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 have mentioned another wedding, not now.”
His gaze black, not even flickering, he did not respond.
“No one stops loving another person in an hour or a day, Calder.” She tried reason now. “You cared about me this morning—of course you care now.”
Finally, he spoke. “You are assuming that our relationship was founded on love.” He stared. “Let me offer some advice—you do not want to have this discussion with me.”
No one could miss the warning in his tone. Her heart thundered with more alarm, more fear. “I never meant to stand you up!”
His gaze finally flickered. “It is for the best.”
She cried out. “What? I love you. Missing my wedding was not for the best!”
“Good day, Francesca.” He sat abruptly down, pulling a folder forward.
She was disbelieving. “Is this your response to what has happened? To pretend you don’t care—to refuse to discuss it—to dismiss me as if I am not your fiancée?”
She saw him tremble, but he did not look up.
She had struck a nerve and she meant to strike more. “Have you even looked at me? I have cuts all over my face from broken glass! My nails are torn, my fingers scratched from trying to hold on to a wall while I crawled out of a window!” She was rewarded when he raised his eyes to hers. His expression was dark, like thunderclouds. “I received a strange note this morning, Hart, an invitation to a preview of Sarah’s works! The moment I read it, I knew that I was being invited to view my own portrait. Of course I had to investigate!”
His black gaze was unwavering. “Of course.”
She rushed on. “When I got to the gallery, the door was open and my portrait was there. But before I could do anything, someone locked me in from the outside. I spent hours and hours trying to get out. Finally—at four o’clock—some small children heard my cries for help.” She realized she was trembling incessantly.
Hart steepled his hands and looked down. “You said you were not hurt.”
“I’m not!”
When he refused to look up, she cried, “Of all days for the thief to play his hand! Clearly he did not wish for us to marry. I was lured downtown. Can’t you see that? Don’t you believe me?” She had never been more desperate. Why was he behaving this way?
He finally glanced up at her. “Oh, I believe you. But does it even matter? It is over, Francesca.” And he began to read the papers on his desk.
She knew he had chosen to retreat behind this wall of icy calm. Because his behavior was a pretense, wasn’t it? A careful and clever facade? Hart was the most volatile man she knew. “Oh, God. I expected you to be angry, but you’re not, are you? When you are angry, you explode—and you drink. I have hurt you.”
He
