Love, Come to Me(49)

“I’ll tell you,” Betta said smugly. “Southerners do everything—everything—very slowly. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”

When Lucy returned home that night she was mildly surprised to find Heath already there. It was still early enough in the evening for them to have dinner together, something they almost never did. Lucy dreaded times like this. It was becoming unbearably difficult to sit across the table from him, exchanging stilted conversation and finding very little to say to each other. Sharing a meal was something that was supposed to be warm and cozy and intimate, but instead it made Lucy uncomfortable and cold. He was not the same man who had once teased her and made her laugh, who had provoked her and made her blush with his seductive smile. The man who sat across the table from her became more of a stranger to her every day, a stranger who had hard blue eyes that revealed no trace of desire for her. He did not seem to want her at all, and his indifference was much, much worse than anger.

Lucy figured that the only reason for such a complete lack of interest in her meant that he was seeing another woman. Perhaps he kept a mistress in Boston—she wasn’t sure—but it did hurt to think about it. She had no idea how things had deteriorated so far, but it seemed too late to change or fix anything between them.

“How was your day in Boston?” she murmured, spearing a tender bit of asparagus with her fork and lifting it to her mouth.

“A few difficulties with the investment I want to make. I’ll have to go back tomorrow.”

“Of course,” she said, tight-lipped as one suspicious thought after another went through her mind. Did he make all those trips into the city for business reasons, or was he visiting some woman?

Heath’s blue gaze sharpened on her. “What about you? A profitable meeting with the good ladies of Concord? What exactly were you discussing tonight—orphans or veterans, the art students’ fund or—”

“We were discussing plans for a benefit,” Lucy said with dignity, stung by his sarcasm. He had made it clear many times before that he didn’t hold a high opinion of the women she had chosen to associate with lately. “A benefit for the musical society.”

“Ah. I had no idea you were such a patron of the arts.”

“I am!” she snapped, slamming down her knife and fork. Her anger gave her temporary bravery. “Why are you always ridiculing my clubs and meetings and my friends? You told me I could do whatever I wanted to do—you have no right to criticize me. You don’t really care about any of it, you just want to irritate me!”

“I am interested. I’m fascinated, in fact, that given complete freedom you’ve made such uninspired choices. I should have expected that it would be that particular crowd to draw you in, but I had hoped that by now your taste would have been developed enough to avoid them.”

“They’re my friends.”

“Are they? What about your old friends . . . the respectable elements in town, the ones whose invitations and notes you refuse to answer? What about that little blond one you knew—”

“Her name is Sally. And you know the reason I don’t accept invitations from her or the others I used to know. I told you about the week when—that week before we were married. They were all horrid to me. I’m not ever going to forget or forgive them for deserting me so quickly. I don’t care how sorry they are—”

“Careful, honey. As the saying goes, if you live in a glass house . . .”

“Why are you taking up for them?” she demanded, trying desperately to ignore an odd, almost painful thump of her heart. Casual and careless though his endearment had been, it had been so long since he had called her that. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to know if he felt anything for her still! He sat there in such a self-possessed manner, unruffled by her temper or her useless attempts to get the better of him in an argument.

“I’m not taking up for anyone,” he said smoothly. “But only a coward turns his back on someone who’s trying to apologize to him. It’ll take some spunk to forgive them, but that’s one thing you’re not short on.”

“I don’t give a fig about their friendship or their apologies. Betta Hampton says it’s better just to forget all about them and go on to—”

“Betta Hampton? That aging . . .” Heath started to say, then stopped abruptly. Lucy was startled to see a hot glow in his turquoise eyes and the sudden hardness of his jaw. She felt chills of uneasiness and anticipation race down her back. For weeks he had been so cool, collected, and taunting. Now, for once, she had managed to drag a noticeable reaction from him. “What else does Betta tell you?” he asked, standing up and bracing his hands on the table, leaning over her. “How to lead me a merry dance just like she does with her husband? That woman is known as the most unfaithful wife in town—yes, I’ve seen her prancing down Main Street with her false curls tucked under the brim of her hat and her two paid studs in tow—”

“Those are her footmen,” Lucy said defensively. “Her husband is a very important banker and she needs those men to accompany and protect her in case someone tries to—”

“Explain, then, why she can’t stop making eyes at those fine, strapping footmen when she’s out in public. She’s trouble, Lucy. Her kind feeds off of people like you—she won’t rest until she’s managed to drag you through the mud she wallows in.”