Love, Come to Me(20)

She continued to dance with David, but now she had lost her flirtatious mood and her movements were purely mechanical. After a few minutes she took another quick look at the refreshment table and saw that Heath was gone. Her eyes made a survey of the room, and then Lucy realized that he was dancing with Sally, of all people—Sally, who was flushed and giggling, reveling in the attention she was getting by waltzing with a Confederate. Heath was staring down at her with a smooth, blank face, his lips curved in a slight smile. People were watching the pair with clicking tongues and disapproving faces, while Sally’s mother fidgeted uneasily in the corner. Lucy saw the two blond heads draw closer together as they talked. She wondered what Sally and Heath were saying to each other.

“It’s getting very stuffy in here, isn’t it?” she murmured to David, feeling suddenly that the glitter and the brightness of the evening had faded. He understood her hint immediately.

“Would you like to finish the dance some other time?”

“Please.”

Solicitously he led her to the side of the room, and Lucy promptly escaped into one of the ladies’ dressing rooms. Pressing a handkerchief to the sheen of dampness on her forehead and cheeks, she strove to regain her composure. She checked in a mirror to repair her hair, which was escaping its pins in straight wisps, and stared into a pair of fretful hazel eyes.

“What’s the matter with me tonight?” she whispered, and set down the mirror jerkily. Innate honesty compelled her to admit the truth. She wanted to be the one dancing with Heath Rayne. She was jealous of Sally.

Why, that can’t be, Lucy told herself, astounded. I’ve got Daniel. I can’t possibly be in love with one man and jealous over another one. Why on earth am I behaving like this?

It was because Daniel wasn’t here—that was all. And she just couldn’t seem to dismiss her confusing feelings for the Southerner. There were secrets between her and Heath Rayne: the secret of those two days they had spent together in the warm, intimate confines of his home, the secret of those private conversations, and those kisses. But that didn’t mean she had any claim to him or his attentions. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want that at all! Sighing, Lucy straightened her puffed sleeves and went out to the main room again, heading towards the refreshments. A glass of punch would help to cool her down.

She lifted the ladle out of the half-filled bowl, preparing to fill a cup with the pink liquid.

“Allow me . . . please.”

The ladle clattered in the punch bowl, and Lucy cursed herself for having let it slip through her fingers. She looked up and met Heath’s turquoise eyes, which were dancing with amusement. He took the cup from her and ladled a small amount of punch in it, aware that filling it too full would make it difficult for a woman to handle without spilling a few drops on her dress. He seemed to have an unusual sensitivity about such things, about all the intricate details of handling a woman.

“Did you enjoy your stay in Boston?” Lucy asked demurely, accepting the punch without looking at him.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied with mocking politeness, his eyes traveling over her slowly. He had been oddly moved by the sight of her tonight, so young and defiantly animated, and somehow forlorn, and he would have gone to hell for any excuse to hold her.

“Did you go there for business reasons?” Lucy failed utterly in her attempt to keep from seeming too curious.

“Hardly for a vacation. The scenery was unremarkable.”

“Of course. Boston in wintertime is not very—”

“I didn’t mean Boston. I was referring to the Yankee women.” He made a slight face and then grinned at her indignant expression.

“And what exactly do you think is wrong with Yankee . . . I mean, with women up here?” she demanded with a scowl.

“None of them look like you.”

As she saw the roguish light in his gaze and the mischievous smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth, she laughed. “You are a scoundrel.”

“And you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He said it in an easy manner that robbed the words of any seriousness; still, Lucy felt a twinge of pleasure and was exasperated with herself. Was she so in need of reassurance that she was going to start jumping at meaningless compliments like a fish after bait? “In fact, you’re the reason why I came back,” Heath continued. “I kept on remembering you—usually at the times when I wanted to forget you the most.”

“You came back because your horse is stabled here,” she said pertly.

“I left him here because of you.”

“Because of . . . what do you mean?”

“Someday I’m going to throw you across his back and ride off west with you . . . and you’ll learn to make coffee in a tin pot over a fire, and we’ll sleep underneath a wagon and look out at the stars—”

What did he think of her, that he would make such brazen comments to her? She didn’t know how to react. If she laughed, that might encourage him to embarrass her with further teasing, but if she got mad, he would probably laugh at her. She decided on a mild threat.

“My fiancé might have something to say about that.”

“Really? Where is he?” Heath inquired innocently.

“Stop looking around the room as if you expect to see him. You know perfectly well he’s not here, or else you wouldn’t have dared to approach me.”