The Heart's Victory (13 page)

“Decide to join the living again?” Lance asked. He stopped, heedless of the drizzle and looked down at her.

“Where are we?” Totally confused, Foxy twisted her head to peer around. Almost at once, she saw the house. A three-story brownstone rose in front of her. Its walls were cloaked in ivy, dark green and glistening in the rain. Wrought-iron balconies circled the second and third stories, and they, too, were tangled with clinging ivy. The windows were tall and narrow. Even in the gloom, the house had an ageless elegance and style. “Is that your house?” Foxy asked. As she spoke she let her head fall back in order to see the roof and chimney.

“It was my grandfather's,” Lance answered, studying her reaction. “He left it to me. My grandmother always preferred their house in Martha's Vineyard.”

“It's beautiful,” Foxy murmured. The rain that washed her face and dampened her hair was forgotten. She felt an immediate affection for the aged brownstone and tenacious ivy.
He had roots in this house,
she thought, and fell in love. “It's really beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” Lance agreed as his eyes roamed her face.

Foxy looked up to meet his gaze. She smiled, blinking raindrops from her lashes. “It's raining,” she pointed out.

“So it is.” He kissed her, lingering for a moment. “Your lips are wet. I like the way the rain clings to your hair. In this light you look very pale and ethereal.” His eyes were the color of the mist that grew thicker and seemed to be spun into threads around them. “If I let you go, will you vanish?”

“No,” she murmured, then combed her fingers through the damp hair that fell over his forehead. “I won't vanish.” A quick surge of need for him throbbed through her, causing her to shiver.

“I suppose you're real enough to catch a chill from standing in the rain.” He tightened his grip on her and began to walk again.

“You don't have to carry me,” she began.

Lance climbed nimbly up the front steps. “Don't you think we should do something traditional?” he countered as he maneuvered a key into the lock of the door. Pushing it open with his shoulder, he carried Foxy over the threshold and into the darkened house. “Welcome home,” he murmured, then captured her lips in a long, quiet kiss.

“Lance,” she whispered, incredibly moved. “I love you.”

Slowly he set her on her feet. For a moment, they stood close, their faces silhouetted by the darkening sky. Before they closed the door, Foxy decided, there should be nothing between them. “Lance, I'm sorry about making that scene in the car.”

“You've already apologized.”

“You were angry enough for two apologies.”

He laughed and kissed her nose, changed his mind and took her mouth again. It seemed that he could draw from a kiss more than she had known she had to offer. “Anger is the handiest weapon against tears,” he told her as he ran his hands up and down her arms. “You threw me, Fox. You always do when you forget to be invincible.” He lifted his finger to run it along her jawline, and his eyes were dark as he watched the journey. “Perhaps I should have explained things to you, but I'm simply not used to explaining myself to anyone. We're both going to have some adjustments to make.” He took both her hands in his, then lifted them to his lips. “Trust me for a while, will you?”

“All right.” She nodded. “I'll try.”

After releasing her hands, Lance closed the door, shutting out the damp chill. For an instant, the house was plunged into total darkness, then abruptly the entrance hall streamed with light. Foxy stood in its center and turned around in a slow circle. To her left was a staircase, gleaming and uncarpeted. Its oak banister looked smooth as silk. To her right was a mirrored clothes stand that had once reflected the face of Lance's great-great-grandmother. He watched as she made a study of Revere candlesticks and a gilt-framed Gainsborough. The light from the chandelier showered down on her, catching the glint of rain in her hair. She had a wraithlike quality in the simple green dress she had chosen to wear as a bride. It had long narrow sleeves and a high mandarin collar. Its skirt fell straight and unadorned from a snug waist. Her only jewelry was the plain gold band he had placed on her finger. She looked as untouched as springtime, but the sensuality of autumn was in her movements.

“I wouldn't have pictured you in a place like this,” Foxy said after completing her circle.

“Oh?” Lance leaned against the wall and waited for her to elaborate.

“It's beautiful,” she went on in a voice touched with wonder. “Really beautiful, but it's so . . . settled,” she decided, then looked back at him. “I suppose that's it. I've never thought of you as settled.”

“I enjoy being settled now and again,” was his careless answer. Foxy thought that in the trim gray suit he looked at ease amid the ivy and brownstone. Yet there was something in his eyes, she realized, that would never quite be tamed. Expert tailoring and priceless antiques would never alter the man he was. Knowing she was mad to prefer the sinner to the saint, Foxy was nevertheless glad.

“But I should be prepared to pack at a moment's notice?” she asked, giving him a smile a great deal like her brother's.

“How fortunate I am to have married a woman who understands me.” His grin was crooked and familiar and still managed to send her pulse racing. He moved toward her, then wound one of the curls that framed her face around his finger. “And an exceptional-looking creature as well; quite bright, quick with her tongue, impulsive enough to be fascinating, and with a voice that constantly sounds like she's just been aroused.”

Foxy flushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “Sounds like you made quite a deal.”

“Oh, I did,” Lance agreed but his grin faded and he studied her with serious eyes. “A smart businessman knows when to make his pitch.” As quickly as it had grown grave, his expression lightened. Bemused, Foxy watched the changes. “Hungry?” he asked suddenly.

Intrigued, Foxy shook her head. “No, not really.” She remembered the long hours he had spent driving, “I suppose there must be a can or something around I could open.”

“I think we might do better.” Taking her hand, Lance led her down the hallway. The rooms to the right and left were dark and mysterious. “I called Mrs. Trilby yesterday. She does the housekeeping and so forth. I told her I was coming in and to have things ready. I'm not fond of dustcovers and empty pantries.” He passed through a door at the end of the hall. As he turned the switch light spilled into the kitchen.

“Oh, it's wonderful!” Foxy cried as she moved into the room. “Does it work?” she demanded, going immediately to the small arched fireplace that was built into one wall.

“Yes, it works.” Lance smiled as she bent closer to peer inside.

“I love it,” she said with a laugh as she straightened. “I'll probably want a fire in it in August.” She ran her finger over a pine trestle table, which stood in the bow of a bay window. “The only fire I have in my kitchen is when I burn the bacon.”

“This is your kitchen,” Lance reminded her. He watched her as he loosened the knot in his tie, then slipped it off. There was something intensely intimate in the casual gesture. Foxy felt a quick thrill and turned to walk the room.

“I'm not very domestic,” she confessed. “I don't even know where I keep the coffee.”

“Try the counter behind you,” Lance suggested as he turned to find what Mrs. Trilby had tucked into the refrigerator. “Can you cook?”

“Name it,” Foxy challenged, then located the coffee. “I can cook it.”

“We'll skip the Beef Wellington due to lack of time and imminent starvation. How about a couple of omelets?”

“Kid stuff.” Foxy peeked over her shoulder. “Do you cook?”

“Only if I fall asleep at the beach.”

“Get me a skillet,” she ordered, trying to look disgusted.

The Lancelot Matthewses enjoyed their wedding supper of omelets and coffee at the kitchen table. Outside, the darkness was complete, with the rain still pattering and the moon a prisoner of the clouds. Time was lost to Foxy. It might have been seven in the evening or three in the morning. The feeling of timelessness was soothing, and wanting to prolong it, she ignored the watch on her wrist. Beneath her light conversation, her nerves were struggling to reach the surface. She chided herself for having them, attempted to ignore them, but they remained, under the veneer of confidence. She toyed with the rest of her eggs as Lance divided the last of the pot of coffee between them.

“That's why you're so thin,” he commented. When Foxy looked up blankly, he went on. “You don't take enough interest in food. You lost weight during the season. I watched it slide off you.”

Foxy shrugged away the pounds but dutifully applied herself to the rest of her eggs. “I like to eat in restaurants as the exception rather than the rule. I'll gain it back in a couple weeks.” She smiled up at him. “I do have a growing interest in a hot bath, though.”

“I'll take you up,” he said and rose. “Then I'll go out and get the bags. The rest of the luggage should arrive by tomorrow.”

Foxy rose, too, and began to stack the dishes. Though she knew it was foolish, she felt her nerves rise with her. “You don't have to take me up, just tell me which bath to use. I'll find it.”

He watched her back as she set the dishes in the sink. “The second door on the right's the bedroom, the bath's through there. Leave the dishes,” he ordered.

Foxy started to refuse, but his hand on her shoulder gently persuaded her to forget her qualms. She needed a few moments alone to collect her wits. “All right,” she agreed, then turned with a nod. “I won't be long. I imagine you'd like a bath after the driving you did today.”

“Take your time.” They left the kitchen together and walked down the main hall. “I'll use another bath.”

“Fine,” Foxy said as they parted at the end of the hall.
How polite we are,
she thought as she fled up the stairs.
How terrifyingly married.

In the bedroom, a pair of French doors opened out onto a balcony. The walls were covered with a rich cream wallpaper with dark trim along the floor and ceiling. The furniture was a mixture of periods and styles; Hepplewhite, Chippendale, Queen Anne, and the result was both exquisite and natural. Set into the far wall was a white brick fireplace with a marble mantel; there were logs waiting to be lit within it. Foxy decided Mrs. Trilby must be efficient. The bed was a high four-poster and was covered with a midnight-blue silk counterpane. An heirloom, she knew instantly, probably priceless. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. This was the sort of thing she would have to learn to deal with—more, to live with.

I'm being an idiot. I married Lance, not his money, not his family. Bride's nerves. I wouldn't feel so awkward and tense if I'd had more experience.
Foxy's gaze strayed to the bed again before she took a deep breath and looked down at her hands. Her wedding band glinted back at her. Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, she began to undress. In her slip, she walked into the bath and discovered more proof of Mrs. Trilby's efficiency. Fresh towels were laid out along with a collection of fragrant soaps, oils, and bath salts. The tub itself was sunken, large enough for two, and Foxy's skin tingled at the thought of languishing in it.

As the hot water began to run she experimented with scents and oils. The room grew rich with steam and fragrance. She began to enjoy herself. Thirty minutes later, she stepped out of the tub, her muscles loose, her skin pink and scented. Choosing a mint-green towel, she wrapped it like a sarong around her body. Lulled by the bath, she hummed lightly as she pulled the confining pins from her hair. It tumbled in a confused mass past her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through it in a vain attempt to set it to rights.
There'll be a brush and a robe in the bags,
she told her reflection.
Surely Lance has brought them up by now.
Leaving her hair carelessly tangled, Foxy opened the connecting door and walked into the bedroom.

The room was lit by the warm glow of china lamps and a crackling fire. It was the scent and sound of the burning wood that caused Foxy to glance toward the fireplace. She was halfway into the room before she saw him. With a small sound of surprise, she clutched at the towel that was tucked loosely over her breasts. Dressed in a black kimono-style robe, Lance stood beside a round, glass-topped table. He paused in the act of opening a split of champagne and studied every inch of his wife. With her free hand, Foxy pushed at her steam-dampened curls.

“Enjoy your bath?” he asked, opening the champagne without taking his eyes from her.

“Yes.” Making a quick search, Foxy spotted her cases. “I didn't hear you in here,” she said, knowing her voice was not quite its normal pitch. “I was just going to get my brush and a robe.”

“Why?” Deftly he poured two glasses of the sparkling wine. “I like you in green.” Foxy's fingers tightened on the towel as he smiled. It was the wicked, devilish smile that always pulled at her. “And I like your hair when it's not quite tamed. Come.” He held out a glass. “Have some champagne.”

It was not as Foxy had planned it. She knew she should have been dressed in the peignoir Pam had given her. She should have been alluring and confident and ready for him. It had not been in her plans to greet her husband on their wedding night clad in only a bath towel with her hair flying every which way and a look of stunned surprise on her face. She obeyed him, however, accepting the wine in the hope that it would soothe the sudden dryness in her throat. As she started to lift the glass to her lips, he reached out and took her wrist. Her pulse throbbed desperately under his fingertips.

“No toast, Foxy?” he said softly, the smile still lingering on his lips. His eyes remained on hers as he took a step closer and touched his glass to hers. “To a well-driven race.”