The Heart's Victory (15 page)

“You'll meet the bulk of them socially in the first few weeks,” Melissa told her cheerfully. Foxy noted that like Catherine's, Melissa's nails were perfectly tended. “Of course, Lance will be there to guard against unsheathed claws at parties and dances, but you'll have to be alert during charity functions and those lovely luncheon meetings.”

“I won't have time for much of that sort of thing,” Foxy told her with undisguised relief. Turning away, she managed to locate an appropriate cream and sugar set. “I have my work.”

“Work? Do you have a job?” The utter incredulity in her voice caused Foxy to turn back again and laugh.

“Yes, I have a job. Isn't it allowed?”

“Yes, of course, depending . . . ” The tip of Melissa's tongue ran slowly along her teeth as she considered. “What do you do?”

“I'm a freelance photographer.” Leaving the kettle on to heat, Foxy joined her at the table.

“That might do well enough,” Melissa said with a thoughtful nod.

“What do you do?” Foxy countered, growing intrigued.

“Do? I . . . ” Melissa searched for a word, then smiled with a gesture of her hand. “I circulate.” Her eyes danced with such blatant good humor, Foxy was forced to laugh again. “I graduated from Radcliffe three years ago, then I took the obligatory Grand Tour. My French is flawless. I know who's tolerable and who's not in Boston society, how to get the best table at the Charles, where to be seen and with whom, where to buy shoes and where to buy lingerie, how to order creamed chicken for fifty Boston matrons, and where the skeletons are buried in the majority of closets. I've been mad about Lance since I was two, and if I wasn't his cousin and ineligible, I should certainly despise you. But I couldn't have married him in any case, so I'm going to like you very well and enjoy watching you twist a few noses out of shape.”

She paused to catch her breath but not long enough for Foxy to get a word in. “You're fabulously attractive, particularly your hair, and I would imagine when you're suited up, you're devastating. Lance would never have chosen anyone with ordinary good looks. And of course, there's your tongue. You certainly set Aunt Catherine down a peg. You'll have to keep it sharp to get through the next weeks unscarred. But I'll help you. I enjoy watching people do things I haven't the courage to do. There now, your kettle's boiling.”

Slightly dazed, Foxy rose to take it from the burner. “Are all Lance's relatives like you?”

“Heavens no. I'm quite unique.” Melissa smiled with perfect charm. “I know a great number of the people in my circle are bores and snobs, and I haven't any illusions about myself.” She shrugged as Foxy began to steep the tea in a porcelain pot. “I'm simply too comfortable to give them a black eye now and again as Lance does. I admire him tremendously, but I haven't the inclination to emulate him.” Melissa tossed her hair casually behind her shoulder, and Foxy saw an emerald flash on her hand. “There are times Lance does things strictly to annoy the family's sensibilities. I believe he might have started racing with that in mind. Of course, he became quite obsessed with it for a while. And still, he's involved with designing and building cars rather than driving them . . . ” Melissa trailed off, studying Foxy with thoughtful brown eyes.

Hearing the speculation in her voice, Foxy met the stare and spoke without inflection. “You're thinking perhaps he married me to again annoy the family's sensibilities.”

Melissa smiled and shrugged her tweed-clad shoulders. “Would it matter? You took first prize. Enjoy it.”

Both women turned as the prize strolled into the room. His eyes flickered over Foxy, then settled on his cousin. “Mother's anxious to get along, Melissa.”

“Pooh.” She wrinkled her nose as she rose. “I'd hoped all this would make her forget about the meetings she's dragging me to. I suppose she told you there's a party at Uncle Paul's tomorrow night. They'll expect you now.”

“Yes, she told me.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice, and Melissa grinned.

“I'm looking forward to it now. I expect Grandmother might even put in an appearance . . . under the circumstances. You really know how to keep them off balance, don't you?” Melissa winked at Foxy before she crossed over to Lance. “I haven't congratulated you yet.”

“No,” he agreed and lifted a brow. “You haven't.”

“Congratulations,” she said formally, then rose on her toes to peck both of his cheeks. “I like your wife, cousin. I shall come back soon whether you invite me or not.”

“You're one of the few I don't draw the bolt against.” Lance gave her a quick pinch on the chin. “She'll need a friend.”

“Don't we all?” Melissa countered dryly. “We'll go shopping soon,” she decided as she turned back to face Foxy. “That's a quick way to get to know each other. I'll see you tomorrow night,” she continued before she moved to the door, “for your trial by fire.”

Foxy watched the door swing to and fro after Melissa. “I'm feeling a bit singed already,” she muttered.

Lance crossed the room and cupped her chin in his hand. “You seemed to hold your own well enough.” His eyes grew serious as he studied her face. “Shall I apologize for my mother?”

“No.” Foxy closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head. “No, it isn't necessary. And as I think back you did try to warn me.” She opened her eyes and shrugged. “I suppose you knew she wouldn't approve.”

“There's very little I do my mother approves of,” he countered. He traced his thumb over her jawline while his eyes remained on hers. “I don't base anything I do on her approval, Foxy, least of all my marriage to you. Our lives are our own.” His brows lowered into a frown, and he kissed her, hard and quick. “I asked you before,” he reminded her, “to trust me.”

With a sigh, Foxy turned away. The air seemed suddenly thick with the scents of coffee and tea. “It appears we didn't manage our few days of peace.” Picking up the teapot, she poured the contents down the sink. She felt his hands on her shoulders and straightened them automatically. Nothing was going to mar her first full day as his wife. Whirling, Foxy threw her arms around his neck. “We still have today.” All the anger melted along with her bones as Lance covered her offered mouth with his. “I don't think I want any coffee now,” she whispered as their lips parted and met again. “Do you?”

For an answer, he grinned and drew away. Before she realized his intent, Foxy was slung over his shoulder. Laughing, she pushed the hair from her eyes. “Lance,” she said with a mock shiver as he swung through the kitchen door. “You're so romantic.”

Chapter 11

Foxy considered dressing for her first social evening as Mrs. Lancelot Matthews equal to dressing for battle. Her armor consisted of a slim tube top and loosely pleated evening pants in pale green. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she adjusted the vivid emerald hip-length jacket and fastened it with a thin gold belt. Deliberately she set about arranging a more dramatic style for her hair.

“If they're going to stare and whisper,” she muttered as she pinned up the back of her hair, “we'll give them something to stare and whisper about.” Using her brush lightly, she persuaded her curls to fall in soft disorder around her face. “I wish I was built,” she complained with a glare at her willowy reflection.

“I'm rather fond of your construction,” Lance stated from the doorway. Startled, Foxy turned and dropped the brush. Looking casually elegant in a black suit of the thinnest wool, he leaned against the jamb. His eyes trailed over her in a lazy arch before returning to lock on hers. “Going to give them their money's worth, are you, Foxy?”

She shrugged carelessly, then stooped to retrieve her brush. As she turned away to place it on her dresser she felt his hands descend to her shoulders. “My mother got under your skin, didn't she?”

Foxy toyed with the collection of bottles and jars on the dresser's surface. “It's only fair,” she parried. “I got under hers.” She heard him sigh, then felt his chin rest atop her head. She kept her eyes lowered on her own restless fingers.

“I suppose I should have apologized for her after all.”

Foxy turned, shaking her head. “No.” With her own sigh, she offered an apologetic smile. “I'm pouting, aren't I? I'm sorry.” Determined to change the mood, she stepped back a bit and held out her hands, palms up. “How do I look?” Below the fall of curls, her eyes were saucy and teasing.

Catching her wrist, Lance spun her into his arms. “Fantastic. I'm tempted to forgo dear Uncle Paul's little party. I'm very possessive of what's mine.” His mouth lowered to rub against hers. “Shall we play truant, Foxy, and lock the door?”

She wanted badly to agree; his mouth promised such delights. To keep the scales balanced, she drew her face away from the warmth of his lips. “I think I'd like to get it over with. I'd rather meet a cluster of them at one time than meet them in dribbles.”

He brushed his fingers through her hair. “Pity,” he murmured. “But then you always have been a brave soul. I believe you should have a reward for valor before the fact.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, then held out a small black box.

“What is it?” Foxy demanded, giving him a curious look as she accepted it.

“A box.”

“Clever,” she muttered. After opening it, Foxy stared down at two shimmering diamonds shaped like exquisite tears of ice. “Lance, they're diamonds,” she managed as she lifted wide eyes to his.

“So I was told,” he agreed. The familiar crooked grin claimed his mouth. “You suggested once I buy you something extravagant. I thought these more appropriate than Russian wolfhounds.”

“Oh, but I didn't mean for you to actually...”

“Not all women can wear diamonds,” he said, moving lightly over her protest. “It takes a certain finesse or they look overdone or tawdry.” As he spoke, he took the gems from the box and fastened them to her ears. His touch was smooth and practiced. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he critically studied the result. “Yes, it's as I thought, you're well suited. Diamonds need a great deal of warmth.” He turned her so that she looked into the mirror. “A lovely woman, Mrs. Matthews. And all mine.” Lance stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

The mirror reflected a pose of natural affection between husband and wife. Foxy's throat clogged with emotion. I'd trade a dozen diamonds, she thought, for a moment such as this. When her eyes met his in the mirror, her heart and soul were in them. “I love you,” she told him in a voice that trembled with her feelings. “So much that sometimes it scares me.” Her hands reached up to grasp his with a sudden desperation she neither understood nor expected. “I never realized love could scare you, making you think of all the what-ifs there are in life. This has all happened so fast that when I wake up in the mornings, I still expect to be alone. Oh, Lance.” Her eyes clung to his. “I wish we could have been an island a little while longer. What are they going to do to us? All these people who aren't you and me.”

Lance turned her until she was facing him and not his reflection. “They can't do anything to us unless we let them.” Gently his mouth lowered to hers, but her head fell back, inviting more. His arms tightened as the kiss grew lengthy and intimate. “I think we'll be a bit late for Uncle Paul's party,” Lance murmured as he changed the angle of the kiss, then teased the tip of her tongue with his.

Foxy pushed the jacket from Lance's shoulders, working it down his arms until it dropped to the floor. Slowly she moved her hands up the silk front of his shirt while her mouth answered his. She felt his response in the tensing of his muscles, in the strength of his hands as they moved to her hips. Locking her arms around his neck, she strained closer. His lips moved to her hair, then her temple, until they burrowed at her throat. His warm musky scent mingled with hers, creating a fragrance Foxy thought uniquely their own. She slipped out of her shoes. “Let's be very late for Uncle Paul's party,” she murmured and sought his mouth again.

***

Foxy found her imagination had not been sufficiently extravagant in its picture of Paul Bardett's party. Her first misconception had been the number of people. In attendance were more than double her most generous estimate. The elegant old brownstone on Beacon Hill was packed with them. They thronged the tiny elegant parlor with the Louis XVI furniture, strolled on the terrace under the Chinese lanterns, moved up and down the carpeted staircase. Foxy was certain that every exclusive designer from either side of the Atlantic was represented, from the most conservative sheath to the most flamboyant evening pajamas. During her seemingly endless introductions to the vast Matthews-Bardett clan, she was treated to smiles, handshakes, pecks on the cheek, and speculation. The speculation, as the kisses and the smiles, came in varying degrees. Sometimes it was vague, almost offhand, and other times it was frank, direct, and merciless. Such was the case with the senior Mrs. Matthews, Lance's grandmother. Even as Lance introduced them, Foxy saw the faded blue eyes narrow in appraisal.

Edith Matthews was not a flamboyant countess from Venice. Her sturdy, matronly figure was clad decently in a tasteful black brocade relieved only by a small ruching of white lace at the throat. Her hair was more silver than white, waved carefully away from a strong-boned face. Foxy studied her in turn, wondering if there had once been beauty there, masquerading now behind the mask of age. With the countess, she had been certain, the beauty was still very much alive in the vibrant green eyes. The clasp of Mrs. Matthews's hand was quick, firm enough though the skin was thin, and the eyes told Foxy only that she was being considered: acceptance was being withheld.

“It appears you've cheated us out of a wedding, Lancelot,” she said in a quiet voice, raspy with age.

“There seems to be no shortage of them each year,” he countered. “One shouldn't be missed very much.”

She shot him a look under brows Foxy noticed were thin and beautifully arched. “There are those who have been rather looking forward to yours. Well, never mind,” she went on, waving him away with a queenly flick of her fingers. “You will do things your own way. You'll live in the house your grandfather left you?”

Lance was smiling at the gesture she had used. It had been employed in exactly the same way for as long as he could remember. “Yes, Grandmother.”

If she recognized the teasing lilt to his voice, she ignored it. “He would like that.” She shifted her eyes to Foxy. “I have no doubt he would have liked you as well.”

Accepting this as the highest form of approval she would receive, Foxy took the initiative. “Thank you, Mrs. Matthews.” Impulsively she bent and brushed the wrinkled cheek with her lips. There were soft scents of lavender and talc.

The beautifully arched brows drew together, then relaxed. “I'm old,” she said and sighed as if the thought were not unpleasant so much as unexpected. “You may call me Grandmother.”

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Foxy replied obediently and smiled.

“Good evening, Lancelot.” Foxy's pleasure faded as she heard Catherine Matthews's greeting. “Good evening, Cynthia. You look lovely.”

Foxy turned to face her and saw the practiced social smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Matthews.”
Manners at ten paces,
Foxy reflected, and thought pistols might be preferable. She watched Catherine's eyes flicker, as dozens of others had that evening, over the diamonds on her ears.

“I don't believe you met my sister-in-law, Phoebe,” she said smoothly. “Phoebe Matthews-White, Lancelot's wife, Cynthia.”

A small, pale woman with a nondescript face and hair the color of a lead pencil held out her hand. “How do you do?” She pushed her gray-framed glasses more securely on her nose and squinted her birdlike eyes. “I don't believe we've met before.”

“No, Mrs. Matthews-White, we haven't.”

“How odd,” Phoebe said with mild curiosity.

“Lancelot and Cynthia summered in Europe,” Catherine put in as she gave Lance an arched look.

“Henry and I stayed at the Cape this year,” Phoebe confided, easily distracted from her curiosity. “I simply hadn't the energy for a trip to Europe this season. Perhaps we'll spend the holidays in St. Croix.”

“Hello, Lance!”

Foxy turned to see a woman in delicate pink embrace her husband. Her photographer's eye detected a perfect model. She had what Foxy labeled the Helen of Troy look—classic delicacy with a sculptured, oval face. Her eyes were deep blue, round, and striking, the nose small and straight over a Cupid's bow mouth. Her figure was as classic as her face, richly curved and enticing in a simple silk sheath. Foxy saw the face in soft focus against the background of white satin—a study of feminine perfection. She knew the woman would photograph magnificently.

“I just learned you were back in town.” The Cupid's bow brushed over Lance's cheek. “How bad of you not to have let me know yourself.”

“Hello, Gwen. You're lovelier than ever. Hello, Jonathan.”

Foxy glanced just beyond Gwen's right shoulder and saw the masculine version of her classic looks. These eyes, however, were not on Lance, but on her. His profile was magnificent, and her fingers itched for her camera.

“Catherine,” Gwen said as she tucked her arm in Lance's. “You simply must persuade him to stay this time.”

“I'm afraid I could never persuade Lancelot to do anything,” Catherine returned dryly.

“Foxy.” Lazily, Lance circled his fingers around her wrist. “I'd like you to meet Gwen Fitzpatrick and her brother Jonathan, old family friends.”

“What a perfectly dreadful introduction,” Gwen complained as her sapphire eyes roamed Foxy's face. “You must be Lance's surprise.”

Foxy recognized the cool speculation and responded to it. “Must I?” She sipped at her glass of champagne. Still, she thought, the face is lovely regardless of the woman within. It has so many possibilities. “Have you ever modeled?” she asked, already formulating angles and lighting.

Gwen's brows arched. “Certainly not.”

“No?” Foxy smiled, amused at the chipped ice in Gwen's tone. “What a pity.”

“Foxy's a photographer,” Lance put in and cast her a knowing glance.

“Oh, how interesting.” Skillfully, she drenched the words in boredom before turning her attention back to Lance. “We were all simply stunned to hear you were married, and so suddenly. But then, you always were impulsive.” Foxy struggled to remain amused. Again the round blue eyes shifted to her. “You must share your secret with those of us who tried and failed.”

“You only have to look at her to learn the secret,” Jonathan Fitzpatrick stated. Taking Foxy's fingers, he lifted them to his lips, watching her over her own knuckles. “A pleasure, Mrs. Matthews.” His eyes were appealing and insolent. Foxy grinned, liking him instantly.

“How charming,” Gwen murmured as she sent her brother a frosty glance.

“Hello, everyone.” Stunning in red silk, Melissa popped up beside Foxy. “Lance, I simply must borrow your wife a moment. Jonathan, you haven't flirted with me once tonight. I'm terribly annoyed. You'll have to see if you can charm me out of the sulks as soon as I get back. Excuse us, won't you?” Beaming smiles in all directions, Melissa maneuvered Foxy through the crowd and onto a shadowed section of the terrace. “I thought you might like a breather,” she commented as she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve.

“You really are unique,” Foxy managed when she caught her breath. “You're also right.” As she set the glass of champagne down on a white iron table, she heard the wind whispering through drying leaves. The approaching winter was in the air. Still, she preferred the light chill of fresh air to the growing stuffiness inside.

“I also thought a little road mapping might help you.” Melissa carefully checked the cushion of a chair for dampness before sitting.

“Road mapping?”

“Or who's who in the Matthews-Bardett circle,” Melissa explained and daintily lit a cigarette. “Now.” She paused again as she blew out a stream of smoke and crossed her legs. “Phoebe, Lance's aunt on his father's side—relatively harmless. Her husband is in banking. His main interest is the Boston Symphony, hers is ‘doing what's proper.' Paul Bardett, Lance's uncle on his mother's side—very shrewd, occasionally witty, but his life revolves around his law practice. Corporate stuff, very dry and very boring if he corners you. You met my parents, Lance's cousins by marriage on his father's side.” Melissa sighed and tapped the ash of her cigarette on the terrace floor. “They're very sweet really. Daddy collects rare stamps and Mother raises Yorkshire terriers. Both of them are obsessive about their respective hobbies. Now, about the Fitzpatricks.” She paused and ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “It's best if you know Gwen was the front-runner in the ‘Who Will Finally Bag Lance Matthews Contest.' ”