by Nora Roberts
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 lo
vely 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.’ ”
“She must be very annoyed,” Foxy murmured. She walked to the edge of the terrace where the shadows deepened. With sudden clarity, she was reminded of the night of Kirk’s party when she had sought out the scent of spring; the first time Lance had kissed her, on the glider in the moonlight. “Were they . . . ” Foxy shut her eyes and bit her lip. “Were they . . . ”
“Lovers?” Melissa supplied helpfully, taking a sip of Foxy’s wine. “I imagine. Lance seems quite the physical sort to me.” Glancing over, she studied Foxy’s back. “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”
“Yes,” Foxy murmured without turning around. “Yes, I think I am.”
“Oh dear,” Melissa said into the champagne. “That’s too bad. In any case, that was Chapter One, this is Chapter Two. Oh, and as for Jonathan.” Melissa finished the wine and gently crushed her cigarette under her heel. “He’s a dangerous flirt and hopelessly charming and insincere. I’ve decided to marry him.”
“Oh.” Foxy turned back now and stared at her strange fountain of information. “Well, congratulations.”
“Oh, not yet, darling.” After rising, Melissa carefully brushed out her skirts. The pearls at her throat gleamed white in the moonlight. “He doesn’t know he’s going to ask me yet. I shouldn’t think the idea will occur to him until around Christmastime.”
“Oh,” Foxy said blankly, then frowned at the empty glass Melissa handed her.
“You’re perfectly free to flirt with him,” she added generously. “I’m not the jealous type at all. I believe I’d like a spring wedding, perhaps May. A four-month engagement is perfectly long enough, don’t you think? We’d best go back in,” she said, linking her arm with Foxy’s before she could answer. “I have to begin enchanting him.”
Chapter 12
During the next week, Foxy established a routine. On a search through the house, she had located the perfect site for her darkroom. Her time was absorbed with the clearing out of a basement storage room, arranging for her equipment to be shipped from New York and altering the room to suit its new function. Lance’s days were spent in his Boston office while Foxy spent hers relocating her career base. Before she could continue with the creative aspects of her work, there were practicalities to be seen to. There was cleaning, plumbing to be installed, equipment to be set up. During the transition, Foxy was grateful that Mrs. Trilby proved to be efficient indeed, and quite proprietary about the top three stories of the house. She left the basement to Foxy without a murmur of protest. But there was no doubt in Foxy’s mind that the tiny, prim lady in crepe-soled shoes would have snarled like a tiger if she had interfered with the working routine of the living quarters. Foxy left the polishing of the Georgian silver to Mrs. Trilby while she set up her enlarger and bathing tanks. The arrangement suited them both.
Foxy alternated work in her darkroom with solitary explorations of the city. She shot roll after roll of film, recording her impressions and feelings with her camera. She became reacquainted with loneliness. It surprised her that after so many years of thoughtless independence, she should so strongly need another’s company. Knowing Lance’s business needed careful attention after his months on the road helped her to keep any complaints to herself. Complaints, in any case, were something she rarely uttered. Problems were made to be worked out, and she was accustomed to doing so for herself. The loneliness itself was fleeting, forgotten when she and Lance were together, dulled by her fascination with the city that was now her home. When loneliness threatened, she fought it. Work was her panacea, and Foxy indulged in it lavishly. Within a week, her darkroom was operable, and the prints of the racing season were half completed.
As she studied a set of drying work prints Kirk jumped into her mind. Had it only been three weeks since the accident? she mused as she brushed her hair away from her eyes. It seemed like a lifetime. Wasn’t it, in essence? In some strange way, Kirk’s accident had been the catalyst that had altered her life. The world she existed in now was far removed from the one she had known as Cynthia Fox. With an unconscious gesture, she fingered her wedding ring.
Hanging wet and glossy, a print of the white racer as it would never be again caught Foxy’s attention. She had highlighted it, muting the background into a smudge of varied colors without shape. It had been an unconscious tribute to her brother as she had once thought of him—indestructible. Abruptly a flood of homesickness overwhelmed her. It was an odd sensation and a new one. There had been no truly consistent home in her life in over ten years. But there had been Kirk. Impulsively Foxy left her work in the darkroom and rushed up the steps to the first floor. Hearing the hum of the vacuum in the upstairs hall, she ducked into Lance’s study.
Closing herself in the room, she dropped into the chair behind Lance’s walnut desk and picked up the phone. In moments, the lines were clicking between Massachusetts and New York.
“Pam!” Foxy felt a quick rush of pleasure the instant she heard the quiet, Southern voice. “It’s Foxy.”
“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Matthews. How are things in Boston?”
“Fine,” Foxy replied automatically. “Yes, fine,” she repeated, unconsciously adding a nod for emphasis. “Well.” She sighed and settled back in the chair with a laugh. “Different certainly. How’s Kirk?”
“He’s doing very well,” Pam’s voice continued lightly. “Impatient, naturally, to get out of the hospital. I’m afraid you’ve missed him just now. He’s down in X-ray.”
“Oh.” Her disappointment was clear, but Foxy pushed it away. “Well, how are you? Are you managing to keep Kirk in line and maintain your sanity?”
“Just barely.” Pam’s laugh was easy and familiar. Foxy smiled with the pleasure of hearing it. “He’ll be sorry he missed your call.”
“I missed him all of a sudden,” Foxy confessed with a small shake of her head. “Everything’s moved so fast in the past few weeks, sometimes I almost feel like someone else. I think I needed him to remind me I was still the same person.” She stopped and laughed again. “Am I rambling?”
“Only a tad. Kirk’s not only reconciled to your marriage now, but quite pleased about it. I think he’s talked himself into believing he arranged the entire thing between races.” Pam waited a beat, then continued in the same tone. “Are you happy, Foxy?”
Knowing Pam had meant the question seriously and not as casual conversation, Foxy took a moment to answer. She thought of Lance, and a smile coaxed her lips upward. “Yes, I’m happy. I love Lance, and on top of that, I’m lucky enough to love the house and Boston. I suppose I’ve been a bit lost, especially since Lance is back at his office. Everything here is so different, at times I feel I’ve stepped through the looking glass.”
“Boston society can be a wonderland of sorts, I imagine,” Pam replied. “Have you been spending your time chasing white rabbits?”
“I’ve been working, my friend,” Foxy countered in a tone that reflected her raised brows. “My darkroom here is now fully operable. I’ll be sending you the prints in a week or so. I’ll send you numbered work prints. If you need more copies, or want something enlarged or reduced, give me the number.”
“Sounds good. How many prints do you have so far?”
“Finished?” Foxy’s brow furrowed as she considered. “A couple hundred if you count the ones I have drying.”
“My, my,” Pam remarked. “You have been a busy one, haven’t you?”
“Photography has become not only my career but my salvation. It saves me from luncheons.” There was a smile in her voice now as she settled back into the deep cushion of the chair. “I went to my first, and my last, earlier this week. Nothing and no one will induce me to go through that again. I’m simply not cut out for functions.”
“Ah well,” Pam comforted with a cluck of her tongue. “They will probably carry on without you. I take it you’ve met Lance’s family
