Blue Waltz by Linda Francis Lee Read Free Book Online

constantly about the old farmer, he said the man paid better than anyone around. But still her father hated him, and as a result so did Belle. But one day, one day soon, they would move to Boston, just as her father always promised, and get away from the awful man.
    And until that time she had the nights. Summer, spring, winter or fall, it was always the same. Her father by the hearth, smoking his pipe. Her mother with a needle and thread, sewing or darning, or simply leaning back, ¦losing herself in Papa's tales. And afterwards, as Belle drifted off to sleep, she listened to the sound of her mother's gentle voice humming a waltz as her parents danced across the rough-hewn floor. In time to the music. Twirling, twirling. Round and round. Just as she would dance one day, in the grandest of ballrooms, held secure in her father's arms.
    CHAPTER 4
    Boston 1893
    The room was nearly empty. The other patrons had already finished their meals and left. Only Stephen remained among the tables, one long, strong finger slowly running along the edge of the silver-plated bread dish. Around and around. Again and again. A subtle heat emanating against the tip of his finger.
    His dark eyes looked at the plate without seeing it. He sat off-center in the chair, his elbow resting on the linen-covered table, his legs crossed in a way that on almost any other man would have seemed effeminate. Stephen St. James, in his perfectly pressed black coat and trousers, crisp white shirt and stark black tie, only looked at ease.
    A snifter of brandy sat before him. A cigar lay to the side. It was his favorite part of the evening. Normally. A good meal finished. One brandy and one cigar to savor as he reflected upon his day, before he said good night, then, depending on the weather, took his carriage or walked the short distance to his home. There the house would be quiet, the servants, except his butler, Wendell, up in their rooms or gone for the night. Everything would be in order—everything as it should be.
    But this night, as Bertrand, the maître d', hovered close by, clearly anxious to get home to family and friends of his own, though unwilling to hurry such an important
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    man, Stephen thought not of his day or of the quiet solitude that awaited him, but of the woman who had interrupted his meal.
    An angel. Perfect and lovely. With dark brown hair, almost black. Porcelain white skin, unpowdered. Lips full and red. Cheeks a dusty rose. And her eyes—an astonishing shade of blue, like the late afternoon sky when the sun is almost lost to the horizon and the heavens glow deep and rich. His head jerked slightly as he took a sharp, shallow breath.
    When she had first entered the room, a clearly disconcerted Bertrand following in her wake, the tangle of thoughts that had crowded his head dropped away. He forgot about the dull ache in his arm and shoulder. He forgot about Adam and the yet-to-be apprehended gunman. All he could think about was the sheer mesmerizing force of her eyes when she gained, no, demanded his attention and asked to share his bread. Even now, more than an hour after she had fled through the door, that tangle seemed unimportant and distant. He thought only of the striking beauty who had sat herself down at the table next to him with a look and a manner that even Bertrand had apparently been loath to question. A slight smile tugged at his lips.
    Who was she? he wondered. Where had she come from? When asked, Bertrand had known nothing more about her than he did. She had appeared without warning, and had left the same way, providing no name or any clue to who she was. Though now that she was gone, Stephen wasn't altogether certain he wanted to know. A woman, unescorted, in a public house, interrupting his meal and asking him to share his bread? No, he had no interest in knowing who she was. Or so he had been tell-
    44Linda Francis Lee
    ing himself, again and again, as his finger slowly circled on the silver dish.
    "Is