Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] by Deadly Desire

Author:Deadly Desire
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 7:00 P.M.

Even though he did not love Sarah Channing, he felt guilty as he was admitted into the Channing home. Visiting Sarah in order to see how she was faring was a pretext for seeing the countess; he was that badly smitten. They had come to understand each other so well, and when he had mentioned he would stop by in the early evening in order to visit his fiancee, Bartolla had smiled at him, understanding—or so he thought. Now, as his coat was taken, the Channing butler said, “Miss Channing has remained in her rooms all day, sir, but I shall send her your card. Shall I inform Mrs. Channing that you are here?”

“That is not necessary. I would hate to interrupt her Sunday evening,” Evan said. He was filled with impatience, and it was hard to remain impassive of expression. He felt like pacing about like a restless caged lion. Had Bartolla understood? Was she present in the house? Would he have a chance to see her, even if it was but for a moment?

And if only Sarah did not stand between them!

Of course, Evan had not changed his mind about ending the engagement, and he felt certain his frustration would soon be at an end. However, he would wait until Sarah was feeling better before he sat down with her to give her the blow.

He did not dread the encounter entirely. Francesca had said Sarah had no wish to marry, and as astonishing as that was, he knew his sister well, and she fervently believed her words. So Sarah would undoubtedly be pleased to be let off the hook. Perhaps, he mused, she had a yearning for someone else. But he doubted it. Sarah was just not terribly interested in men. Her life was her painting, it seemed.

He found it a bit odd.

Of course, if Francesca were somehow wrong, the encounter might become terrible indeed. But Evan could not think about that. He owed too much money to the wrong kinds of people, and planning how to elude and evade them was what preoccupied most of his waking hours.

That and his father.

Evan stood abruptly, his fists clenching, his entire body coursing with anger. Why had it taken him all of these years to finally tell the old man to shove it? One could only be pushed so far, he mused. He had been pushed about by his father his entire life, yet he had always swallowed his anger and he had always been respectful and obedient. He had always done what he had been told to do, yet Andrew had never shown one sign of encouragement, never uttered one word of praise. If he stayed at the office until ten in the evening, his father’s response was to ask if he had finished a report. And if he hadn’t, while no more was said, the disapproval was there, in his father’s eyes.

There was always disapproval in Andrew Cahill’s eyes.

And when he did, finally, score a touchdown, in his senior year at Columbia, there had simply been no praise.

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