The Heart's Victory

by Nora Roberts

  I should have known, Foxy thought as the cool blue eyes examined her. But how totally unlike her he is. There’s not even a shade of resemblance. “Lance is upstairs, Mrs. Matthews,” Foxy explained and tried a fresh smile. “I’m—”

  “Well, fetch him then,” she interrupted with an imperious movement of her hand. “And tell him I’m here.”

  It was not the rudeness as much as the tone of contempt that fanned Foxy’s temper. Careful to guard her tongue, she spoke precisely. “I’m afraid he’s in the shower at the moment. Would you care to wait?” She employed the tone of a receptionist in a dentist’s office. From the corner of her eye, she caught the look of amusement in the younger woman’s face.

  “Come, Melissa.” Mrs. Matthews flapped her gloves against her palm in annoyance. “We’ll wait in the living room.”

  “Yes, Aunt Catherine.” Her tone was agreeable but she flashed Foxy a look of mischief over her shoulder as she obeyed.

  Taking a long breath, Foxy followed. She took care not to search the room like a newcomer, deciding that Catherine Matthews need not know she had seen little more than the bedroom of Lance’s house. Her eyes fluttered over a baby grand piano, a Persian carpet, and a Tiffany lamp before moving back to the queenly figure that had settled into a ladder-back chair. “Perhaps you’d like something while you wait,” Foxy offered. Hoping her tone was more polite than her thoughts, she tried the smile again. She was aware of the fact that an introduction was in order, but Catherine’s air of scorn persuaded her to hold back her identity. “Some tea perhaps,” she suggested. “Or some coffee.”

  “No.” Catherine set her leather envelope bag on the table beside her. “Is Lancelot in the habit of having strange young women entertain his guests?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Foxy returned equably. Her backbone stiffened in automatic defense. “We haven’t spent a great deal of time discussing strange young women.”

  “I’m quite certain that conversation is not why my son enjoys your companionship.” Placing both hands on the ends of the chair’s arms, she tapped a manicured finger against the polished wood. “Lancelot rarely chooses to dally with a young lady because of the prodigiousness of her vocabulary. His taste generally eludes me, but I must say, this time I’m astounded.” With an arch of her brow, she gave Foxy a calculated look. “Where did he find you?”

  “Selling matchbooks in Indianapolis,” Foxy tossed out before she could prevent herself. “He’s going to rehabilitate me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lance stated as he walked into the room. Foxy was instantly grateful to see that he was dressed much as herself: jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet. He gave Foxy a brief kiss as he moved past her to greet his mother. Bending down, he brushed the offered cheek with his lips. “Hello, Mother, you’re looking well. Cousin Melissa.” He smiled and kissed her cheek in turn. “I see you’re lovelier than the last time.”

  “It’s good to see you, Lance.” Smiling, Melissa made a flirtatious sweep with her lashes. “Things are never dull when you’re around.”

  “The highest of compliments,” he replied, then turned back to his mother. “I imagine Mrs. Trilby told you I was coming in.”

  “Yes.” She crossed surprisingly slender, youthful-looking legs. “I find it quite annoying to hear of my son’s whereabouts from a servant.”

  “Don’t be too annoyed with Mrs. Trilby,” Lance countered carelessly. “She probably thought you knew. I intended to call you at the end of the week.”

  Catherine bristled at his deliberate misunderstanding of her meaning. When she spoke, however, her voice was cool and expressionless. Watching her, Foxy recalled Lance saying how the Bardetts were always civilized. In their own fashion, Foxy mused, thinking of her initial encounter. “I suppose I should be grateful that you intended to call me at all since you appear to be involved with your”—her eyes drifted to fasten briefly on Foxy—“guest.” She lifted her brow, arching it into a smooth, high forehead. “Perhaps you would send her along so that we might have a private conversation. Since Trilby isn’t here, she might make a pot of tea.”

  Foxy, knowing she would explode if she stayed, turned with the intention of locking herself into the bedroom until she could be trusted again.

  “Foxy.” Lance spoke her name mildly, but she recognized the underlying tone of command. Eyes flaming, she turned back. Lance casually crossed the room and slipped his arm over her shoulders. “I don’t believe you’ve been introduced.”

  “Introductions,” his mother cut in, “are hardly necessary or appropriate.”

  Lance inclined his head. “If you’ve finished insulting her, Mother, I’d like you to meet my wife.”

  There was total silence. Catherine Matthews did not gasp in alarm or surprise but merely stared at Foxy as if she were a strange piece of artwork in a gallery. “Your wife?” she repeated. Her voice remained calm, her face devoid of emotion. Folding her hands in her lap, she turned her eyes to her son. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. Foxy and I were married in the morning in New York. We drove up directly afterward for”—the grin flickered in his eyes as he kept them on his mother—“an informal honeymoon.”

  He’s enjoying this, Foxy realized as she heard the amusement lace his voice. She knew, too, by the ice in Catherine’s that she was not.

  “One hopes Foxy is not her given name.”

  “Cynthia,” Foxy put in distinctly as she grew weary of being referred to as an absent participant.

  “Cynthia,” Catherine murmured thoughtfully. She did not offer her hand or cheek for a token embrace or kiss; instead she carefully studied Foxy’s face for the first time, obviously considering what could be done to salvage the situation. I’m the situation, Foxy realized with a quick flash of humor. “And your maiden name?” Catherine demanded with an inclination of her head.

  “Fox,” she told her with a mimicking nod.

  “Fox,” Catherine repeated, tapping her finger on the arm of the chair again. “Fox. The name is vaguely familiar.”

  “The race driver Lance sponsors,” Melissa supplied helpfully. She stared at Foxy with undisguised fascination. “I suppose you’re his sister or something, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m his sister.” The bold curiosity in her voice made Foxy smile. “Hello.”

  Mischief streaked swiftly over Melissa’s face. Like Lance, Foxy noted, she was enjoying the encounter. “Hello.”

  “You met her on a—a . . . ” Catherine’s fingers waved as she searched for the proper term. “A race-car track?” The first hint of fury whispered through the words. Foxy stiffened again at the expression of contempt that was turned on her.

  “I could do with some coffee, Fox, would you mind?” At Lance’s calm request, she tossed her head back to flame at him. “Melissa will give you a hand,” he continued, nearly cutting off her explosion. “Won’t you, Melissa?” He addressed his cousin, but never took his eyes from his wife.

  “Of course.” Melissa rose obediently and crossed the room. Trapped, Foxy fought down the surge of temper. She turned, leaving Lance and his mother without another word. “Did you really meet Lance on a racetrack?” Melissa asked as the kitchen door swung behind them. There was no guile in the question, simply curiosity.

  “Yes.” Struggling with fury, Foxy managed to keep her tone level. “Ten years ago.”

  “Ten years? You had to have been a child.” Melissa settled down at the table while Foxy scooped out coffee. Sunlight poured through the windows, making the drizzling rain of the day before only a memory. “Now, ten years later, he marries you.” Elbows on the table, Melissa made a cradle out of her hands and set her chin on it. “It’s terribly romantic.”

  As she felt her anger taper off Foxy blew out a long breath. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about Aunt Catherine,” Melissa advised, studying Foxy’s profile. “She wouldn’t have approved of anyone she hadn’t handpicked.”

  “That’s co
mforting,” Foxy replied. Wanting to keep busy, she began to brew a pot of tea as well.

  “There’ll also be a large contingent of women between twenty and forty who’ll want to murder you,” Melissa added as she crossed her silk-covered legs. “There hasn’t been a shortage of hopefuls for the title of Mrs. Lancelot Matthews.”

  “Marvelous.” Foxy turned to Melissa and leaned back against the counter. “Just marvelous.”

  “You’ll meet the bulk of them socially in the first few weeks,” Melissa told her cheerfully. Foxy noted that like Catherine’s, Melissa’s nails were perfectly tended. “Of course, Lance will be there to guard against unsheathed claws at parties and dances, but you’ll have to be alert during charity functions and those lovely luncheon meetings.”

  “I won’t have time for much of that sort of thing,” Foxy told her with undisguised relief. Turning away, she managed to locate an appropriate cream and sugar set. “I have my work.”

  “Work? Do you have a job?” The utter incredulity in her voice caused Foxy to turn back again and laugh.

  “Yes, I have a job. Isn’t it allowed?”

  “Yes, of course, depending . . . ” The tip of Melissa’s tongue ran slowly along her teeth as she considered. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a freelance photographer.” Leaving the kettle on to heat, Foxy joined her at the table.

  “That might do well enough,” Melissa said with a thoughtful nod.

  “What do you do?” Foxy countered, growing intrigued.

  “Do? I . . . ” Melissa searched for a word, then smiled with a gesture of her hand. “I circulate.” Her eyes danced with such blatant good humor, Foxy was forced to laugh again. “I graduated from Radcliffe three years ago, then I took the obligatory Grand Tour. My French is flawless. I know who’s tolerable and who’s not in Boston society, how to get the best table at the Charles, where to be seen and with whom, where to buy shoes and where to buy lingerie, how to order creamed chicken for fifty Boston matrons, and where the skeletons are buried in the majority of closets. I’ve been mad about Lance since I was two, and if I wasn’t his cousin and ineligible, I should certainly despise you. But I couldn’t have married him in any case, so I’m going to like you very well and enjoy watching you twist a few noses out of shape.”

  She paused to catch her breath but not long enough for Foxy to get a word in. “You’re fabulously attractive, particularly your hair, and I would imagine when you’re suited up, you’re devastating. Lance would never have chosen anyone with ordinary good looks. And of course, there’s your tongue. You certainly set Aunt Catherine down a peg. You’ll have to keep it sharp to get through the next weeks unscarred. But I’ll help you. I enjoy watching people do things I haven’t the courage to do. There now, your kettle’s boiling.”

  Slightly dazed, Foxy rose to take it from the burner. “Are all Lance’s relatives like you?”

  “Heavens no. I’m quite unique.” Melissa smiled with perfect charm. “I know a great number of the people in my circle are bores and snobs, and I haven’t any illusions about myself.” She shrugged as Foxy began to steep the tea in a porcelain pot. “I’m simply too comfortable to give them a black eye now and again as Lance does. I admire him tremendously, but I haven’t the inclination to emulate him.” Melissa tossed her hair casually behind her shoulder, and Foxy saw an emerald flash on her hand. “There are times Lance does things strictly to annoy the family’s sensibilities. I believe he might have started racing with that in mind. Of course, he became quite obsessed with it for a while. And still, he’s involved with designing and building cars rather than driving them . . . ” Melissa trailed off, studying Foxy with thoughtful brown eyes.

  Hearing the speculation in her voice, Foxy met the stare and spoke without inflection. “You’re thinking perhaps he married me to again annoy the family’s sensibilities.”

  Melissa smiled and shrugged her tweed-clad shoulders. “Would it matter? You took first prize. Enjoy it.”

  Both women turned as the prize strolled into the room. His eyes flickered over Foxy, then settled on his cousin. “Mother’s anxious to get along, Melissa.”

  “Pooh.” She wrinkled her nose as she rose. “I’d hoped all this would make her forget about the meetings she’s dragging me to. I suppose she told you there’s a party at Uncle Paul’s tomorrow night. They’ll expect you now.”

  “Yes, she told me.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice, and Melissa grinned.

  “I’m looking forward to it now. I expect Grandmother might even put in an appearance . . . under the circumstances. You really know how to keep them off balance, don’t you?” Melissa winked at Foxy before she crossed over to Lance. “I haven’t congratulated you yet.”

  “No,” he agreed and lifted a brow. “You haven’t.”

  “Congratulations,” she said formally, then rose on her toes to peck both of his cheeks. “I like your wife, cousin. I shall come back soon whether you invite me or not.”

  “You’re one of the few I don’t draw the bolt against.” Lance gave her a quick pinch on the chin. “She’ll need a friend.”

  “Don’t we all?” Melissa countered dryly. “We’ll go shopping soon,” she decided as she turned back to face Foxy. “That’s a quick way to get to know each other. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she continued before she moved to the door, “for your trial by fire.”

  Foxy watched the door swing to and fro after Melissa. “I’m feeling a bit singed already,” she muttered.

  Lance crossed the room and cupped her chin in his hand. “You seemed to hold your own well enough.” His eyes grew serious as he studied her face. “Shall I apologize for my mother?”

  “No.” Foxy closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head. “No, it isn’t necessary. And as I think back you did try to warn me.” She opened her eyes and shrugged. “I suppose you knew she wouldn’t approve.”

  “There’s very little I do my mother approves of,” he countered. He traced his thumb over her jawline while his eyes remained on hers. “I don’t base anything I do on her approval, Foxy, least of all my marriage to you. Our lives are our own.” His brows lowered into a frown, and he kissed her, hard and quick. “I asked you before,” he reminded her, “to trust me.”

  With a sigh, Foxy turned away. The air seemed suddenly thick with the scents of coffee and tea. “It appears we didn’t manage our few days of peace.” Picking up the teapot, she poured the contents down the sink. She felt his hands on her shoulders and straightened them automatically. Nothing was going to mar her first full day as his wife. Whirling, Foxy threw her arms around his neck. “We still have today.” All the anger melted along with her bones as Lance covered her offered mouth with his. “I don’t think I want any coffee now,” she whispered as their lips parted and met again. “Do you?”

  For an answer, he grinned and drew away. Before she realized his intent, Foxy was slung over his shoulder. Laughing, she pushed the hair from her eyes. “Lance,” she said with a mock shiver as he swung through the kitchen door. “You’re so romantic.”

  Chapter 11

  Foxy considered dressing for her first social evening as Mrs. Lancelot Matthews equal to dressing for battle. Her armor consisted of a slim tube top and loosely pleated evening pants in pale green. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she adjusted the vivid emerald hip-length jacket and fastened it with a thin gold belt. Deliberately she set about arranging a more dramatic style for her hair.

  “If they’re going to stare and whisper,” she muttered as she pinned up the back of her hair, “we’ll give them something to stare and whisper about.” Using her brush lightly, she persuaded her curls to fall in soft disorder around her face. “I wish I was built,” she complained with a glare at her willowy reflection.

  “I’m rather fond of your construction,” Lance stated from the doorway. Startled, Foxy turned and dropped the brush. Looking casually elegant in a black suit of the thinnest wool, he leaned against the jamb. His eyes trailed over h
er in a lazy arch before returning to lock on hers. “Going to give them their money’s worth, are you, Foxy?”

  She shrugged carelessly, then stooped to retrieve her brush. As she turned away to place it on her dresser she felt his hands descend to her shoulders. “My mother got under your skin, didn’t she?”

  Foxy toyed with the collection of bottles and jars on the dresser’s surface. “It’s only fair,” she parried. “I got under hers.” She heard him sigh, then felt his chin rest atop her head. She kept her eyes lowered on her own restless fingers.

  “I suppose I should have apologized for her after all.”

  Foxy turned, shaking her head. “No.” With her own sigh, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m pouting, aren’t I? I’m sorry.” Determined to change the mood, she stepped back a bit and held out her hands, palms up. “How do I look?” Below the fall of curls, her eyes were saucy and teasing.

  Catching her wrist, Lance spun her into his arms. “Fantastic. I’m tempted to forgo dear Uncle Paul’s little party. I’m very possessive of what’s mine.” His mouth lowered to rub against hers. “Shall we play truant, Foxy, and lock the door?”

  She wanted badly to agree; his mouth promised such delights. To keep the scales balanced, she drew her face away from the warmth of his lips. “I think I’d like to get it over with. I’d rather meet a cluster of them at one time than meet them in dribbles.”

  He brushed his fingers through her hair. “Pity,” he murmured. “But then you always have been a brave soul. I believe you should have a reward for valor before the fact.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, then held out a small black box.

  “What is it?” Foxy demanded, giving him a curious look as she accepted it.

  “A box.”

  “Clever,” she muttered. After opening it, Foxy stared down at two shimmering diamonds shaped like exquisite tears of ice. “Lance, they’re diamonds,” she managed as she lifted wide eyes to his.

  “So I was told,” he agreed. The familiar crooked grin claimed his mouth. “You suggested once I buy you something extravagant. I thought these more appropriate than Russian wolfhounds.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t mean for you to actually...”

  “Not all women can wear diamonds,” he said, moving lightly over her protest. “It takes a certain finesse or they look overdone or