Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (36 page)

His every word was cutting into her like a little, finely honed knife. “She must be very special,” Francesca said bitterly. “For you to have been so smitten so instantly.”

“She looks like an angel, a blue-eyed, dark-haired angel. I could not see past her face and form. Francesca, there is little angelic about her.”

His wife was so gorgeous that she looked like an angel. Another knife wound. Oh, well. Maybe this conversation would kill her. That might be the proper ending to this oh, so sordid and ugly affair.

She must not weep now.

“I am hurting you. I am sorry.”

She shrugged. “So you married her right away.”

“By the end of my first year at law school.” He studied her. “I was a fool.”

She stared at him, wishing he would expound upon the why and how of it, but he did not. “What happened?”

“Simply? I refused an offer in one of the nation’s top legal firms, an offer that would have taken us to Washington, D.C., and I opened up a private practice instead. A practice of criminal law, one that was not very lucrative.” He smiled sardonically. “The poor and the indigent cannot afford legal fees, you see.”

Her heart tried to move her with love and compassion; Francesca refused to heed it. “And?”

“Leigh Anne told me I was a sorry fool, and she left me. She packed her bags, went to Europe, and has been there ever since.”

Francesca stared. “I am not sure I understand,” she said slowly.

“She expected a life of wealth and glamour. After all, she was marrying a Bragg. She knew I had political aspirations as well. Somehow, she failed to truly understand me. She could not accept a life of genteel poverty, with her husband working long into the night to defend people she would cross the street to avoid. She did not like going to parties alone and being asked where her husband was. When she went to Europe she told me, very explicitly, that she would come back when I accepted the position I had turned down, or another of similar prestige and economy.”

Francesca’s eyes felt wide. “She blackmailed you?”

“Yes, she did. That August, three months after she had left, I went after her, truly thinking her a good-hearted person who had committed a folly, erroneously believing that she loved me and that she had missed me and that she would come back.” His eyes were now impossible to read. “I found her in the south of France, with her lover, and I returned home.”

Her heart won. “Oh, Bragg!” Francesca cried, appalled. She reached out to touch him, realized what she was about, and dropped her hand before making any physical contact.

“Do not feel sorry for me. I am paying for my stupidity and my rashness, for my complete lack of judgment.” He shrugged. “She remains in Europe. Although we do not communicate, we have an understanding. She does as she pleases and I pay her bills.”

Francesca stared. “She is an awful woman,” she heard herself whisper.

“Do not pity me, as I cannot stand her and I prefer that we remain separated. I am sorry she spends so much of my money, but that cannot be helped.” His eyes were dark. He jammed both hands in the pockets of his trousers.

Francesca wanted to ask a dozen questions. Did he have any feelings for her? Did she still have a lover? Would he ever consider a divorce? She wet her lips and asked, carefully, “But you did go to Washington. I seem to recall an article I read that clearly stated you were practicing in the capital before accepting this appointment.”

“I took on a partner in Boston and left my practice there in his capable and fervent hands. I moved to D.C. to continue the very same work, but at the same time I could also devote my spare time to the politics of this nation. You know I am invested in public service, Francesca,” he said.

She nodded. “Your father took a position in Cleveland’s first administration, did he not?”

He smiled briefly at her, pleased. “Yes, he did. He was secretary of commerce. My first years with Rathe and Grace were in Washington, D.C.”

Clearly the memories were good ones. Francesca had almost smiled. “Why didn’t she come back? Why doesn’t she come back now?”

“I still live in genteel poverty, Francesca,” he said evenly. “I did not take lucrative cases in D.C., where much of my work was done gratuitously, and my position now pays very little, as I am sure you must know.”

Francesca just could not understand a woman so motivated by wealth and position. On the other hand, she saw it every day, for the debutantes seeking husbands in her social circle all were determined to marry either money or a title. “Maybe she will see the light, one day,” Francesca somehow offered.

He stared at her. “I do not want her here. Not now, not ever.”

“So you would never forgive her?” Did that mean he still loved her?

“I could forgive her the dozens of lovers. I could forgive her for spending every cent I earn. Yes, I could forgive her, easily, in fact. I may never forgive myself for ruining my own private life, but her character is defective and she I can forgive. But I do not love her, and what is even worse, I do not like her, and worse than that, I have no respect. We have
nothing
in common. Living apart is the best solution to a terrible mismatch.”

She couldn’t help thinking about Connie and Montrose—but they were not a mismatch.

“Do you hate me, Francesca?”

His soft words, uttered firmly and without hesitation, cut into her thoughts. She looked into his eyes. Damn it, her heart still trusted him. Her heart would not take this for an answer, for
the
answer, and it seemed to have a will of its own, beating inside of her breast with compassion, understanding, and love. “I could never hate you,” she heard herself say.

He did not move.

Nor did she.

The silence had become infused with tension. And the tension of betrayal and anger had changed. Francesca was breathless and disbelieving. He had just told her that he had a wife, yet she was standing there, and for her, nothing had changed. Dear God, he remained a man she admired, respected, trusted, and still loved. He remained the man she wanted, not just with all of her heart but with her treacherous body as well.

“I have to go.”

“You must,” he agreed tightly.

Francesca turned, felt more tears welling, and, somewhat blinded by them, moved to the door. Before she could open it his hand pressed upon it, so she could not open it if she had tried. Francesca froze.

“I can’t let you leave, like this, after this,” he said roughly.

She turned and was so close to being in his arms. “I don’t want to leave like this.” Their eyes met and held. “But you are forbidden to me now. You will never divorce her, will you?” The question just popped out. But the moment was too intense, the stakes too high, for her to regret it.

He hesitated. “No. A divorce would never allow me into a significant public office.”

“One day, you will run for the Senate.”

“Yes. One day. In the future.”

She started to cry. “And I will be proud of you.”

“I know you will,” he whispered. “Francesca, please.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I have to go.” She turned blindly, tugging at the door.

He opened it for her, as she could not seem to do so. “When will I see you again?”

She fled into the corridor. She didn’t know, but that wasn’t why she did not answer him. She simply could not speak.

She paused on the wide front step before the house where she lived with her husband and her daughters, the house that Papa had built for them as a wedding gift. Connie stared at the front door, trembling and trying to breathe properly. She reminded herself that this was her house as well as Neil’s and that she should have gone home last night, as she had promised Mama she would do, and that everything would be fine, just fine—that everything
was
fine. But she saw not the gleaming teakwood door she faced, which was closed in front of her; instead, she saw Neil.

And in her mind’s eye, he was with the beautiful Eliza Burton.

What was she doing? Why was she there? This no longer felt like home.

“Lady Montrose?” Mrs. Partridge asked, standing behind her with Charlotte at her side and Lucinda in her arms. “Shall we go in?”

Connie heard her, but only vaguely, as if from a distance, or as if she were in a dream. Last night she had intended to do as Julia had asked. But when she had gone to her room she had sat down in front of the fire, staring mindlessly at it, and the dancing flames had reminded her of hell, and that had frightened her enough to take a small dose of laudanum. No, what had frightened her had been the eeriest and most horrifying thought—what if she were dead and her life, exactly as it was, with a treacherous husband, was hell?

Of course, the laudanum had soothed her and caused her to lie down. She had not risen again until the following morning, and somehow, it had taken all day to pack up the single trunk she shared with the girls.

“Lady Montrose?” Mrs. Partridge’s voice was soft with concern. “Let us go in. Lucinda must be fed.”

Images of her life rolled through her mind, all of them having occurred from the moment she had met Neil. That first heart-wrenching introduction, his first kiss, the whirlwind of parties and balls, their wedding celebration, their wedding night. Connie started, as Mrs. Partridge tugged on her hand.

“What?” she said, fixing a smile upon her face.

“We should go inside,” Mrs. Partridge said. She was a tall, thin woman with kind blue eyes, and her gaze, behind her spectacles, was so worried it gave Connie a moment’s pause.

What was she so worried about? “Of course we must go inside.” Connie pushed open the door. Mrs. Partridge was acting strangely, she decided, as if they had been loitering on the front step.

A doorman instantly held the door open as Charlotte raced past everyone, shrieking, “Daddy! Daddy!”

Connie felt a huge weight settling about her neck and shoulders. She felt the tension inside of her body, already as tight as a wire, escalating uncontrollably.
Neil,
she thought, and a huge wave of grief crushed her.

He appeared at the other end of the entrance hall, and for one moment, as Charlotte charged toward him, his gaze locked with Connie’s. Her heart skipped too many beats to count. He looked terrible, as if he were ill, and he certainly appeared unkempt, but more important, he was so terribly grim.

But certainly that was not because of her.

“Daddy!” Charlotte screamed, and Neil caught her and lifted her high, his expression changing. He laughed, whirling his three-year-old daughter about, then hugged her hard to his chest. “Baby, I have missed you!”

“Me, too, Daddy,” Charlotte laughed. She was a platinum blond child and she could pose for an artist who wished to render blue-eyed angels upon his canvas. Connie thought that she was very much like her aunt, Francesca—she was too smart and too stubborn; that is, she was a handful.

Neil released his daughter, who ran off into the house, looking for her King Charles spaniel puppy, a Christmas gift from her Uncle Evan. Connie glanced at Mrs. Partridge, but she was already excusing herself and following Charlotte. She paused briefly so Neil could touch the sleeping infant’s chubby cheek with his fingertips. He kissed her high forehead, and then the nanny and the baby left the hall.

Connie realized that he hadn’t moved since they had entered the house. She did not know if she could move. The distance of the hall separated her and her husband, and the doorman stood behind, having closed the door. Now behind Neil, their butler appeared, clearly wishing a word with her.

Neil moved. He strode purposefully toward her, his turquoise gaze never leaving her face. In an almost detached way, she noticed that, even disheveled, he remained powerfully stunning, disturbingly so. She felt herself tremble again.

What was she doing? She did not want to be there, in this house, with him, like this.

She wanted to go back to a better place and time, when there had been love and respect.

“Connie.” He kissed her cheek, but his lips did not quite touch her skin. Again, his intense gaze held hers. She dropped her eyes, avoiding it—avoiding him.

But Mama was right. She had to go home. This was where she lived. And she did not want the world to know about the discord in her life.

“Hello, Neil.” She smiled brightly, not quite meeting his gaze. “We have had the most wonderful time. It has been an adventure for Charlotte! I am so pleased that Beth Anne invited us for the weekend,” she said, wondering if her tone sounded as strained as her words felt. And she dared to glance directly at him.

He simply stared at her, as if she were some odd act in a circus.

She continued to smile brightly. “James wishes to speak with me. Have you told him what we shall have for supper?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I have not. You are the one who prepares the menus.”

That was true. He was clearly chastising her, wasn’t he, for not having been home to take care of the task? She stiffened, as it was not fair—she ran a nearly perfect home and this was the first time she had not set a day’s menu or rather, two days’. “Then I shall speak with James now. I am rather tired,” she added, glancing past him at their butler. “So I shall retire to my rooms in order to rest before we dine.”

The butler came forward and Connie quickly requested a meal she knew would please her husband and be possible for Cook and his staff to buy and prepare in several hours’ time. James thanked her and hurried away. Connie smiled at Neil without really looking at him, and she started upstairs. To her dismay, he fell right into step behind her.

Her heart began to pound, hard. What was he doing? What did he want? He was so close behind her that she could feel her trailing skirts brushing the tips of his shoes.

“I wish to speak with you,” he said quietly.

Alarm filled her, but she did not pause. And she thought,
What if I have gone too far? What if he thinks to leave me?

She could not breathe easily now. How she wished for a sherry or a dose of laudanum. “Very well,” she said, as lightly as possible.

Inside her sitting room, which was attached to the huge, lavishly appointed master bedroom that they shared, she paused, not quite facing him. And he gripped her arm. “Please look at me,” he said.