Бренда Джойс – Deadly Vows (страница 9)

He had taken her friendship to heart. Having never had a friend before Francesca, he had thought her friendship an undying profession of loyalty and affection. How wrong he had been. Friends did not betray one another this way.

He realized Rourke was offering him a drink. He had given her his trust—his friendship—his absolute loyalty—and her desertion was his reward.

In front of three hundred of the city’s most outstanding citizens.

“Calder, take the scotch. You clearly need it.”

He took the glass, saw that his hand trembled and hated himself for being a weak, romantic fool. He downed the entire contents of the glass, handed it back and walked away from everyone.

Hadn’t he expected this? Wasn’t that why he had kept staring out the window, waiting for her to arrive? Hadn’t he known on some subconscious level that this marriage was not to be?

Of course she didn’t want him.

He refused to remember being a small boy, scrawny and thin and always hungry, sharing a bed with Rick, in the one-room slum that was their flat. He did not want to think about their mother, Lily, before she died, standing at the stove, smiling not at him but at his brother, telling Rick how wonderful he was. Nor would he recall her last dying days, when he had been so terrified that she would leave him. It was Rick she was always asking to see, Rick she was always whispering to.

He was an adult now. He knew that she had made Rick swear to take care of his younger brother, but that knowledge didn’t change anything. Lily had loved Rick greatly; to this day, he wasn’t sure that she had ever wanted him, much less loved him. The more troubling his behavior had been, the more distant she had become, looking at him with sorrow. She had never looked at Rick that way.

“You were a mistake!” his father, Paul Randall, had said.

Hart had been accepted at Princeton University at the age of sixteen. Rathe had been a personal friend of the university’s president, but his test scores were superior anyway, allowing his early admittance. Yet instead of going to New Jersey and registering for his first term, he had gone to New York City. Returning to Manhattan as a young man in a suit with a few dollars in his wallet had been strange—and exhilarating. He liked the fact that when he stepped out into the street and raised his hand, a cab instantly pulled up. He liked walking into a fancy restaurant and being called sir. But the trip to the city was hardly impulsive; he had hired an investigator to find his biological father. He had not only found Paul Randall, he had been shocked to learn that he had a pair of siblings.

Randall had been living in the same house, on Fifty-seventh Street and Lexington Avenue, where he was murdered last February. Hart had succumbed to uncharacteristic nervousness as he approached the brownstone. In spite of having rehearsed a nonchalant introduction, he was speechless and perspiring by the time he reached the front door. He had imagined their first meeting while on the Manhattan-bound train. No optimist, he had nevertheless imagined various scenarios that ended on a happy note.

When he had told Randall who he was, the man had turned deathly white with shock. Instead of inviting him in, he had stepped outside onto the front stoop where Calder stood, closing the door behind them. “Why are you here?” he had cried. “What do you want? My God, my wife must never know.”

Instantly understanding that his father did not want him, he had come to his senses. “For some odd reason, I thought it appropriate for us to meet.”

“It is not!” Randall had exclaimed. “Please leave—and do not come back.” He had shut the front door in his face. Stunned, trying not to feel anything just then, Hart had heard his half siblings behind the door, asking their father who that was.

“Just a boy selling encyclopedias.”

Now, Hart stared down at Fifth Avenue, his hands clenched so tightly on the sill that his knuckles were white. Francesca had jilted him. He would always have been the man she had settled for. Except, in the end, she had realized she did not want to settle.

He turned. To his amazement, Rick was still interviewing Connie, as if this were one of his criminal investigations. Well, it was hardly that. As far as he was concerned, the drama was over.

Rick saw him staring and walked over, his strides decisive. “Francesca must be in trouble.”

He raised his brows. “Really? Why would you reach that conclusion—when you begged her this morning to postpone our wedding?”

Rick’s eyes widened. “Are you blaming me?”

Hart said, scoffing, “Hardly. But don’t pretend to care. Don’t pretend that you are not delighted by Francesca’s sudden change of heart.”

Bragg was somber. “I’m not delighted, Calder. I can see you are hurt. But I am worried about Francesca.”

He clapped his hands. “Of course you are. And is your white steed outside?”

“Haven’t you heard a word Lady Montrose has just said? Francesca meant to be here. She received an urgent summons.”

She had received an urgent summons on her wedding day. He laughed coldly. It felt good. “I am hardly hurt, Rick. The truth of the matter is, I am relieved. I have come to my senses. What could I have possibly been thinking? I am not a marrying man.”

Everyone was staring at him now. Julia seemed ready to faint. He almost cursed them all, but they hadn’t done this—she had done this.

Slowly, Rick shook his head. “Fine. Tell yourself what you will. Do you want my help?”

“No.” He did not have to think about it.

“She would never do this on purpose,” Julia cried, staggering. Rathe caught her, putting a strong arm around her. “I must sit down!”

Connie took her from Rathe. “Mama, let’s go to our lounge.” She sent Hart an incredulous, angry look. “Evan, Father is downstairs with the guests. I think he could use your help just now, calming everyone—and averting a full-blown scandal.”

“Of course,” Evan said, striding forward. He went to their mother and helped Connie guide Julia down the hall.

Hart knew what was coming, now that Francesca’s family was gone. He smiled coldly at Rick.

Rick’s amber eyes were dark. “You know what? I am glad this has happened. Because we both know that this marriage would have been a disaster. We both know that Francesca deserves far more than you can give her. Maybe she did come to her senses. She was very nervous this morning.”

He trembled with anger, but he kept his tone even. “And what will you give her, Rick, now that you are so happily reconciled with your lovely wife? Undying friendship? Unrequited love? Or…a sordid affair?”

“I am her friend,” Rick said harshly. “Not that you would understand what that means.”

He sent the staggering agony away. “You are so right,” he said coldly. “I do not have a clue about what friendship means, nor do I wish to. Enjoy your friendship, Rick.” He nodded and stalked past him.

Rourke fell into step beside him as he traversed the hall. “What do you think you are doing?” Hart asked, his tone still cold.

“I am keeping you company. You have had a shock,” Rourke said flatly.

“Hardly. I do not need a nanny or nursemaid.” He rapidly went downstairs, Rourke remaining abreast of him.

“Then you will have a friend,” he said calmly. “Whether you want one or not.”

He decided to ignore his near relation. Too late, he realized he was about to descend into the crowd of three hundred tittering, exhilarated wedding guests. He faltered.

The ladies wore ball gowns, the men black tie. Everyone had been speaking, the din hushed yet excited. A terrible silence fell. He saw Andrew Cahill near the church’s oversize double doors just as Francesca’s father saw him. Cahill seemed incredibly dismayed and distressed. But as their gazes met, he flushed with anger.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rourke said softly. “If you don’t need a drink, I do.”

He did not care. Andrew stared at him with accusation—as if this was his fault.

Hart smiled and said pleasantly but loudly, “I am afraid this is your entertainment for the day. The wedding is off and, apparently, I am to blame.”

As he stepped onto the ground floor, the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He refused to focus on any single face, but he knew just about everyone present. He had slept with a dozen of the assembled socialites, with many of the other matrons’ daughters shoved his way; he had concluded business with many of the gentlemen. He saw the Countess Bartolla, who was gleeful, and Leigh Anne, who seemed both vacuous and surprised; he saw Sarah Channing, who was in abject concern—for him? for Francesca?—and her mother, who looked shocked.

To hell with them all.

As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.

He did not care.

FRANCESCA DIDN’T CARE how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.

Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.

She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.