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“I haven’t seen that steady of a hand in a long time,” Shane said. “You have a gift, Miss O’Toole.”
Her shoulders stiffened at his compliment and some unknown emotion flashed in her eyes.
“I—I do?”
“Yes.”
“I…” She lifted her chin. “Thank you.”
Her uncertain manner was replaced by a quiet dignity.
For a moment the foundation of everything Shane thought rocked under him. He was a healer, called by God to treat the sick, a man others turned to in times of need. He did not rely on anyone.
No human, at any rate. Only the divine.
Then again, he’d never met a woman who made him want to admit he might be weary of standing helplessly by as his patients struggled with illnesses that far too often resulted in death.
For the first time in his life, a woman—a fancy, overdressed, far-too-beautiful stranger—made Shane want to share a few of his burdens with another person.
“Miss O’Toole, what I ask is highly respectable,” Shane continued. “Would you consider working as my assistant?”
RENEE RYAN
grew up in a small Florida beach town. To entertain herself during countless hours of “lying out” she read all the classics. It wasn’t until the summer between her sophomore and junior years at Florida State University that she read her first romance novel. Hooked from page one, she spent hours consuming one book after another while working on the best (and last!) tan of her life.
Two years later, armed with a degree in economics and religion, she explored various career opportunities, including stints at a Florida theme park, a modeling agency and a cosmetics conglomerate. She moved on to teach high school economics, American government and Latin while coaching award-winning cheerleading teams. Several years later, with an eclectic cast of characters swimming around in her head, she began seriously pursuing a writing career.
She lives an action-packed life in Lincoln, Nebraska, with her supportive husband, lovely teenage daughter and two ornery cats who hate each other.
Loving Bella
Renee Ryan
MILLS & BOON
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Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.
—Philippians 3:13
To my father, Dr. Augustus Emmet Anderson, Jr.
This one’s for you, Daddy!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, England, 1885
Isabella O’Toole’s life swept from one tragedy to another. And she loved every dramatic, heart-wrenching moment. Singing opera, as her mother once said, was in her blood. No matter the setting or situation, Bella always wept for her doomed heroines.
Tonight, however, there was an added layer of emotion that had nothing to do with tragedy. The sensation left Bella with a dull headache and unusually raw emotions.
He was here. In the audience. Watching her—only her—with the intense stare that never failed to steal her breath away.
The moment the curtain made its final descent her first impulse was to run to her dressing room and prepare for his visit. But that would be self-indulgent, a trait she disliked in others and thoroughly despised in herself. Somehow, she found the patience to offer congratulations to her fellow cast members with a genuine smile on her lips.
Still, in the back of her mind she was well-aware that he beckoned and there was little time left to prepare. She offered a quick hug to her understudy, and began the brief journey to her dressing room. Much to her amusement, she caught herself nearly running by the time she arrived at her destination. So much for dignity and grace under pressure.
With an impatient shove, Bella shut the door behind her and leaned against the sturdy wood. Thoughts of William filled her mind. Her heart pounded, her hands shook.
Conflicting emotions tangled inside one another, threatening to overwhelm her. Despite the joy of seeing William again, she was still on edge after playing Isolde. No matter how many times Bella sang the shifting chords in the final aria, the music rent every bit of emotion from her. She was exhausted.
Trying to force calm into her thinking, she breathed in and out. Tonight was too special, too important to allow grief for a fictional heroine’s lost love to engulf her.
At last, the drumming in her heart shifted and she looked around the room.
Her refuge.
The one place solely hers, where she morphed herself from Bella O’Toole, youngest in the famous O’Toole acting family, into the most acclaimed opera singer of her day. With grace and comfort in mind, she’d decorated her small space by paying close attention to details and fuss. Intricate lace, fresh flowers and soft, cushiony furniture created a tone that was warm, feminine and fashionable.
To add a touch of glamour, Bella only used candles, preferring the soft golden glow and warm scent of the wax to the bleak ambiance provided by modern gas lamps. Perhaps she did have her moments of self-indulgence. But she tried to contain them to these small facets of her life instead of giving rein to the wild emotions that sometimes seized her.
Pushing from the door, Bella ran her finger along the edges of her makeup table, across the rims of the various jars of creams and rouge.