Blue Waltz by Linda Francis Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

wind like a whirling dervish gone out of control.
    "You've lost your hat," she murmured faintly.
    "No matter. Just tell me your name."
    Her smile grew soft and dreamy. 'Mmmm. My name. Don't you know my name?"
    "Of course I don't know your name," he said. He glanced around again in hopes of finding someone, anyone, to help. But the park was empty. "Tell me your name, madam."
    "Blue Belle." She tried to lift her arm from the mire, but it wouldn't let her go.
    "Bluebell? Your name is Bluebell?" What kind of a name is Bluebell? he questioned silently, wondering if he should believe her.
    "Yes," she said, the simple word slurred. "Blue Belle. That's what my father calls me. Blue Belle Holly. It's a pretty name, don't you think."
    He racked his brain, trying to think of any Hollys he knew or had ever heard of. But he neither knew of nor had heard of any. And he knew almost everyone in town.
    "Where do you live? Where can I take you?"
    "Boston. I'm going to Boston. To the Back Bay." Her eyes rolled back. "Where they have the grandest of ballrooms and tall houses all lined up, playing sentinel to the street." She giggled. "Imagine that. Houses as soldiers. Poetic, don't you think?"
    Stephen groaned. If he hadn't sat next to her and seen that she'd had nothing alcoholic to drink, he would have sworn she was drunk. "Where in the Back Bay?" he demanded, his concern growing.
    But her giggles had ceased and her mouth had gone slack, her lips much too blue. This time, when he called her name she didn't respond. And no matter how hard he shook her, she failed to stir. He had to get her out of the cold, and quickly. Knowing there was no help for it, he slid his good arm underneath her shoulders. He set his teeth against the sharp stab of pain that ran down his side. A lesser man would have faltered. But Stephen St. James was not a lesser man, hadn't been since he was seventeen years old.
    Holding her securely with one arm, he carried the woman the rest of the distance to Arlington Street and up to his house. Only seconds after he kicked the front door with his muddied boot it opened. Instantly, he was relieved of his burden when his butler, Wendell, took the woman in his arms without a word of question, and called out for help. Servants appeared in braided hair and nightcaps, suddenly wide awake with purpose. In spite of himself, Stephen followed as they scurried about, carrying the
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    woman upstairs, starting a fire, bringing hot water, saving her from the ravages of cold.
    When Wendell tried to entice Stephen away from the scene with a brandy and roaring fire of his own, he shook his head and did nothing more than step out of the room while the maids removed the woman's clothes. Once the servants were through, they dashed out with mumbles of cleaning the clothes, drying them by the huge kitchen fire, then returning them posthaste. After what seemed like hours, though in reality was only a few minutes, Stephen was left alone in the wood-paneled hallway outside one of the many guest bedrooms in his home. Ignoring the persistent ache in his shoulder and side, he stepped back through the doorway to make sure all that needed to be done had been accomplished. If she needed a doctor, he would send for one.
    The woman who called herself Bluebell Holly lay in the huge four-poster bed, curled on her side, nearly hidden beneath the sheets and covers. The mud had been washed away and color had returned to her cheeks. Bluebell Holly would be all right. A doctor wouldn't be needed.
    The house had grown quiet, only the occasional clang or muted voice from the kitchen wafting up the stairs. Pressing back against the wall, Stephen felt the smooth plane of plaster covered by fine paper solid against his spine. He stood silently, mesmerized. His heart pounded in his chest, hard, and he felt a stab of longing so deep that it took his breath away.
    He knew he should leave, seek out the brandy and fire that Wendell had suggested.
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