Deadly Vows by Brenda Joyce Page A

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?”
    â€œNo.” He did not have to think about it.
    â€œShe 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 useyour help just now, calming everyone—and averting a full-blown scandal.”
    â€œOf 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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI am keeping you company. You have had a shock,” Rourke said flatly.
    â€œHardly. I do not need a nanny or nursemaid.” He rapidly went downstairs, Rourke remaining abreast of him.
    â€œThen 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 ofthree 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.
    â€œLet’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