Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

did not move as the cabbie got down from the driver’s seat. The front gates were closed, although it was only six o’clock in the evening.

      She trembled, fighting tears of exhaustion and dismay. She had spent the past thirty minutes traveling uptown, trying to imagine what the scene had been like at the church when the bridal march should have begun. Her mother would have been hysterical, her father grim. She couldn’t imagine the reaction of her guests.

      Then she had tried to imagine what Hart’s mood had been.

      The cabbie had opened one of the front gates, wide enough for his cab to go through. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, above her closed cubicle. She was filled with dread. She could no longer tell herself that Hart was worried about her. She simply knew him too well.

      He had a terrible, explosive temper and a jaded, cynical worldview.

      As the gelding trotted forward onto the graveled driveway, she gave in to her overwhelming distress. She always saw the glass as half-full; she always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Hart never did either of those things. He trusted no one and nothing.

      Except, he had come to trust her, hadn’t he?

      It didn’t matter. She was afraid he was going to be very angry.

      But it was even worse than that. She had glimpsed, just once or twice, a terrible vulnerability hiding behind the facade of arrogance and disdain, wealth and power. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him. She almost laughed, somewhat hysterically. How many times had she been warned that he would be the one to hurt her?

      All relief at escaping the gallery had vanished. She had to explain to Hart what had happened, calm and reassure him, if need be, and then they had to go downtown and retrieve her portrait from the gallery. That last action could not wait! She hadn’t said a word to the roundsman, as she had not wanted him to go inside and look at it. When she had been leaving Waverly Place, she had seen him closing up the gallery, a single, small consolation. But now, in hindsight, she wished she had found an object with which to destroy the painting before leaving the gallery.

      She paid the driver. The downstairs of the mansion was not lit up. Every now and then, Hart’s mood was so black that he dismissed his entire staff, only to wander about his mausoleum of a home by himself, a scotch in hand, admiring his art—and brooding. She would almost believe that he was doing that now, except that she happened to know he had guests. Rathe and Grace Bragg were staying with him indefinitely, as they built a home on the west side of the city. Just then, so was Nicholas D’Archand and two other Bragg siblings.

      She had a terrible feeling, and she did not even try to shake it off as she climbed the front steps of the house, passing two huge limestone lions at the top of the staircase. On the roof, far above the front door, was a bronze stag. Before she even lifted the heavy brass knocker, the front door opened. She expected Hart to be standing there, but it was Alfred who let her in.

      Francesca hurried inside. “How is he?”

      Alfred’s eyes widened. “Miss Cahill! Are you all right?”

      She knew she was dirty, disheveled and scratched from having to shatter the glass window. “I am not all right, but I do not need a physician—I need to speak with Hart.”

      “Mr. Hart is in the library, taking care of business affairs.”

      She started. “Surely you are not telling me that he has taken my failure to arrive at the church in stride?”

      “I do not know how he is at the moment, Miss Cahill. He is excessively calm.”

      She stared, shocked. She lowered her voice. “Is he drinking?” Hart often sought refuge in alcohol when under extreme emotional duress, in an attempt to avoid pain. She found him frightening when drunk, but not because he was inclined toward violence. She knew he would never lift a hand toward her. His mood was always the blackest and he was always the most self-deprecating when he was drinking himself into a state of oblivion.

      “No.”

      She prayed that this was a very good sign—that he wasn’t hurt—and that he would be eager to hear her explain what had kept her from their wedding. “Thank you,” Francesca said. “I can find the library myself, Alfred.”

      He hesitated. “You look a sight, Miss Cahill. Do you want to freshen up?”

      She shook her head and hurried down the hall, hoping she would not run into any of the family. The house was terribly quiet. It reminded her of a home in mourning. She did not like having such morbid thoughts and she ignored them. She wanted nothing more than to be in Hart’s arms.

      The heavy rosewood door to his library was closed. Francesca hesitated, her heart racing with unnerving force. Finally she pushed it open.

      Hart was seated at his desk, hunched over the papers he was reading. He lifted his head, his gaze slamming onto her.

      She managed to smile. “Hello.”

      The distance of a tennis court was between them. Francesca shut the door and hurried forward, her heart pounding wildly. “Hart, I am so sorry! I have had the most awful day!”

      He slowly rose to his full height, which was an inch or two over six feet. There was something controlled about the way he rose to tower over his desk and she faltered. Surely he noticed how untidy and scratched she was. Surely he was worried about her! “I have been locked up,” she cried. “And I found my portrait!”

      He did not give her his characteristic once-over. Unblinkingly, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said, he said calmly, “I see you have had a change of heart, Francesca. I see that you have seen the light.”

      She was very alarmed. “Didn’t you hear me? I was locked in a gallery—that was why I missed our wedding. I am so sorry!” she cried. “I have not had a change of heart!”

      He was as still as a statue. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. “I am well aware that you missed the wedding.” He spoke as if they were discussing the summer rain. His calm monotone never changed. “Are you hurt?”

      Didn’t he care that she had been locked up? “No! Not in the way that you mean!”

      “Good.” He looked down at the papers on his desk and reached for one. Francesca was shocked. What was he doing? Wasn’t he going to look at her face, her hands, and ask what had happened? Didn’t he want to know where the blasted portrait was, so they could retrieve and destroy it?

      He glanced at her as if she were a stranger. “Is there something further you wish to say? As you can see, I am quite occupied right now.”

      “Calder, aren’t you listening? I found that damn portrait—that is why I was late.” She almost sobbed. “This was to be our wedding night! We must talk about what happened!”

      He shuffled the papers, but his gaze was on hers, and it was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling. His face was carved in stone. “I don’t care what happened. We have nothing further to discuss.”

      She froze. “I beg your pardon?”

      He looked down at the papers on his desk again and began to slowly rearrange them.

      She ran forward. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he shouting at her? “I know you don’t mean that. I know you care about what happened to me today.” When he did not look at her, she cried urgently, “We must plan another wedding.”

      He finally set the papers down and stared at her. “There is not going to be another wedding.”

      She choked, her heart exploding with sickening force in her chest. Only his desk stood between them now. “You can’t mean that!”

      “But I do.” And finally, she heard the twinge of anger in his tone.

      It was a moment before she spoke, and it was an effort to control her tone. “You must be very hurt and very angry, even if you are not showing it. I shouldn’t