by Lisa Kleypas
People in Concord celebrated the holidays with well-planned parties, where long-familiar friends gathered to eat, drink, and converse. The tables were burdened with rounds of Christmas Irish bread, filled with raisins, frosted and topped with a cherry, bowls of cranberry punch, berry turnovers, candied fruit peel, and delicate cups of eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg.
Knowing that she would see old acquaintances, many of whom she hadn’t visited with in months, Lucy dressed with care. She wore a green velvet dress with sleeves cut in long leaflike points, and a sash richly embroidered with gold thread. Her crinoline was unusually narrow, only half the width of ordinary hoop skirts, and the excess material was gathered in back to fall in a train. Heath had approved of the new style wholeheartedly. More conventional crinolines were so wide that they took up all the room on a sofa, besides preventing a man from standing any closer to a woman than arms’ distance.
As Heath escorted Lucy to the front door of the small Concord home, the Hosmers received them with a surprising degree of warmth. Mrs. Hosmer exclaimed over Lucy’s velvet dress and commanded one of her three sons to fetch cups of eggnog for the Raynes, while Mr. Hosmer pulled Heath aside and introduced him to other guests.
“Lucy,” Mrs. Hosmer said, her piercing eyes softer than usual, “we haven’t heard a thing about you since you disappeared to Boston. How do you like living in the city?”
“My husband and I find it busy, but quite agreeable,” Lucy replied, watching covertly as Mr. Hosmer led Heath into the next room.
“I imagine you must. Especially considering your husband’s livelihood . . . a newspaper, of all things . . . frankly none of us expected such a potential . . . you understand . . .”
“I understand,” Lucy said with a faint smile. “His acquisition of the paper was a surprise to me as well.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Hosmer inquired, and the dubious tilt of her voice made it clear that she didn’t believe that at all. “Well, it appears that he’s becoming quite an influential man in Boston, in spite of his background.”
“Is he?” Lucy parried, accepting a cup of eggnog. “How nice of you to say so.”
“You’ve done better for yourself than you led us all to believe at first.”
The statement caught Lucy off-guard. “It was not my intention to deceive anyone,” she said carefully, and the other woman had the grace to blush.
“I’m certain it wasn’t, my dear.” She looked past Lucy’s shoulder at a new couple that had just entered the house. “My goodness,” she chattered, “if it isn’t the most handsome young couple in Concord! Sally, why don’t you . . . oh . . .” Mrs. Hosmer flushed deeply in distress as she looked from Lucy to Daniel and Sally. Lucy turned around and faced them with composure, finding that the sight of Daniel after so many months was not the shock that she had anticipated.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, her lips curving slightly. “You do make a handsome couple.”
“Lucy!” Sally exclaimed, her radiant golden curls bobbing as she took a few steps forward and hugged her quickly. “How stylish you are! I can hardly believe how fashionable your dress is, and your hair—”
“Don’t babble, Sally,” Daniel said absently, his dark, searching eyes meeting with Lucy’s.
Lucy could not repress a smile. Daniel had not changed. “You both look well,” she said, her gaze flickering from Sally’s blond prettiness to Daniel’s set face. He looked handsome and well kept, having let his mustache grow from a crescent into a distinguished bullet-head, full and curled at the tips. Although the style would have been too old for most men his age, it suited him perfectly. His lean, slim form was clad in a “ditto suit,” the coat, vest and trousers all made of matching material. Calm and self-assured as always, he gave her a reserved smile even as his eyes noted every change in her. Though she no longer felt anything for him but a distant fondness, Lucy was still glad that she looked her best and that there could be no fault found in her appearance.
She wondered if he still remembered the terrible scene between them, when she had been in a position of disgrace and had begged him not to turn her away. “I don’t want the woman you’ve become . . .” he had said. At the time she had not understood what he had meant; now she did.
How long ago that had been! Lucy was so profoundly grateful not to be married to Daniel that she felt weak in the knees. He was a good man, a gentle one. His emotions were quiet and steady, and his character utterly civilized. But if she had ended up as Daniel’s wife, she would never have experienced all that she cherished about Heath: his passion, violent, stormy and sweet; his rough affection and tender concern; his barbs, and gentle teasing; his demands; his ambitions; even his secrets.
Daniel’s expression altered subtly as he stared at her, as if he were remembering days long past. It felt strange to Lucy, standing before him and realizing that she had once loved him, while now the distance between them could never be traversed except in memories.
“Your wedding will be soon?” she asked him.
“Later this year, in the spring,” he replied quietly.
“Ahhh,” she breathed, nodding slowly. Always. Always later this year, always later on. He had strung Lucy out for three years with such promises. She felt a quick stab of pity as she turned to Sally. “Better hold him to it,” she said, and the blonde laughed lightly, unaware of the implications and the subtle warning that were lodged in the simple words. Daniel, however, did not miss her meaning, and he flushed slightly.
“Of course I intend to hold him to it,” Sally said, giggling, and Lucy smiled before turning away and leaving them, suddenly needing to find Heath.
As she looked around the corner into a small yellow and light green parlor, someone came up behind her, hooked a firm arm around her waist and whisked her neatly into the empty room. A soft, jeering voice touched the inside of her ear in an intimate stroke.
“Love renewed by absence. How touching.”
Lucy relaxed as she identified her captor. “You startled me.”
Heath let her twist around in his arms to face him, and she saw that there was self-mockery and something akin to irritation in his expression. She was quick to guess at the cause. “Did you by any chance happen to see me talking to Sally and Daniel?”
“Was that Daniel? It was difficult to tell through that soup-strainer on his face.”
“There’s no need to make fun of his mustache.”
Heath let go of her abruptly. “I beg your pardon. I forgot that you’ve always had a fondness for it.”
“What in heaven’s name is bothering you?” Without waiting for an answer, she started for the half-open door. “People are going to notice we’re gone, and I don’t want them to think—”
He caught her upper arm in a light, unyielding grip and spun her around. “I want to know what the two of you were talking about.”
Her eyes rounded with surprise. “I don’t understand why you seem so angry.”
“Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of the way he was looking at you.”
“I couldn’t help the way he was looking at me,” she protested, making an unsuccessful attempt to tug her arm free from his tightening grasp.
“And you . . . staring up at him, all starry-eyed and breathless—”
“I wasn’t!”
“The picture was too perfect. A New England Christmas. Two childhood sweethearts sharing old memories—”
“You’re being unreasonable!”
“You would have been a handsome couple. You do suit each other quite well.”
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly, placing a small, restraining hand on his chest as he towered over her.
“Oh?” The bright flare of jealousy in his gaze showed no signs of diminishing.
“No—I don’t prefer that kind of man at all. He’s . . . he’s too short, for one thing. I never realized before how short he was. And his hair . . . well, it’s much too dark. I prefer lighter hair much, much more.” Heath’s grip loosened margin
ally, a sign that encouraged Lucy to continue. “He’s too quiet, too predictable . . . too straitlaced. I would die of boredom if I had to spend more than five minutes with him. He doesn’t like to argue or swear, and he doesn’t drink too much or lose his temper. He’s not the kind who would appreciate black silk pantalets.”
“He has a respectable family that everyone approves of.”
“I don’t care about what anyone else thinks.”
Heath yanked her closer to him, his savage mood barely concealed. His fingers bit into the backs of her shoulders, but not harshly enough to leave bruises. Thick gold-tipped lashes lowered over azure eyes as he stared down at her mouth.
“You’ve wanted him ever since you were a child,” he pointed out gruffly.
“Until my taste matured.”
“He’s a gentleman.”
“Yes. That’s the worst thing of all.”
Heedless of the half-open door and the possibility of stray glances, he pulled her upwards, forcing her to rise on her toes as he kissed her. The slow, smooth pressure of his lips on hers increased until she parted them with a muffled exclamation, yielding the tender heat of her mouth to his demand. Dark fire danced through her veins, its burning sweetness filtering to the surface of her skin in a spreading flush. The force of her response to him swept away every coherent thought, every barrier she had constructed for her own protection. His mouth traveled in a warm velvet slide down her throat, the edge of his teeth grazed the thinly veiled nerves just below her skin. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her as his hand ventured beneath the soft material of her dress, cupping around the nakedness of her breast. The tingling peak came to life in his palm, drawing into an aching bud at his touch. “Heath,” she whispered, “you’re all I want. No one else . . . no one . . .”
“I only brought you here tonight because you wanted it.” His voice was soft and harsh at the same time. “I wouldn’t care if I never set foot in Concord again.”
“But I grew up here. I’ll need to visit occasionally. ” As his mouth concentrated on a particularly sensitive area of her neck, her head dropped to his shoulder, too heavy to support any longer. “It’s not a bad little town—”
“You were the best thing about it. You were the only reason I stayed here so long.”
She smiled tremulously. “Is that true?”
“After what happened at the river and the two days we spent together, I decided to wait and see just how attached you were to Daniel.”
“You did more than just ‘wait and see.’ ”
“I couldn’t seem to leave you alone.”
“Your lack of self-control is no excuse for ruining my long-standing engagement.”
He brushed featherlight kisses across her lips, lingering at the corners. “Ever have regrets?”
She arched her breast into his hand, straining to be closer to him. “You wouldn’t have asked that unless you knew I didn’t.”
Heath smiled against her skin, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from her bodice. “Answer me anyway.”
With a sudden burst of energy, she twisted away from him and laughed as she eluded his swift attempt to recapture her. Fleeing to a position of precarious safety behind a small, round table, she braced her hands lightly on the edge and threw him a taunting look. “You do like to give orders, don’t you?”
“And I like you to follow them.” He made a feint towards one side of the table and then reached out an arm to catch her as she darted around the other side. Though he could have stopped her easily, he let her wriggle away, and his mouth quirked in amusement as he watched her flee triumphantly to the other side of the room.
“I only follow your orders when I want to,” she informed him, backing into the corner as he approached.
“Answer the question I asked you before,” he commanded, adopting a threatening scowl. “Do you ever have regrets about marrying me instead of Daniel?” She backed up against the wall, her eyes sparkling with laughter as she refused to say a word. “The longer you take to answer, Mrs. Rayne, the more imminent the danger of your backside being paddled.”
Lucy grinned impudently. “I can just picture you trying to get past all these petticoats and my bustle—”
“Honey, of all the things that have ever presented a challenge to me, getting past your bustle has never been one of them.”
“How dare you say something like that to your wife,” she exclaimed, dodging past him and giving a smothered laugh as he caught her at the waist and whirled her around.
Abruptly their private amusement was cut short by a voice from the doorway. “Lucy?” Mrs. Hosmer eyed them both with obvious disapproval. She had never taken well to such goings-on in her home. It provided a bad example for her three sons to follow, besides offending her own sense of propriety. “Lucy, your father has just arrived. He is looking for you. I am certain he would be quite dismayed if you failed to give him your Christmas greetings right away.”
“I’m sure he’d be devastated,” Heath murmured in Lucy’s ear, and it was all she could do to keep from giggling.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hosmer,” she said, slipping out of her husband’s grasp and sending him a properly reproving glance. “We’ll go to him this very minute.”
“We certainly will,” Heath echoed, smiling blandly until Mrs. Hosmer fixed him with a suspicious stare and left the room. Then his expression became disgruntled. “By all means, let’s show your father what a bad influence I’ve been on his little girl.”
“He won’t think that at all. He’s always adored you for having rescued his fallen daughter.”
“And his daughter? What does she think about it?”
“She thinks that . . .” Lucy paused and cast a swift glance over her head. “That you have been very remiss in failing to notice that she is standing right underneath a sprig of mistletoe.”
His laughter was soft and lazy, eliciting a delicious chill from the pit of her stomach. While he stared into her eyes, he reached up, plucked the mistletoe from the top of the doorframe, and slipped the small green sprig into his pocket. “For later,” he said, and smiled at her.
Chapter 10
Heath was still unused to the harshness of the climate, and he was fond of cursing the weather each time he stepped outside. The cold of a Northern winter sank deep into the bones, and the wind blew easily through several layers of clothing. Since Lucy had lived in Massachusetts all her life, she was accustomed to the harshness of winter and thought nothing of it. To Heath, it was almost intolerable. As the season advanced well into the month of January, the cold worsened until it was impossible to go outside for longer than a few minutes at a time. Heath insisted on having every room in the house warm and all the stoves filled with fuel, which pained Lucy; she had been raised on a strict tradition of thriftiness, especially in the matter of heating the house. However, for the sake of keeping him content and even tempered, she forced herself to learn to squander coal and wood without flinching.
During a week of especially bad weather, the graying heaps of snow that lined the narrow Boston streets melted partially, resulting in several inches of ice when the temperatures dropped again. Traveling was difficult and unpleasant at best, while in some sections of the city it was impossible. Heath arrived home from the newspaper office thoroughly chilled, his hair darkened by the wetness of sleet and rain.
“You’re not wearing a hat,” Lucy said, frowning and helping him off with his coat.
“I forgot it today,” he said ruefully, his teeth chattering. “Bad mistake.”
“Very bad,” she agreed, snatching off his scarf and regarding him worriedly. “Why are you so wet?”
“Washington Street . . . too iced-over for . . . the carriage to go through. Had to walk down to the corner. Cold as . . . a welldigger’s ass.”
“Your hands and your face are frozen,” she exclaimed, trying to warm them with the friction of her small palms, and her futile efforts caused him to grin briefly.
“Not just the hands and
face.”
She was too concerned to laugh. Impatiently she ushered him upstairs, insisting that he take off his wet clothes and put on a warm robe immediately. Heath stood in front of the fire a long time, basking in the warmth of it like a shivering tomcat.
They had dinner in their bedroom at a small table before the fireplace while the golden light of the flames forced the shadows to retreat to the edges of the room. Lucy entertained Heath with an account of the lecture she had gone to that day. As he sipped brandy and listened quietly, Heath looked particularly thoughtful this evening. His long fingers curved around the brandy glass; his thumb rubbed gently across the rim. At times like this there was a languid grace about his movements that Lucy could watch for hours.
“And then Representative Gowen said . . . Heath, are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” he assured her lazily, settling back further and propping his bare foot on the edge of her chair. With great difficulty, he took his attention away from the contemplation of her face in the candlelight and concentrated on the conversation. “What did Representative Gowen say?”
“He talked about protecting the country’s shipping industry and making the navy strong again.”
“Good. It’s been neglected ever since the war ended.”
“And he said that we had the advantage in shipbuilding all through the fifties while ships were being made out of wood, but now that they’re being made out of iron, the British have gone far ahead of us. Representative Gowen thinks we should give higher subsidies to American shipping and tax all the things we import for our shipbuilding.”