if I had intended to make love to you, I would have taken you to my bedroom. That's for later."
"Then, why—"
"I wanted to be alone with you so I could ask you to stay here with me for a few days instead of returning to Boston tomorrow with Kenneth."
He said he was asking, but she heard no doubt in his voice as to her decision. And he had said, their lovemaking would be later, as if her consent were a given. "Why should I stay, Jake? So that in a few days you can send me back to Boston in a snowstorm after you've become bored with me? No, thank you."
"I would never do that." He touched a finger to her temple, strangely troubled by the idea of her being sent out into the night by him or anyone. "Stay with me, Arabella. Please."
His please was almost her undoing. "I—I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
"I'm not going to accept that answer, you know."
"You'll have to by tomorrow, because I will have left."
He stared at her for a long moment, then walked to a wall and pulled a cord. One end of a silken net fell and hundreds of exquisitely colored butterflies fluttered free.
Her hands flew to her face in wonderment. "Ohhh… how beautiful! Where did they come from? How did they get here?"
"I had Bernardo arrange it. He breeds them as a hobby. He's found a way to break the laws of nature." He walked back to her.
"Butterflies! In January!"
"Bernardo has managed to breed them so they can break free from their chrysalises in winter."
The butterflies whispered through the air, flitting from bush to flower. "They're exquisite, Jake."
He took up the conversation with a relentlessness that belied his ability to think of such an extraordinary gesture as the butterflies. "And what if I refuse to allow you to leave?"
She swallowed and wasn't surprised to find a hard lump in her throat. Jake was a forceful, persuasive man, and he had no intention of letting her go easily. "You have nothing to say about it."
Swansea Destiny Page 7
