by Lisa Kleypas
“Don’t know about you, honey, but I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
In order to have enough time to dress and arrange her hair for the supper dance, Lucy had not gone to the weekly lecture she usually attended on Fridays. With the help of one of the maids, she washed her hair and rinsed it with lemon juice and water. It took many pins and more than a few frustrated exclamations in order to arrange the fine silken strands of it in the current fashion, pinning it off the forehead into rolls and letting it fall down the back of her neck in long curls. Her dress was an elaborate creation of black brocaded satin embroidered with gold and silver leaves. The train-shaped skirt was trimmed with a fifteen-inch deep flounce that rustled softly as it swept over the floor, while the low, round bodice revealed the pale, perfect curves of her bosom and the tops of her shoulders. Her waist, made especially tiny with vigorous lacing, was accentuated with a wide embroidered sash, while the material of the skirt was pulled tightly to reveal the gentle flare of her hips. As Lucy looked at herself in the mirror, she smoothed the dark arches of her eyebrows with the moistened tip of her forefinger and bit her lips to make them red.
“Don’t. I’ll take care of that,” came Heath’s voice from the doorway, and she turned her head to smile at him. He was breathtaking in a formal scheme of black and white, which emphasized the blue-green of his eyes and the dark antique gold of his hair.
“You’ll take care of what?” she asked.
For answer, he walked over to her, covered her bare shoulders with his hands and lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her so firmly that her lips were forced apart. The tip of his tongue feathered across the roof of her mouth, finding the most sensitive spot and lingering there until Lucy struggled away from him with a shaky laugh and a gasp.
“Heath! If I’d w-wanted your help, I would have asked for it.” Hastily she turned back to the mirror, silently berating herself for letting him ruffle her so easily. Her cheeks were flaming, and her lips were now soft and rosy.
“I thought you wanted a little color in your face.”
“I did! But I didn’t want to look like I’d just tumbled out of bed with you.”
He chuckled and walked up behind her, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “If I had the time—”
“Yes, I know,” Lucy said, swatting at his hands in feigned annoyance and reaching for the powder puff on the dressing table. “Now leave me alone for five more minutes so I can finish getting ready.”
With mock obedience Heath sat on the ridiculously small gilded chair nearby and lounged there indolently, watching every move she made. “Don’t you have something to do?” Lucy demanded, pausing in the midst of brushing one of her curls. “You’re just sitting there like a lazy tomcat.” As he kept silent, she dusted her nose lightly with powder and cast a sidelong glance at him. “You look very handsome,” she said, her voice softer than before. He smiled slightly, standing up and wandering to the window as if he were uncomfortable with her scrutiny.
So sleek and polished and perfect, Lucy thought, giving him one last look before returning her gaze to the mirror. But just when she thought he was too handsome to be real, the scar on his temple reminded her that although he had the looks of an angel, he was far from perfect. That scar served as a visible reminder to her that he had been hurt in ways it was not possible to see. Sometime in his past he had developed an impenetrable defense to protect himself, and he had not relinquished it, even though it was no longer necessary. Occasionally she felt that he kept himself separate from her even in their most intimate moments. If only he would trust her enough to let himself be vulnerable to her. If only he were capable of showing her that he wanted her for something more than amusement or physical pleasure.
Perhaps some would think they had a perfect marriage. Lucy knew that many people would probably envy them for what they had, a close friendship enhanced by passion. There was freedom in their relationship, a willingness to let each other grow, and a certain amount of honesty. Maybe it was wrong of her to want more than that. Oh, why was she bothered by a growing feeling of discontentment that showed no signs of abating?
Because she cared about him, to the point that she was frightened to admit just how much, even to herself.
After putting on long onyx earrings that dangled halfway down to her shoulders and swung jauntily against her neck, Lucy gave a short sigh. “I’m ready to leave now.”
“Cinda.” Heath’s eyes were dark and serious as he looked at her. He walked over to her slowly, and her pulse quickened as she heard the hesitance in his tone. “Before we go, there’s something I want to take care of. I thought about it a few weeks ago, and . . . it’s something I should have done right after we were married.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” she said with a wavering smile.
“I guess I’m trying to apologize for overlooking . . .” Heath’s voice faded away as their eyes met.
“What?” she whispered.
Stillness. Seconds linked together in the silence, one following another rapidly.
His thumb moved over the blunt softness of her jawline; the backs of his knuckles skimmed over her throat. What was he trying to tell her with that gentle caress? He reached down and took her hand, which was light and unresisting in his. His eyes were still locked with hers as he kissed her palm, and his smooth-shaven skin caused her fingers to tingle.
Don’t be tender with me . . . , she wanted to cry out. I have no defense against your tenderness.
Something cool and smooth slipped over her finger, catching gently at the knuckle, sliding completely to the base. Lucy looked at her hand, still clasped in his, and saw the flash of a large, brilliant diamond, pear-shaped and glittering with a thousand sparkles. An engagement ring. A symbol of what they had never pretended to feel for each other.
“You . . . ,” she tried to say, and her voice was nothing but a breath of sound. “You didn’t need to—”
“I should have given it to you long ago—”
“But I didn’t even think about—”
“I know. It was a short engagement, and there was no time—”
“Heath . . . I don’t know what to—”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Yes, of course—”
“If you’d prefer something different, we could—”
“No. It’s beautiful. It’s . . .” Her eyes glittered more brightly than the diamond. She didn’t ask why he had thought of it, or why he had given it to her now, in case the reason he gave her was not the one she wanted it to be. “Th-thank you.” A tear fell down her cheek, and he stopped it halfway down with his lips.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he murmured.
“What did you think I was going to do?” she demanded, choking on a laugh and fumbling in his coat pocket for a handkerchief. But before she could dry her eyes, their mouths were clinging together in a kiss of bewildering desperation. Her tearful confusion vanished in an instant, disintegrated by the insistent fire of his kiss. Desire, rich and burning, spread upwards from the depths of her body. Heath bent his head more deeply over hers and pulled her against the hard strength of his chest. Something warm and tender blossomed inside her, unfurling layer after layer, leaving her open and painfully vulnerable.
When he lifted his mouth from hers and drew his head back an inch or two, she saw that a tawny lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, and she reached up to smooth it back with trembling fingers. “Heath,” she whispered, made dizzy by the blueness of his eyes.
She couldn’t finish. Staring at him mutely, she read the question in his eyes. Ahh, for once he didn’t understand her silence. She was thankful for that.
“We’d better get going,” he said quietly, and she nodded slowly.
The evening was not at all the boring affair that Damon had predicted it would be. Among the guests were the most prominent businessmen, merchants, bankers, and politicians in the city. The supper conversation w
as constrained by the presence of the women; the real discussions of politics and current events would take place later among the men. Still, the company was fascinating. Lucy talked alternately to the woman on her left and the gentleman on her right. Heath was seated further down the table, while Damon and a blond woman with a singular air of sophistication carried on a conversation almost directly across from her. Yes, Damon appeared to be his usual reserved self. Determined to rouse him out of his habitual aloofness, Lucy made a few sly remarks to him until he responded with the kind of friendly bickering that she had been hoping for. When the dancing began later, Damon claimed the second waltz with her, informing Heath that he was demanding reparation for Lucy’s teasing during dinner.
“What an accomplished dancer you are,” Lucy said during the waltz, grinning impishly at him. No one could quite match Heath for smoothness, but Damon’s steps were almost as flawless. “Is it a common Redmond forte?”
Damon’s polite facade dissolved into a smile as he succumbed to the charm of her merry hazel eyes. Lucy wished he would smile more often; whenever he did, it transformed him from a merely attractive man into a breathtakingly handsome one. “We’ve all learned from the same instructor. The last three generations of Redmonds have been forced as children to take lessons from Signor Papanti, an Italian count who established a dance academy on Tremont Street—”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“I’m not surprised. He has quite a reputation.”
“I’ve heard that he is very, very strict—”
“He is. I remember that whenever we entered the ballroom, we would have to give him a waist-deep bow, while he stood over us with a fiddle bow raised in the air, like this . . . and if he wasn’t satisfied, he’d rap us across the shoulders.”
Lucy couldn’t help laughing at his rueful expression. “Poor Mr. Redmond. Did you get rapped often?”
“Every time.”
“You should have gone to your father and told him—”
“My father was a disciplinarian,” Damon said lightly, and grinned. “He would have rapped me for complaining.”
Suddenly filled with sympathy, Lucy did not answer his smile, and some unfathomable emotion flickered in Damon’s dark eyes. The tempo of the waltz increased, and the gloved tips of his fingers exerted more pressure on her back to accommodate the faster turns.
“Who is that woman you were talking with at the table?” Lucy asked.
“Alicia Redmond.”
“Redmond?”
“A distant cousin. Since I’m the only unmarried son left, the family has indicated to me that a match between us wouldn’t be a bad proposition. What do you think of the idea?”
“Terrible,” she said instantly, her decisiveness causing him to smile.
“Why?”
“I don’t think I should tell you. I’m not certain you take well to personal comments.”
“On the contrary, I do. It’s just that they’re so seldom made to me, I never have the opportunity to prove how well I receive them.”
“Well, then . . .” Lucy lowered her voice a few degrees. “I think you need a different type of woman than that. She doesn’t seem to be a very engaging person. Wouldn’t you prefer someone who’s more cheerful? She doesn’t seem to make you smile.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Damon replied thoughtfully. “But I’ve never been brought up to think that cheerfulness is a necessary quality in a wife. And it’s not really important for me to smile in order to fulfill my duties as—”
“Oh, but that’s not true!” Lucy said earnestly. “I insist that you marry someone who . . . who is natural and cheerful, and makes you laugh, and isn’t af . . .”
Damon grinned. “What were you going to say? Someone who isn’t afraid of me?”
She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“But whoever would be afraid of me?” he asked, gently mocking.
“You do have a way of . . . looking at people.”
“A way that makes them afraid?”
“Not exactly afraid . . . ,” Lucy said, and stopped as she saw that the laughter had left his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said. Suddenly it seemed as if he were asking her for help, for a secret that only she could tell him. Spellbound by the dark entreaty in his voice, she stared at him silently. “Please,” he added, very slowly, as if he were unaccustomed to using the word.
“The way you look at people—,” she murmured, “it makes them aware of their faults. It makes them think that . . . in order to impress you, they should be something other than themselves. But I don’t think you intend for them to feel that way.”
“No.” The light played over his raven hair as he shook his head.
“That is why you should wait for someone who isn’t afraid of you. It might be the only kind of woman that . . . that you’ll ever come to know completely. As a husband should know his wife.”
How strangely intimate and personal the conversation had become. Lucy felt her cheeks turning red, and she wondered if she had let her mouth run away from her.
“Thank you,” Damon said quietly. “I appreciate your honesty.”
The rest of the dance passed in silence, and it was only near the end that Lucy looked up and met his eyes again. “Mr. Redmond . . . I have one more personal remark to make.”
“Fire away.”
“I would prefer it if you called me Lucy when we are among friends. I know Heath wouldn’t mind.”
For just a second she saw a look in his eyes, a stricken look, yearning—no, was it . . . loneliness? Quickly it was concealed. “You are very kind to extend your friendship to me,” he said softly. “And I will accept it, if I may—with the hope that you will accept mine in return. But I would prefer not to use your given name.”
“As you wish,” Lucy said with a smile, unaware of how difficult it was to attain Damon Redmond’s friendship, and of how many had failed in their attempts to win it—unaware that once he had given such a pledge, he would honor it for a lifetime. For men like him, friendship was a more lasting bond than love. Lucy had no idea of how much she would need Damon’s friendship in the future.
Damon stayed conspicuously far away from her for the rest of the evening, but Lucy hardly noticed, for as soon as Heath regained possession of her, he demanded all of her attention. He swept her around the ballroom with such velvet smoothness that she was barely conscious of her toes touching the floor. When she danced with Heath, the music and the movement somehow turned into magic, and everything seemed to glitter. Their hands were separated by gloves, and yet she knew the warm clasp of his skin by heart. His eyes, the warm blue-green of a tropical sea, caressed her slowly, while his white teeth flashed often in a dazzling smile. Lost in giddy enchantment, Lucy did her best to tease him unmercifully, glancing at him through coyly lowered eyelashes and letting the full softness of her breasts brush against his chest on the pretext of leaning closer to whisper to him.
To all the eyes that observed the handsome couple, their conversation was circumspect, but had it been heard, it would have caused more than one pair of ears to burn. Lucy crooned to Heath in a faked Southern drawl, making wicked observations, whispering bits of nonsense and entertaining him with veiled hints about the black silk pantalets she assured him she was wearing.
“You don’t even own black silk pantalets,” Heath said, his eyes dancing with amusement at her antics.
“I most certainly do. I had them made for me. You said you didn’t like plain old white. And I have on a matching corset—”
“I almost believe you.”
“You’ll believe me later,” she purred, and he laughed outright.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve finally decided something.”
“Oh? What have you decided?”
“Something private. I can’t tell you.”
“Ah. Then your decision must involve me, or you wouldn’t keep it a secret.”
“I
n every way,” she said, and smiled at him in a way that made his breath catch.
Chapter 9
Humming a Christmas carol, Lucy struggled with an armload of holly and balanced some of it on top of the banister. “Bess,” she said to the maid who hovered near the top of the stairs, “if you can just fasten it at the top with one of those big red bows . . . yes, and we’ll do it like that all the way down . . .”
“Don’t fall backwards,” Bess cautioned, too concerned about Lucy’s precarious balance on the edge of the steps to pay close attention to the decorations.
“Of course I won’t,” Lucy said encouragingly. “Oh, that bow looks just right.”
“You’re walking backwards.”
“I won’t fall. I’ve got my hand on the railing.”
“Mrs. Rayne, why don’t I drape the holly and you can tie the bows?”
“Bess, there’s no need to worry.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the slam of the front door, and they both looked down the stairs. Heath shook the snow off his knee-length overcoat and sailed his brown woolen hat into the corner with a vicious flick of his wrist. As he looked up and saw his audience poised on the staircase, he gave a curt nod that barely passed for a greeting.
“Well,” Lucy said, “it looks as if your Christmas spirit has undergone a beating.”
Heath said something under his breath and went up the stairs, passing her without another word. He paused as he neared Bess, who shrank away from him and regarded him with round gray eyes. “I want a bottle of Old Forester and a glass,” he snapped. “Now.”
The maid’s mouth quivered, and she fled downstairs.
“Heath, what is the matter?” Lucy demanded, upset and annoyed by his brusque manner. “Whatever’s wrong, there’s no need to ignore me and frighten the . . . Heath, where are you going?” She followed him to the bedroom, unable to imagine what had happened to put him in such a mood. “Did you have trouble at the paper today?”
He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “You could say that.”