Love, Come to Me

by Lisa Kleypas

  She could hear the distant pounding of a door, and someone was calling her name with annoying persistence. “Lucy . . . Lucy? . . . Lucy! . . .”

  “Heath,” she mumbled sleepily, her hand venturing across the mattress to find his arm, “get the door . . . tell whoever it is not to—” She stopped speaking as her fingertips encountered nothing but empty space. Heath was not there.

  “Lucy! ” came the voice from outside, and she realized that it belonged to her father. Rolling over and mumbling a heartfelt curse, she staggered out of the warm bed and went to the window. Yes, the caller was definitely her father. His hair shone white in the bright sunshine of a crisp autumn day, while the cool wind scattered yellow leaves across the ground. She could hear the rustle of the trees through the half-open window. Shivering slightly, she wandered to the closet, pulled out a thick robe and went downstairs in her bare feet. As she opened the front door and let Lucas in, she was the recipient of an appalled stare. Disapproval was plainly and clearly written all over his face. He looked her over from head to toe and clicked his tongue slowly at her appearance.

  Even without having glanced in a mirror, Lucy knew what she looked like. She could feel the puffiness of a sleepless night underneath her eyes, and the mass of tangles in her long hair, and the tender, swollen curves of her lips. She looked, in fact, like a woman who had spent the whole night making love. Lucy was aware of several small aches and twinges in her body, and she was tired and relaxed—and strangely contented. She felt a slight smile coming to her lips, a private, secret smile that she couldn’t have explained to anyone, least of all herself.

  “Father, please . . . I just got up, and I haven’t had any coffee—”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and you just got up? I’ve never known you to sleep until this hour, unless you were ill or—”

  “I stayed up late last night,” Lucy said, turning and going to the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. All totaled, she couldn’t have had more than two or three hours of rest. Heath had been insatiable. “Please sit down while I make the coffee,” she said over her shoulder while Lucas followed her into the kitchen. “Would you care for a cup?”

  “I would,” he replied, sitting down at the table, fingering his mustache as he watched her. “I heard that you have a couple of maids to do your work.” There was unmistakable censure in his tone. “Glad to see you haven’t forgotten how to find your way around a kitchen.”

  Lucy kept her back to him, making an effort to smooth the wild locks of her hair with her hands. “They don’t come in until early in the afternoon. What about the woman you hired? Is she proving to be a help?”

  “She keeps things clean enough, but her cooking isn’t as good as yours.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said, smiling at his gruff admission. As she set the coffeepot on a burner, she noticed a tiny red mark on the inside of her arm—a whisker burn, she surmised—and raised her fingertips to the base of her throat, where she felt more of the telltale marks. A vision flashed through her mind, of Heath’s head bending over her body as he had kissed her intimately, and she blushed lightly, aware of an exciting pang of pleasure inside. Perhaps if he had not left so early this morning, he would have gathered her in his arms and given her a lazy grin. He might have murmured something in her ear about last night, maybe teased her a little.

  “A shame that you have to leave Concord,” Lucas said abruptly. “Heath stopped by last night to tell me. But . . . possibly it’s better for you to have a new start.”

  “Maybe it is. I don’t think anyone here will ever quite recover from my disgrace—Concordians have long memories, don’t they?” She turned and threw him a quick grin. “I can picture myself fifty years from now, walking down Main Street, and someone whispering as I pass by, ‘That’s Lucy Rayne—remember what she did in sixty-eight?’ By then I’ll be old enough to enjoy having a scandalous reputation.”

  “It’s not appropriate to find humor in that.”

  “Heath says I should learn to laugh at myself more.”

  “You were brought up to be a thoughtful and serious—”

  “I was brought up to think that a good wife should try to please her husband.” As she went to the cabinet and pulled out two sets of cups and saucers, she realized that the idea of leaving Concord wasn’t half as distasteful as she had first thought. Maybe Heath had been right. When it came right down to it, she wasn’t certain she wanted to live her whole life in one town.

  “Lucy,” her father said with a severe frown, “I’ve done my best to raise you properly. I didn’t expect you to toss all those values away when you married this man . . . no matter how he treats you, even if he is taking you away from where you belong—”

  “He treats me well,” she said swiftly, her amusement fading. The defense of her husband came quickly to her lips. “He does. And although I’m a little apprehensive about moving away from here, I married him, and . . . and that’s that. I belong with him, wherever he goes.” Lucy knew as she spoke that she was not simply mouthing a meaningless sentiment. She meant every word.

  Lucas sighed, shaking his head as he looked at her. “I can hardly believe you’re going away. I always thought you’d stay in Concord.” A trace of accusation edged his voice as he added, “I always thought that you and Daniel would—”

  “So did I,” Lucy interrupted, and her hand trembled as she poured the coffee. Her father’s disapproval would never fail to upset her. He had seen her betrayal of Daniel as a betrayal of himself as well, and he felt that she had gone against all the values he had tried to instill in her. She wondered if it would always stand between them. Yes, it was likely that he would never live down the fact that she had smudged the name and the reputation he had worked so hard to establish. “But maybe things worked out for the best,” she said softly.

  “The best? You can’t tell me that instead of marrying into the Collier family and living in Concord, you would rather end up married to a . . . a . . .”

  “There’s no use in thinking about that anymore. Why say anything against Heath now? His background certainly didn’t make a difference to you when you were trying to get me off of your hands—”

  “I’ve never allowed you to talk back to me,” Lucas said, startled by her sharpness. “Married or not, I still won’t tolerate it from you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lucy met his eyes without flinching. “But I won’t listen to any criticism of him.”

  “I didn’t say anything against him.”

  “You implied that he is a step down from Daniel . . . which isn’t true at all. Why, I wouldn’t give two cents to be in Sally’s place, with Daniel as a husband and Abigail as a sister-in-law. I’d be miserable! Daniel never understood me, and he wouldn’t have—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” her father said, looking glumly into his coffee. “It’s all water under the bridge.” It was obvious that he would have liked to put his foot down and lecture her, but for some reason he decided not to. “I’d say more, but it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “No, Father,” she replied firmly. “What’s done is done . . . and we all have to stick with our decisions.”

  With the help of the Flannerys, Lucy scoured the house for two days, packing clothes, dishes and various odds and ends that would make the residence on Beacon Hill seem like home. Most of the furniture was left behind to be sold with the house. As Heath had requested, Lucas helped pack the heaviest items and left his store in the hands of a newly employed assistant in order to take Lucy to Boston personally.

  During the two nights that Heath was gone, Lucy slept on his side of the bed, burying her face in his pillow, and inhaling the masculine fragrance of it. She was surprised at how much she missed him, and she took her mind off his absence by giving all her attention to the considerable amount of work to be done. Clearing out the little house was even more difficult than she had expected. For the first time she was leaving the town she had grown up in, a town that, despite everything, she was
still strongly attached to. She was heading towards a new home and a life that seemed frighteningly undefined, indistinct. The only thing she was certain of was that she wanted to be where Heath was. Without him, Concord seemed empty, and so did the house, and she spent all of her spare time wondering what he was doing.

  Her father hired a closed carriage from the livery to take her to the city, and all the boxes and parcels were loaded into a wagon that one of the Hosmer boys was being paid a dollar to drive behind them. Lucy did not look back as they left Concord. Focusing on the tiny lace-trimmed handkerchief she held in her lap, she dabbed at her eyes occasionally, suppressing any tears that threatened to escape. She felt as if she were leaving her childhood behind, and she was heartsore as the wheels of the carriage turned round and round, taking her away from everything familiar.

  As they neared Boston, Lucy began to fuss needlessly with her dress, wanting not even one ribbon to be askew when she stepped out of the carriage. Heath almost always noticed what she wore, and since she hadn’t seen him in two days, she wanted to look especially nice. The upper skirt of her dress was made of fancy silver-gray wool, trimmed with matching fringe and looped up to reveal a darker underskirt, while the long sleeves fit tightly to her wrist and puffed out at the shoulders. Her saucy hat, called a béarnais, was low-crowned and trimmed with velvet ribbon. The glazed straw brim matched the color of her dress perfectly, and it dipped over her forehead coyly.

  Peering out the window as the carriage went by Boston Common, Lucy had a perfect view of Beacon Hill, named for the old beacon that had been built there in the seventeenth century to warn the earliest settlers in case of invasion. Certain sections of Beacon Hill, such as Louisburg Square, were the dominion of the “first families” of Boston. These families, who were occasionally referred to as “cold-roast” Bostonians, inhabited a separate world within Boston. Their names—Lodge, Cabot, and Peabody, to name a few—were synonymous with the names of royalty. Each family possessed a fortune and a reputation founded in earlier years by a revered ancestor. Some, like the Forbeses and the Gardners, had made their money through shipping or railroad investments, while others, such as the Winthrops, the Lowells and the Redmonds, had made it in textiles or banking.

  Contrary to the opinions of the First Families, however, there was another, equally important sector of Boston, a class that had the money but not the snobbery of the oldest families. It was a class of entrepreneurs, the businessmen who constantly pushed and prodded the city to develop at a pace it would not have otherwise been inclined to maintain. They made Boston into a showcase for development, and they traveled by train between New York and Boston to conduct their elaborate business transactions with the aplomb of pirates. Their money was new money, and they spent it lavishly, throwing spectacular parties, filling the theaters, frequenting the shops and department stores, and monopolizing the best restaurants. First families abhorred publicity, but the entrepreneurs adored it. They were filled with unself-conscious pride at their own achievements. They were hearty, thriving, occasionally vulgar, and secure in the knowledge that there was little they could not buy. Frequently the Forbeses, the Redmonds, and all of the other first families married their daughters and sons off to the heirs of the entrepreneurs, linking elite names to impressive fortunes.

  It occurred to Lucy as the carriage passed the straight facades of the row houses between Louisburg Square and Mt. Vernon Place that she was married to an entrepreneur. What an odd combination they were, a liberalminded war veteran from Virginia and a conservative Bay Stater who had rarely ventured out of the town of Concord. And stranger still was the combination of Heath and Damon Redmond as business partners. How in the world was Heath going to mix with a proper Bostonian? If Redmond had one-tenth the arrogance, the elitism, that could reasonably be expected from a member of a first family, there was stormy weather ahead at the offices of the Examiner. Wouldn’t it have been easier to find someone other than a Redmond to deal with?

  The carriage stopped in front of a large house with a mansard roof and a yard bordered with an elaborate wrought-iron fence. It was much bigger than she had expected, more than twice the size of the house in Concord. Lucy stared at it dumbly as her father helped her from the carriage. She found it hard to believe that she would be living here. Heath hadn’t led her to expect anything like this.

  Even her father did not bother to hide the fact that he was impressed. “Look,” he said, tapping his foot on the paved border of the street. In front of the house the brick had been arranged in an elaborate pattern and glazed. “It’s called a ‘rich man’s sidewalk.’ ” He glanced at Lucy speculatively, and it was almost possible to see the numbers clicking through his mind. “Seems he’s been keeping a thing or two under his hat. What kind of investments did he make? Was it—”

  “Something about the railroad,” Lucy replied, tucking stray wisps of hair behind her ears and blotting the shine of her nose with a corner of her handkerchief. “And if the way you’re looking at me means that you’re wondering if I knew anything about his money before we were married, the answer is no.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all,” her father said, looking affronted.

  “Good,” she said pertly. “I would hate to think that you believed me capable of being so mercenary that I would set out to entrap him just because he has a little more money than Daniel—”

  “A great deal more than Daniel.”

  “Yes . . . well . . .”

  “Mr. Caldwell?” came a voice from behind Lucas. It was the Hosmer boy, who had stopped the wagon behind the carriage. “Should I start unloading things?”

  “Where is your husband?” Lucas demanded of his daughter without expecting an answer. “He should be out here.”

  “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ll go in the house and find him,” Lucy said quickly, and she went up the front steps as her father and the boy discussed which boxes to unload first.

  The house was spectacular, even in its present state. Scattered here and there were a few elegant pieces of imported walnut furniture, most of which would have to be reupholstered. The hardwood floors were almost crying out to be polished, but they were free of scars and pockmarks, and the high ceilings were adorned with twinkling chandeliers. Huge windows let in a flood of sunlight. She could picture them framed with fringed draperies. There were glossy marble fireplaces and empty walls that needed to be filled with pictures. Everything needed to be washed, dusted, and cleaned, but it was going to be a beautiful house. How could she help but love it?

  As she walked past the first few rooms on the ground floor, she saw men working industriously, tearing old brocade off the walls, replacing chipped tiles, taking measurements, climbing ladders, wielding hammers. There was no sign of Heath, and uncertainly she paused in a doorway long enough to catch the attention of one of the workers.

  “Miss?” he questioned, tearing off his hat hastily as she approached him.

  “Mrs. Rayne,” she corrected with a smile. “I’m looking for my husband. Would you happen to know where he is?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rayne.” Respectfully he indicated the steps leading up to the second floor. Upstairs, the sound of heavy scraping came from one of the rooms. Lucy went to investigate, standing just inside the door and smiling as she caught sight of her husband. Unnoticed by either of them, she watched as Heath and a stocky workman lifted a heavy, bulky chest of drawers and carried it away from the corner. The powerful muscles of Heath’s shoulders and back flexed underneath the thin white shirt, while fawn trousers molded to his taut buttocks and thighs. Sometimes Lucy’s heart skipped a beat when she realized how handsome he was. As she looked at him, she was aware of a certain sense of feminine appreciation, perhaps even smugness. He could be infuriating at times, but there were some things about him that she wouldn’t change for anything. And of all the women who had undoubtedly wanted him in the past—and those who would want him in the future—she was the only one with any rightful claim to him.

 
Breathing deeply from exertion, the men set the stocky article of furniture down in the center of the room and regarded it with disgust. “I can see why it was left behind,” Heath remarked, rolling up a sleeve that had fallen down his forearm.

  “Too heavy?” the other man asked.

  “Too ugly.”

  “We’ll need a few more pairs of hands if we’re going to carry it down the stairs, through the front hall and down to the street.”

  “It might be easier to carry it to the window and drop it,” Heath replied, causing the other man to chuckle.

  “Not on that sidewalk, you won’t,” Lucy said with a smile, and Heath turned around, his turquoise eyes sweeping over her in a fraction of a second. There was a sudden silence, and then the air was almost crackling with awareness.

  “You’re here already.”

  “I’m a little early.”

  Heath tore his gaze away from her and glanced at the man nearby. “Mr. Flannigan . . . my wife, Mrs. Rayne.”

  After exchanging a friendly nod with Lucy, Flannigan cleared his throat self-consciously. “I . . . ah . . . should check on the boys downstairs.” As he left the room, Lucy walked over to Heath hesitantly, wondering why he was staring at her so intently.

  “All the men in the house—,” she started to say.