Love, Come to Me(85)

“You’re not wearing a hat,” Lucy said, frowning and helping him off with his coat.

“I forgot it today,” he said ruefully, his teeth chattering. “Bad mistake.”

“Very bad,” she agreed, snatching off his scarf and regarding him worriedly. “Why are you so wet?”

“Washington Street . . . too iced-over for . . . the carriage to go through. Had to walk down to the corner. Cold as . . . a welldigger’s ass.”

“Your hands and your face are frozen,” she exclaimed, trying to warm them with the friction of her small palms, and her futile efforts caused him to grin briefly.

“Not just the hands and face.”

She was too concerned to laugh. Impatiently she ushered him upstairs, insisting that he take off his wet clothes and put on a warm robe immediately. Heath stood in front of the fire a long time, basking in the warmth of it like a shivering tomcat.

They had dinner in their bedroom at a small table before the fireplace while the golden light of the flames forced the shadows to retreat to the edges of the room. Lucy entertained Heath with an account of the lecture she had gone to that day. As he sipped brandy and listened quietly, Heath looked particularly thoughtful this evening. His long fingers curved around the brandy glass; his thumb rubbed gently across the rim. At times like this there was a languid grace about his movements that Lucy could watch for hours.

“And then Representative Gowen said . . . Heath, are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening,” he assured her lazily, settling back further and propping his bare foot on the edge of her chair. With great difficulty, he took his attention away from the contemplation of her face in the candlelight and concentrated on the conversation. “What did Representative Gowen say?”

“He talked about protecting the country’s shipping industry and making the navy strong again.”

“Good. It’s been neglected ever since the war ended.”

“And he said that we had the advantage in shipbuilding all through the fifties while ships were being made out of wood, but now that they’re being made out of iron, the British have gone far ahead of us. Representative Gowen thinks we should give higher subsidies to American shipping and tax all the things we import for our shipbuilding.”

“Go on,” he said softly, resting his chin in his hand and staring at her.

“If you’re interested in the rest of what he said, I . . . took a few notes on his lecture that you could read.” She shrugged with overdone carelessness. “Or I can tell you about it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Notes,” Heath repeated, instantly curious. He wondered what she was up to, and he bent all of his effort towards suppressing a smile at her display of elaborate unconcern. “Yes, I’d like to see them.” Evidently that was the response Lucy had wanted, for she stood up without hesitation and went to her dressing table.

“They’re right here.” She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thin sheaf of paper. “Just a few scribbles.”

As she handed her work to him, Lucy was assailed with a multitude of regrets. She wanted to snatch it back before he could read it. She didn’t know what had possessed her to write about the lecture. It seemed like such a good idea this morning, but suddenly she was very sorry that she had followed through with it. It was just that Heath was always talking about his reporters, about their accomplishments and the mistakes they made, and she had wanted to see if she could write an article. Lucy wondered miserably if her efforts would embarrass him. Only the fear of seeming even more foolish than she felt at the moment kept her from saying anything. She wrung her hands behind her back, too agitated to sit down.

Halfway through the first page, Heath glanced up at her sharply. “This is hardly what I’d call a few scribbles, Cin.”

She shrugged casually and looked away from him as he continued to read. When he was finished, Heath set the article on the table carefully. There was an odd expression on his face, one which she couldn’t decipher. “It’s perfect. I couldn’t suggest a single improvement. How long did it take you to write this?”

“Oh, just an hour or two.” It had taken all afternoon, but there was no need for him to know that.

“The structure, the length, the style . . . it’s all just the way . . .” He broke off and gave her a quizzical half-smile. “Do you know how hard Damon and I have to prod our reporters to get something like this?”

Feeling a glow of pleasure at his praise, she fought hard to keep an idiotic smile off her face. “I just wanted to try my hand at it.”

“I’d like to give it to Damon.”

“Do you mean for the Examiner?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“I don’t think it’s good enough,” she hedged.

“This isn’t a time for modesty,” he said flatly. “It’s good enough.”

“Do you think so?” She beamed at him. “If you want to, then take it to Damon, but don’t tell him who wrote it. Just sign it with some made-up initials, and if he doesn’t like it, no one will have to know.”

“I won’t tell him who wrote it,” he assured her. “But he’ll probably suspect.”

“Are you just trying to humor me and spare my feelings, or do you really like the article?”