by Lisa Kleypas
“Oh, dear Lord,” Lucy whispered, raising her fingertips to her mouth and covering it. All her jealousy of Raine was drowned in a flood of sympathy for Heath. It was the kind of thoroughly unselfish sympathy that caused her to flinch at the image Amy’s words had created. To be hurt so badly by someone you loved—and especially if you had as much stubborn pride as Heath. Why, it was something you might never get over. Raine had left her mark on him. If only Lucy could be certain that the scar was merely skin-deep. Or was it a deeper mark left on the soul, still unhealed? She was afraid that she would never find out.
“Amy seemed to be happy after the talk you had with her after dinner,” Lucy said, pausing in the act of proofreading a letter Heath had penned in his scrawling, decisive hand. Together they sat at his desk, while the gentle ticking of a clock reminded them that midnight was approaching. The fires had been banked for the night; the darkened house was becoming cooler, and yet Lucy had a cozy feeling as she and Heath worked by the light of the brightly burning lamp.
“She’s going to like Winthrop Academy. It’s well recommended, both academically and . . . every other way. I’ve been assured that it’s the kind of place where someone like Amy will do very well.”
“By ‘someone like Amy,’ do you mean a relocated Southerner?”
He grinned and reached over to tug one of her curls, unable to resist the temptation. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Do you think she has any doubts about staying here instead of joining her mother?”
“No. Not a chance.”
Lucy put down the letter, smoothing her knuckles over it absently. “When you take her to the academy, make certain that she understands she is welcome here whenever she wants to come back.”
“I will. And I’ll make a bargain with you . . . if you’ll take her shopping tomorrow and get her whatever she needs, then I’ll have her tucked safely away at the academy the day after. Then everyone will be out by the end of the week, and . . . God, I’m almost afraid to say it . . . everything will be back to normal.”
Lucy rapped her knuckles three times on the wooden desk and crossed her fingers.
“In the meantime,” Heath said, standing up and pulling her with him, “the night is young—”
“Actually,” Lucy replied with a nervous laugh, trying to shake her hands free of his, “the night is quite, quite mature, and I’m falling asleep standing up—”
“I know how to wake you.” He bent his head, and she turned away abruptly.
“Heath, not now.” She couldn’t. She couldn’t, not with Raine under the same roof. It would seem tainted. She had to know that Raine was gone completely, so that there would be no danger of lingering thoughts of Raine—his or hers—interfering with their lovemaking.
Heath went still, his good humor dropping away visibly, his expression becoming moody and distinctly resentful. “Just how long is this going to go on?” he asked softly. “Until I’m half-crazed?”
“I don’t feel like—”
“I’m well aware of what you don’t feel like doing . . . but I damn well do feel like it, and that’s as much your problem as it is mine.”
Angered by his high-handed manner, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. Her temper was so short these days. Why was self-restraint so impossible? “I can’t force what I don’t feel, Heath.”
“Then try pretending you feel it,” he sneered. “Or isn’t that what you’ve always done?”
Lucy was stunned by the quick flash of cruelty. She could see that Heath was immediately sorry for what he had said; regret was written all over his face, but before he could say anything else, she replied coldly.
“If you’re so anxious, then by all means, let’s get it over with. How about right here? Please, go ahead, but be quick about it.”
They exchanged a heated stare for a long minute, neither of them backing down.
“I won’t ask again,” Heath finally said, his voice cutting. “I won’t bother you again. When you decide you feel like it, or you’re ready, or the moon is full, or whatever the hell it is you’re waiting for, then let me know.” He started to leave the room, paused, and added, “And then maybe I’ll think about it.”
She resisted the urge to stamp her foot at him as he left. But if he thought that she would make the first move after what he had said, then he had a long wait ahead of him!
Lucy realized as she looked out the window that the first signs of spring would be here in a matter of weeks. Spring always arrived reluctantly and never stayed long; you had to use your intuition to know it was here. Just when you realized there would be no more snowfall or freezing rain for the rest of the year, the weather blossomed into a hot, steaming summertime to flock to the beaches of Cape Cod and wade in the icy water, dig in the cool black silt for clams, find creative uses for clumps of seaweed. She smiled and pictured Heath at the seashore. His eyes would be dazzlingly blue against the backdrop of the ocean. When summer came, she would think of some way to lure him away from work to take her to Cape Cod for several days. They had yet to take a wedding trip anywhere, and it would be the perfect place. Flushed with the pleasure of making plans for the future, she looked towards the doorway as she heard Raine’s soft steps across the polished floor of the breakfast room.
“I hope you’ll have some breakfast before you leave,” Lucy said, discovering that it took little effort to be nice to Raine, since she knew that Raine would be gone from her life in less than a half hour.
“Perhaps some coffee,” Raine said, serenely seating herself at the table. “I don’t like to travel on a full stomach.”
“You certainly have a long journey ahead of you.”
Raine said nothing; she merely watched Lucy through the dark screen of her lashes.
“I’m certain,” Lucy continued lightly, pouring coffee from a silver service, “that Heath regrets having been forced to leave without seeing you off this morning. But he has to make up for the time he missed while taking Amy to the academy yesterday.”
“I knew he would have to leave early this morning. We exchanged our farewells last night.” The way Raine spoke conjured up visions of long, tender goodbyes. Irritated, Lucy had to remind herself once again that Raine would be gone soon. Had the hands of the clock frozen in place, or was time really moving that slowly?
“We both wish you well in England—”
“And I wish you well,” Raine said, her cool gray eyes shining with a mysterious light as she took a cup of coffee from Lucy’s outstretched hand. “I do like you, Lucinda. You may find that hard to believe, but I do. You’re difficult not to like. Before I met you, I knew that to have caught Heath, you had to be as slick as goose grease. I was wrong. Heath married you because you’re a cheerful little thing, and you have a sweet smile . . . the only warm thing Heath saw in a cold place, among very cold people. You caught him at the right time and the right place, and that was a stroke of luck for you. But I still pity you. The two of you are a mismatch, and that won’t ever change.”
“He married me for one reason. Because I make him happy. That won’t ever change.”
“I guess time will prove me right or wrong—”
“It will prove you wrong.”
“It might.” Raine stood up from the table, leaving her coffee untouched. “All the same, I wish you luck, Lucinda. I am sorry for you. Because I understand more than anyone how you feel about him.”
Frozen, Lucy fastened her gaze on the scene through the window, ignoring Raine until she left quietly.
The day after Raine left, Lucy began to feel that it wouldn’t take long at all to put their marriage back on the right track. As had been their habit in the months before Heath’s illness, they went to church on Sunday and visited with friends and acquaintances they hadn’t seen for a long time. Although Heath’s religious background had been scandalously undisciplined and it took dedicated effort to drag him to church, Lucy always found some way to coax him to accompany her. As the congregat
ion poured out of the Arlington Street Church, the air in Boston was permeated with the appetizing scents of hundreds of Sunday roasts, kept hot in the ovens during church services so they could be eaten between two and three o’clock.
“Thank God that is over,” Heath muttered. The sermon had been long and vigorous that morning, full of spine-tingling fire and brimstone. To Heath, it seemed to have lasted for hours. He had spent an entire morning wrestling with the pleasure and pain of having Lucy tucked by his side. Acutely aware of her sweet fragrance, her softness, he had found his mind occupied with thoughts that had nothing to do with the service. He felt like more of a sinner coming out of the church than he had going in.
Scandalized, Lucy glanced around to make certain no one had overheard him as they filed out between the two white columns of the freestone church with the rest of the crowd. “Do be quiet—someone’s bound to overhear you!”
“I don’t like to be preached to as if I’m one of a bunch of schoolchildren who need to be taken to task for—”
“I don’t know about everyone else, but there’s plenty you and I should be taken to task for,” Lucy whispered sharply. “We haven’t been here in months.”
“Which has been just—”
“Oh, don’t say it,” she implored, and assumed a quick smile as they passed by the Treadwells and the Nicholsons. They stopped and exchanged pleasantries. “Good morning. Lovely Sunday afternoon, isn’t it? Yes, it was a fine sermon.” As soon as they resumed their walk to the carriage, Heath dropped his affable expression.
“I don’t know why they always have to comment on how long it’s been since the last Sunday we were here—”
“We can fix that by attending every week regularly.”
“Or not at all.”
He sounded so shamelessly unrepentant as he made the suggestion that Lucy groaned in a mixture of laughter and exasperation, and let go of his arm.
“I’m beginning to think your name is short for heathen.”
He looked down at her and smiled, his appearance nothing short of angelic, with his sun-washed hair and bright blue eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, giving him a severe frown even though she wanted to laugh. “I’m already concerned about the bad example you’ll set for our children.”
“Forgive me if I don’t seem too concerned about our children.” There was a faintly mocking curve to his lower lip. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about them for a while, unless you’re planning on some method of conception I don’t know about.”
“I can’t believe you’d be crude enough to say something like that on a Sunday,” she said with frosty dignity, causing him to laugh.
“Are you worried about my salvation?” He looked down at her with a teasing smile and lethal charm.
“Someone has to, and it’s obviously not going to be you. Oh, stop laughing—I’m being serious!”
“I’m always charmed by the pious airs you put on every Sunday,” he remarked, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “All right. If you want to go to church every week, we’ll go every week. But it’s doubtful that I’ll get anything out of it.”
His concession mollified her a little. “That’s fine. I don’t expect any miracles. At the very least, it won’t do you any harm.”
Heath helped her into the carriage, his eyes glinting as they rested on her small, beautifully turned figure. He hadn’t planned on making any promises to her, but then she had mentioned the word children, and his heart had skipped a few beats. The thought of having sons and daughters with Lucy filled him with pleasure and anticipation. In a way, he would be sorry to lose Lucy’s undivided attention. He liked having her all to himself; there was no doubt about it. He could spend a whole lifetime like this, perfectly happy with just the two of them together. But the two of them with sons and daughters—what a family they would have!
“Monday,” Damon said grimly, making it sound like a curse, “should be struck off the calendar.” He and Bartlett, one of the youngest reporters the paper employed, looked around the dispirited editorial room. A few reporters were scribbling languidly at their desks, while others thumbed through reference books and waited for the office hack to come back so they could go out and search for some news.
Bartlett sighed under the oppressive weight of boredom. “Even bad news would be welcome right now.”
“In this business, bad news is good news . . . but do you ever get material for a good story on Monday? Of course not. Would it be too much to ask for a natural disaster? A small hurricane? God knows in a state like Massachusetts there should at least be a political scandal.” He turned to Bartlett. “What about your personal interview? Did Mrs. Lowell consent to talk to you about her charity auction?”
“No, sir—”
“I knew she wouldn’t,” Damon said with glum satisfaction. “No matter what Heath said, I knew she wouldn’t. The Lowells hate publicity of any kind. My mother used to tell me that a lady is only in the paper three times in her whole life; when she’s born, when she’s married, and when she dies. And when you think about it, that really does cover the major points.”
Bartlett had no idea how to reply. “I suppose so, sir.”
“Mr. Redmond!” Joseph Davis, the city editor’s young assistant, nearly tripped over a reporter’s desk as he made his way over to Damon. “Mr. Redmond—”
“Yes? What are you so excited about? Don’t tell me you’ve found some news to report.”
“The doorman told me to tell you that someone is here for Mr. Rayne.”
“Tell him that Mr. Rayne isn’t available, but if he’ll leave his card—”
“It isn’t a ‘him,’ ” Davis said breathlessly. “It’s Mrs. Rayne.”
Damon’s ebony eyes flashed with interest. Without a word, he left Bartlett and Davis standing there as he strode rapidly through the editorial room to the door. The doorman, gilt-buttoned and rigid-backed with dignity, stood aside to reveal Lucy, then closed the door to allow the two of them the privacy of the hallway. Wearing an emerald green dress and a tiny velvet hat that perched coquettishly on her head, Lucy looked like a small, exotic bird against the businesslike gloom of the walls. Damon knew as soon as he saw her that something was wrong. Although she smiled at him, there was tension in her face.
“Mr. Redmond, I am sorry to interrupt your workday.”
He took her slender hand in his and pressed a light kiss on the back of it. “I couldn’t think of a more pleasant interruption. You’ve never been here before, have you? Tell me, are you beginning the practice of delivering your articles in person?”
“Well, no, I . . .” She looked up at him and laughed. “You weren’t supposed to know I was the one writing them. Did Heath tell you?”
“Of course not. But I knew right away—I could almost hear your voice out loud as I read them. You have a marvelous talent with words. Now, before I begin to shower you with further compliments, tell me how I can help you.”
“I would like to speak with my husband.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not in the office at the moment.”
“Where is he?”
“Out and around, tying up loose ends, keeping an eye out for news . . .” Damon’s voice trailed off into silence as Lucy bent her head and gripped her tiny handbag tightly. “Is there trouble?” he asked softly.
She lifted her head and smiled uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think so. I’m probably upset over nothing. I’m certain it’s nothing, but . . . but I heard a rumor at my current events club today, and I had to ask my husband about it. Do you know when he’ll be back? I know this is all probably very silly, but I felt I had to find him immediately. To me it’s very important—”
“What rumor?” Damon cut through her nervous chatter patiently. She hesitated, opening her mouth and then closing it abruptly. “Mrs. Rayne . . . if it bothered you enough to cause you to come here, then it’s something that needs to be addressed immediately. It might be something I can clear up right away.”
/> “You’ll think it’s ridiculous—”
“Nothing that disturbs you is ridiculous. Please tell me about it.”
“It was so surprising—I didn’t know what to say when someone told me—I think I must have made a fool of myself, because I mumbled something, I don’t even know what, and then I left, right in the middle of the meeting—”
“What did this ‘someone’ tell you?”
“You must be aware that Heath’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Laraine Price, was staying with us a few days last week—”
“Yes,” Damon said dryly, “I heard a little about it.”
“She left for England two days ago. She’s not in Boston any longer. But Mrs. Cummings, one of the women in my club, said that someone had seen Raine yesterday—”
“But that doesn’t make sense. No one knows Mrs. Price. How would someone be able to recognize her?”
“There was a day last week when she went shopping with Heath’s younger sister and me. I introduced them to a few people—you know how you always see a familiar face at C. F. Hovey? So whoever it was that thought she saw Raine yesterday must have been one of those people . . . oh, it’s all ridiculous, just like I said. There’s no reason for Raine to be here, and I don’t believe a word of it, because Heath wouldn’t lie to me, but . . . but . . .”
“But you thought you’d come here to ask him about it anyway?”
“Yes.”
Something about the way Damon was behaving . . . so carefully, so politely, gave Lucy the sense that he was keeping something from her.
“I have a suggestion,” he was saying, with a charming smile—a little too forced, that smile—“why don’t you go home and wait for Heath there? I’ll make certain he leaves the office early tonight, and you can work everything out—”
“He isn’t usually out of the office at this time, is he?” Lucy interrupted.
“It depends on—”