Love, Come to Me(72)

It was due to Damon’s influence—though he made light of it and would not accept Lucy’s thanks—that she and Heath had been invited to one of the supper dances given to celebrate the election of a new street commissioner for the city. Officially it took a year to “arrive” in Boston, which meant that ordinarily such an exclusive invitation would not have been offered to newcomers. Damon appeared for dinner one night with two of the universally sought-after invitations tucked inside his coat, giving them to Lucy as they sat down to the table.

“Oh, Mr. Redmond!” she exclaimed, beaming at him and then staring down at the invitations in wonder. “How kind of you . . . how sweet and thoughtful, and . . . well, I didn’t even know these were transferable! How did you manage to—”

“I did it for selfish reasons,” Damon admitted with a shrug, matter-of-fact as always. “I’ve had enough experience with these kinds of evenings to know when one promises to be especially dull. I plan to rely on the two of you to alleviate my boredom.”

Lucy looked at Heath with a wry smile and handed him the invitations. “Should we accept a gift when he’s admitted to giving it with ulterior motives in mind?” she asked, and Heath’s eyes twinkled as he replied.

“Don’t know about you, honey, but I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

In order to have enough time to dress and arrange her hair for the supper dance, Lucy had not gone to the weekly lecture she usually attended on Fridays. With the help of one of the maids, she washed her hair and rinsed it with lemon juice and water. It took many pins and more than a few frustrated exclamations in order to arrange the fine silken strands of it in the current fashion, pinning it off the forehead into rolls and letting it fall down the back of her neck in long curls. Her dress was an elaborate creation of black brocaded satin embroidered with gold and silver leaves. The train-shaped skirt was trimmed with a fifteen-inch deep flounce that rustled softly as it swept over the floor, while the low, round bodice revealed the pale, perfect curves of her bosom and the tops of her shoulders. Her waist, made especially tiny with vigorous lacing, was accentuated with a wide embroidered sash, while the material of the skirt was pulled tightly to reveal the gentle flare of her hips. As Lucy looked at herself in the mirror, she smoothed the dark arches of her eyebrows with the moistened tip of her forefinger and bit her lips to make them red.

“Don’t. I’ll take care of that,” came Heath’s voice from the doorway, and she turned her head to smile at him. He was breathtaking in a formal scheme of black and white, which emphasized the blue-green of his eyes and the dark antique gold of his hair.

“You’ll take care of what?” she asked.

For answer, he walked over to her, covered her bare shoulders with his hands and lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her so firmly that her lips were forced apart. The tip of his tongue feathered across the roof of her mouth, finding the most sensitive spot and lingering there until Lucy struggled away from him with a shaky laugh and a gasp.

“Heath! If I’d w-wanted your help, I would have asked for it.” Hastily she turned back to the mirror, silently berating herself for letting him ruffle her so easily. Her cheeks were flaming, and her lips were now soft and rosy.

“I thought you wanted a little color in your face.”

“I did! But I didn’t want to look like I’d just tumbled out of bed with you.”

He chuckled and walked up behind her, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “If I had the time—”

“Yes, I know,” Lucy said, swatting at his hands in feigned annoyance and reaching for the powder puff on the dressing table. “Now leave me alone for five more minutes so I can finish getting ready.”

With mock obedience Heath sat on the ridiculously small gilded chair nearby and lounged there indolently, watching every move she made. “Don’t you have something to do?” Lucy demanded, pausing in the midst of brushing one of her curls. “You’re just sitting there like a lazy tomcat.” As he kept silent, she dusted her nose lightly with powder and cast a sidelong glance at him. “You look very handsome,” she said, her voice softer than before. He smiled slightly, standing up and wandering to the window as if he were uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

So sleek and polished and perfect, Lucy thought, giving him one last look before returning her gaze to the mirror. But just when she thought he was too handsome to be real, the scar on his temple reminded her that although he had the looks of an angel, he was far from perfect. That scar served as a visible reminder to her that he had been hurt in ways it was not possible to see. Sometime in his past he had developed an impenetrable defense to protect himself, and he had not relinquished it, even though it was no longer necessary. Occasionally she felt that he kept himself separate from her even in their most intimate moments. If only he would trust her enough to let himself be vulnerable to her. If only he were capable of showing her that he wanted her for something more than amusement or physical pleasure.

Perhaps some would think they had a perfect marriage. Lucy knew that many people would probably envy them for what they had, a close friendship enhanced by passion. There was freedom in their relationship, a willingness to let each other grow, and a certain amount of honesty. Maybe it was wrong of her to want more than that. Oh, why was she bothered by a growing feeling of discontentment that showed no signs of abating?