Stumbling to the fireplace, Sara sat down on the hard floor and buried her face against her knees. Wildly she tried to convince herself that she would be a fool to give away what happiness she might be able to find with Perry. She tried to imagine going to Derek Craven and telling him…telling him what? A bubble of senseless laughter escaped her. “I want to see you one more time,” she whispered. She wanted to be near him again, if only for a few minutes. And he felt the same way, or he wouldn’t have made love to another woman and pretended it was she.
“I will forget you, Sara Fielding. No matter what it takes…”
What good would it do even if she were able to steal a few precious moments with him? He would not want to see her. What could she say to him, when she couldn’t explain her feelings even to herself?
Resting her head on her forearm, she groaned in frustration. She was treading on the edge of disaster. She must forget her dangerous infatuation with Derek Craven and turn to the man she had loved ever since she was a girl. Suddenly it seemed as if Perry Kingswood had the power to save her from herself. She struggled to her feet. Quickly she banked the fire, snatched up her cloak and mittens, and bolted out the front door. She hurried to the Kingswood manor as fast as her feet would take her. During the long walk, the cold air drove deep into her lungs and seemed to freeze her bones. Her chest ached from a knot of pain that had settled in the center. “Perry, make it all go away,” she wanted to beg. “Make me feel safe and loved. Tell me we were meant to be together.”
She didn’t care if he thought she had taken leave of her senses. All she needed was for him to put his arms around her and reassure her that he loved her. And he would, she thought, drawing strength from the image of him holding her. He would be calm and gentle, and soothe her fears.
Her breath caught in excitement as she came upon the Kingswoods’ home, and she saw Perry leading a horse from the paddock to the stable in back. “Perry!” she cried, but the wind was blowing, making it impossible for him to hear. Eagerly she hurried around the house to the stable. The sturdy structure was warm and sheltered from the wind, filled with the familiar smells of hay and horses.
Perry, who was clad in a heavy wool coat and a knitted hat, was busy leading the horse into a hay-lined stall. Aware of her approach, he turned to face her. His color was high from exercise, and his eyes were like sapphires. “Sara? Why are you in such a state? Is something wrong?”
“I had to see you this very minute.” She launched herself forward and clung to him, dropping her head into the curve of his neck. “Perry, I’ve been so unhappy, wondering how to get rid of this distance between us! I’m sorry if I’ve been demanding or unreasonable. I want everything to be right between us. Tell me you love me. Tell me…”
“What’s brought this on?” he asked in astonishment, his arms closing around her.
“Nothing. Nothing in particular…I just…” Floundering in her excitement, she fell silent and held on to him more tightly.
After a minute of wordless surprise, Perry eased her away and spoke in a softly chiding tone. “You never used to carry on so, darling. Running about the countryside with your hair flying and your eyes wild…there’s no need for it. Of course I love you. Have I given you reason to doubt that? I’ll be glad when you stop writing. It makes you emotional, and that wouldn’t do for our children, or me, for that matter—”
He stopped with a muffled sound as Sara took his face in her mittened hands and pressed her mouth to his. She felt his body tense. There was a tentative response, the slightest movement of his lips…but then he pulled back and looked down at her in shocked dismay. “What has happened to you?” he asked sternly. “Why are you behaving this way?”
“I want to belong to you,” Sara said, her face flushed. “Is it so wrong of me, when we’ll be married in just a few months?”
“Yes, it is wrong, and you know it.” His cheeks turned as red as hers. “Decent, God-fearing people should have the moral strength to control their animal urges—”
“That sounds like something your mother would say, not you.” Sara pressed against him ardently. “I need you,” she whispered, brushing swift, dancing kisses over his cheek and jaw. The blood raced in her veins. “I need you to love me, Perry…here…now.” Urgently she pulled him toward a stack of neatly folded blankets and a few blocks of hay. Perry took a few uncertain steps forward. “Make me yours,” Sara murmured, and lifted her mouth, parting her lips enough to let her tongue drift over the surface of his.
Abruptly Perry sucked in his breath and pushed her away. “No!” He stared at her with a mixture of accusation and desire. “I don’t want this! And I certainly don’t want to kiss you as if you were some French whore!”
Sara fell back a step and felt her face stiffen. It was as if she were standing outside herself, watching the scene from a distance.
“What is it you’re after?” he asked heatedly. “Proof that I love you?”
“Yes,” she stammered. “I…I suppose I am.”
The admission earned no sympathy or understanding. Instead, it seemed to outrage him further. “Such boldness! When I think of the modest, innocent girl you once were…By God, you’re acting more like your blasted Mathilda than yourself! I’m beginning to suspect you succumbed to the advances of some knave in London. What else would explain your behavior?”
Once she might have begged his forgiveness. But now his accusations sparked her own emotions into a white-hot explosion. “Perhaps it’s just that after four years I’m tired of loving you chastely! And if you’re wondering about my virginity, I still have it—much good it does me!”
“You seem to be far more knowledgeable now than before you left.”
“Maybe I am,” she said recklessly. “Does it bother you to think that other men might want me? That I may have been kissed by someone other than you?”
“Yes, it bothers me!” Perry was so enraged that his handsome face was mottled purple and white. “It bothers me enough that I’ve reconsidered my proposal to you.” He enunciated each word like the snap of a leather strap. Flecks of spittle fell to his chin. “I loved you the way you once were, Sara. But I don’t want you as you are now. If you want to be the next Mrs. Kingswood, you’ll have to find some way to change yourself back into the girl I fell in love with.”
“I can’t.” Sara began to storm from the stable, throwing words over her shoulder. “So you may as well tell your mother that the engagement is broken! She’ll be delighted, I’m certain.”
“She’ll feel only sorrow and pity for you.”
Sara stopped abruptly and looked back at him. “Is that what you really think?” She shook her head disbelievingly. “I wonder why you thought you needed a wife at all, Perry. Why marry when you’ve got her to take care of you? If you decide to court other girls in the village, you’ll soon discover how few of them are willing to abide your mother’s high-handed ways. In fact, I can’t think of a single one who would agree to take on the pair of you!”
As she ran out of the stable, Sara thought she heard him call her name, but her pace didn’t slow. She was grateful for the flood of righteous indignation that sustained her. Making her way back home, she replayed the scene several times in her head, feeling alternately furious and ill. When she reached the cottage, she slammed the front door as hard as she could. “It’s over,” she told herself repeatedly, sinking down into a chair and shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s over, it’s over.”
She wasn’t aware of exactly how much time passed before her parents returned home. “How was Reverend Crawford?” she asked dully.
“Splendid,” Katie replied. “Still has his chest complaint, though. His cough is no better than last week. I fear we’re due for another half-heard sermon on Sunday.”
Sara smiled wanly, remembering how hoarse the reverend’s voice had been the previous Sunday. It had been impossible for most of the congregation to hear, especially the elderly parishioners. She began to rise from the chair, but Isaac dropped a letter into her lap. It was addressed to her. “This was delivered to the village yesterday,” he said. “Fine paper, a scarlet wax seal…it must be from a very important person.”
Slowly Sara turned the letter over in her hand, regarding the delicate handwriting and the elaborate crest stamped on the back. Conscious of her parents’ interested gazes, she broke the seal and unfolded the smoothly textured parchment. Silently she read the first few lines.
My Dear Miss Fielding,
Since the delightful occasion when we met, I have remembered you often, and I must confess, with a great deal of curiosity. I would dearly love to hear your account of the assembly, and perhaps take some time to further our acquaintance during an upcoming weekend…
Sara read further and then looked up at her parents’ quizzical faces. “It’s from the countess of Raiford,” she said in astonished wonder. “I had the opportunity to meet her while I was in London.”
“What does the letter say?” Katie asked.
Sara looked back down at the letter. “She…she has invited me to stay at Raiford Park for a weekend in Hertfordshire. There will be a ball, grand dinners, fireworks…more than two hundred guests…She writes that they have need of someone ‘bright and fresh’ like me to liven the conversation…” Sara gave an incredulous laugh. “She can’t really mean to invite someone like me to a gathering of the haut ton.”
Reaching down for the letter, Katie held it at arm’s length and squinted at it in an effort to read. “How extraordinary.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept,” Sara said. “I don’t have the right kind of clothes, or a private carriage, and I wouldn’t know a soul—”
“And Perry would hardly approve,” her father pointed out.
Only half-hearing the comment, Sara shook her head in confusion. “Why would she desire my presence at an event of this sort?” Sara caught her breath as a terrible thought occurred to her. Perhaps Lily thought that inviting a country bumpkin would serve as entertainment for her sophisticated guests. They would find no end of amusement in baiting a shy, plainly dressed novelist in their midst. The drumming of her pulse seemed to fill her ears. But as she recalled Lily’s sparkling smile, she was ashamed of her own suspicions. She would regard Lily’s invitation as the kindhearted gesture that it was.
“Imagine the gentry who’ll attend,” Katie said, examining the letter. “I must show this to the Hodges—they’ll scarcely believe their ears when I tell them my daughter has befriended a countess!”
“No difference between a countess and a milkmaid in God’s eyes,” Isaac pointed out, bending to stir up the coals in the grate.
“Lady Raiford is a unique woman,” Sara mused. “She is lively, kind, and very generous.”
“A woman of her means can afford to be generous,” her father remarked, his eyes twinkling.
“I imagine there will be a colorful assortment of people at her home,” Sara continued. “Perhaps even…” She bit her lip and tried to quiet the sudden chaos of her thoughts. It was possible Derek Craven would be there. He was a close friend of the Raifords. All the more reason not to go, she told herself…but her heart whispered a different message.
Hours later, when her parents were toasting their feet before the fire and reading passages from the Bible, Sara sat with a lapdesk and a leaf of her best letter paper. Carefully she clipped a pen into a tiny pot of ink and began to write. Her hand shook a little, but somehow she was able to keep the words even and neatly formed.
My Dear Lady Raiford,
It is with pleasure that I accept your gracious invitation to the forthcoming weekend at Raiford Park…
The astringent smell of gin permeated the air of the apartments above the gambling club. Despite the maids’ best efforts to keep the place as immaculate as always, they could do little to repair the destruction Derek had wrought over the past weeks. The thick velvet drapes and elaborate carpets were ruined by liquor stains and cigar burns. A table encrusted with semi-precious stones had been marked by boot heels resting casually on its fragile surface. Litter and discarded clothing were strewn across the floor. The windows were covered to keep out any light.
Cautiously Worthy ventured deeper into the apartment, having the vague sensation of intruding into the cave of an ill-tempered beast. He found Derek sprawled on his stomach across an unmade bed. Long legs and bare feet dangled well over the edge of the mattress. There was an empty gin bottle on the floor, drained over several hours of steady drinking.
Derek’s back tensed beneath the thick ocher silk of his robe as he became aware of the visitor. “You took your bloody time,” he sneered without looking up. “Bring it here.”
“Bring what, sir?”
The rumpled black head lifted. Derek fastened a bleary glare on the factotum. His mouth was bracketed with deep lines. The pallid color of his skin made the scar on his face more noticeable than usual. “Don’t play games with me. You know I sent for another bottle.”
“Sir, won’t you have a tray from the kitchen instead? You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning…and you despise gin.”
“It’s mother’s milk to me. Get me what I asked for, or you’ll find your interfering arse on the streets.”
Having been threatened with dismissal nearly every day for the past month, Worthy dared to ignore the remark. “Mr. Craven, I’ve never known you to behave this way. You haven’t been yourself since—”
“Since when?” Derek prompted, suddenly looking like a panther tensed to strike. The effect was spoiled by an inebriated burp, and he lowered his head to the wrinkled counterpane once more.
“It’s clear to everyone that something is wrong,” Worthy persisted. “My regard for you prompts me to speak frankly, even if it means losing my position at Craven’s.”
Derek’s voice was muffled in the covers. “I’m not listening.”
“You are a better man than you know, sir. I will never forget that you saved my life. Oh, I know you forbade me ever to mention it, but it is true, nonetheless. I was a stranger to you, and yet you took it upon yourself to spare me from the hangman’s noose.”
Years ago Worthy had been the under-butler of an aristocratic household in London. He had been in love with one of the parlormaids, who had stolen a pearl and ruby necklace from the mistress of the house. Rather than allow his love to be arrested and hanged for the theft, Worthy had claimed responsibility. He had been held at Newgate for execution. Hearing the story of Worthy’s plight through one of the servants at the club, Derek had approached a local magistrate as well as a prison official, using equal parts of bribery and coercion to free the under-butler. It was said in London that Craven could talk the hind leg off a horse. Only he could have plucked a hapless convict right from the bowels of Newgate.
The first time Worthy had ever seen Derek Craven was at the door of his prison cell, wearing an expression of sardonic amusement. “So you’re the fool what’s going to ’ang for some light-fingered bitch?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Worthy stuttered, watching as Derek handed a wad of money to the prison guard.
“More loyalty than wits,” Derek had observed with a grin. “Just as I ’oped. Well, little gallows-bird, I could use you as a factotum for my club. Unless you’d rather let the ’angman string you up tomorrow?”
Worthy had done everything short of kissing his feet in gratitude, and had served him faithfully ever since. Now, as he saw the state to which his strong-willed, prosperous employer had fallen, he was at a loss to know how to help him. “Mr. Craven,” he said tentatively, “I understand why you’re doing this to yourself.” A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I was in love once.”
“I remember. Your noble affair with the light-handed parlormaid.”
Worthy ignored the gibe and continued in a quiet, earnest tone. “For ten years not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her. I can still see her face before me, as clear and bright as nothing else in my memory.”
“Bloody fool.”
“Yes, sir. There is no logic to it. No one can explain why one woman can tear a man’s very heart from his chest, and never let go. For you that woman is Miss Fielding, isn’t it?”
“Get out,” Derek said harshly, his fingers digging into the mass of crumpled bedclothes.
“Sir, even if you have lost her, you must conduct your life in a manner that will honor your feelings for her. It would sadden her to see you like this.”
“Out!”
“Very well, sir.”
“And send up another bottle of gin.”
Murmuring his acquiescence, the factotum left the room.
Perhaps later Derek would notice that the gin was never delivered, but for now he fell into a drunken oblivion. Senseless dreams floated through his head while he twitched and muttered incoherently.
In the middle of the seething shadows, he became aware of a woman’s body pressed against his. Small hands slipped inside his robe and eased the fabric apart. His body stiffened in arousal. Hungrily he pressed himself against her, seeking the exquisite friction of her palms clasped around him. Gathering her close, he cupped the silken weight of her breasts in his hands.
Burning with the need to thrust inside her, he rolled on top of her and pushed her knees wide to position her for his entry. He dragged his mouth over her throat and breathed hotly against the moist trail he had left behind. Moaning passionately, she arched against him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Sara,” he groaned against her ear as he began to push inside her. “Oh, Sara—”
All at once knifelike talons raked over his back, digging vengefully deep. Derek gasped in painful surprise. Rearing back to escape the stinging scratches, he caught the woman’s slim wrists and pinned them on either side of her head. Lady Ashby lay beneath him, glaring up at him. Her fingers were curled into claws, the tips wet with his blood. “You rutting bastard,” she spat. “Don’t ever call me by another woman’s name!”
Derek heard a dull roar that he didn’t recognize as his own. His hands fastened around her neck. A thick red haze surrounded him. His fingers dug into her throat, choking off the pathways of blood and air until her face turned purple. She stared at him with a twisted grimace of triumph, as if she welcomed his murderous grip on her throat. Just as her eyes began to roll back in her head, he released her with a feral snarl and leapt off the bed.
Joyce curled in a heap amid the tangled covers. The room was filled with the sound of her violent choking.
Clenching a shaking hand around the tasseled bellpull, Derek rang for Worthy. Dazedly he walked to the window and gathered the open robe around himself. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, the bristles as rough as wire. “Mad as a weaver,” he muttered. It wasn’t clear if he was referring to Joyce or himself.
She finally regained enough breath to speak. “What st-stopped you from killing me?”
He didn’t look at her. “I won’t hang for your murder.”
“I’d like to die,” she wheezed sickly, “and take you with me.”
The scene disgusted Derek, nauseated him. It was an echo of his past, a reminder that the years of depravity would always haunt him, making any sort of normal life impossible. The sour taste of defeat filled his mouth.
Worthy appeared, wearing an expression of blank surprise as he saw the naked blond woman on Derek’s bed and her discarded gown on the floor.
“It’s Lady Ashby,” Derek said curtly, walking to the door. Blood from the nail marks on his back soaked through his robe. “Find out how she got in here. Get rid of whoever’s responsible for letting her inside.” His narrowed eyes swerved from the woman on the bed to the factotum. “If she ever sets foot in Craven’s again, I’ll kill her—right after I clean and bone you like a mackerel.”
Joyce raised herself on her hands and knees like a golden cat. Strands of her hair fell over her face, and she watched Derek intently through the gleaming wisps. “I love you,” she mewled.
Something about her tone sent a chill down Derek’s spine…some insistent, wild note that warned she would never admit defeat. “Go to hell,” he said as he left the room.
The hired carriage traveled along the mile-long drive that led from the fifteenth-century gatehouse, through a lush, landscaped park. Eventually the vehicle reached the splendid Raiford mansion. Sara’s knees turned weak as she stared through a corner of the carriage window. “Oh, my,” she breathed. A nerveless shiver went from her head to her toes. She most definitely did not belong here.
The glistening white mansion was fronted with ten towering columns and twenty pairs of Palladian windows, and ornamental carved stone balustrades that ran the entire width of the building. A regal procession of chimney stacks and towering domed projections on the roof gave the mansion the appearance of reaching for the sky. Before Sara had the presence of mind to direct the driver to return to Greenwood Corners, the carriage stopped. Two gigantic footmen with carefully blank expressions helped her alight from the vehicle. Sara was ushered to the row of circular steps leading to the front portico. A tall, gray-bearded butler appeared at the door, accompanied by the groom of the chambers.
The butler had a stern face that might have been carved from granite. She smiled at him and began to fumble in her reticule for the letter from Lily. “Sir, I have an invitation from Lady Raiford—”
He seemed to recognize her, perhaps from Lily’s description. “Of course, Miss Fielding.” He glanced over her plain gray gown and traveling bonnet, and the brightly embroidered shawl that one of the village women had loaned to her. Some of his haughtiness seemed to melt away. “We are honored by your presence.”
Before she could thank him for the sentiment, she was interrupted by Lily Raiford’s exuberant voice. “You’re here at last! Burton, we must go to special lengths to make Miss Fielding feel at home.” Dressed in a lemon-colored gown made of cashmere, with sleeves of a silk so thin it was referred to by dressmakers as peau de papillon, or “butterfly skin,” Lily was breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble—” Sara protested, but the words were lost in the flood of Lily’s busy chatter.
“You haven’t arrived a moment too soon, my dear.” Lily kissed her on both cheeks in the continental fashion. “Everyone is lounging inside making cynical observations and thinking themselves quite witty. You’ll be a breath of fresh air. Burton, see that Miss Fielding’s bags are brought to her room while I take her around.”
“I should put myself to rights,” Sara said, knowing her clothes were travel-rumpled and her hair disheveled, but Lily was already dragging her into the entrance hall. Burton gave Sara a surreptitious wink and turned to welcome another arriving carriage.
“We’re all quite informal today,” Lily said. “New guests will appear every hour. There are no activities planned until the dance tonight. Entertain yourself in any manner you choose. The horses and carriages, the books in the library, the music room, and anything else you fancy are all at your disposal. Ring for whatever you want.”
“Thank you.” Sara gazed in admiration at the domed white marble entrance hall. A grand staircase with the most elaborate gilded balustrade she had ever seen split into two majestic curving arches that led to the mansion’s upper floors.
Lily whisked her through the great hall, a cavernous room with a barrel-vaulted ceiling, ornate plasterwork, and the solemn atmosphere of a cathedral. “The men will go on a shooting excursion in the morning and play billiards in the afternoon. The women sip tea, gossip, and nap. We all gather to play charades and cards every evening. It’s positively stultifying. You’ll be bored to tears, I assure you.”
“No, not at all.” Sara strove to match Lily’s brisk pace as they progressed through a long gallery in the back of the mansion, lined with mirrors and paintings on one side and French doors on the other. Through the glass-paned doors she could see the borders of a large formal garden.
As Lily led Sara past rooms designed for small gatherings, groups of men and women glanced at them curiously. The music room was filled with a duster of giggling, chattering girls. Lily waved to them cheerfully without breaking pace. “Some of the county families will be presenting their daughters at the ball for their first Season,” she told Sara. “It will be less of a trial for them here than in some stuffy London drawing room. I’ll show you the ballroom presently, but first…”
They paused at the doorway of the billiards room, an exclusively masculine alcove adorned with burgundy damask, leather, and dark wood panelling. Gentlemen of assorted ages lounged around the carved mahogany billiards table. Smoke from their cigars circled the shaded lamps overhead.
“Gentlemen,” Lily informed the room at large, “I came to tell you I must abandon the game to show my new guest ’round the house. Lansdale, perhaps you would take my place at the table?”
“He will, but not half so attractively,” someone remarked. There were assorted chuckles around the room.
Lansdale, a middle-aged man of unusually short stature but possessing a handsome aquiline face, regarded Sara with bold interest. “Perhaps, Lady Raiford, you would keep to the billiards game and allow me to show your guest around.”
Sara blushed at the suggestion, while several of the men laughed.
Rolling her eyes, Lily addressed a remark to Sara. “Watch out for that one, my lamb. In fact, don’t trust a single one of these men. I know them all, and I can vouch for the fact that underneath those attractive exteriors is a pack of wolves.”
Sara could see how Lily’s remark pleased the men, who clearly liked to think of themselves as predators, paunches and receding hairlines notwithstanding. “At least allow us a brief introduction,” Lansdale suggested, coming forward. “Your Miss Fielding is quite the loveliest creature I’ve seen all day.” Taking Sara’s hand, he bowed and imprinted a deferential kiss on the back.
Lily obliged readily. “My lords Lansdale, Over-stone, Aveland, Stokehurst, Bolton, and Ancaster, I should like to present Miss Sara Fielding—a talented author and a charming new acquaintance of mine.”
Sara mustered a shy smile and a curtsey as they bowed to her individually. She remembered having secretly observed some of them at the gambling club. And if she wasn’t mistaken, she had met the duke of Ancaster during her masquerade as Mathilda. In spite of his noble heritage and dignified bearing, he had behaved quite badly at the assembly, fawning drunkenly over her and then chasing after one of the house wenches. Her lips twitched at the corners, but her amusement was wiped away by Lily’s next casual words. “Oh, and that surly-looking one pouring a brandy is my beloved husband, Lord Raiford. Next to him is Mr. Craven, who as you can see has a fondness for lurking in dark corners.”
Sara barely noticed Lily’s large blond spouse. Her round blue eyes flew to the lean, sinister form that detached from the shadows. He bowed as the others had, the movement impeccably graceful for such a large man. There was no sign of recognition on his face.
The air of toughness and vital masculinity was the same as she remembered. His skin looked as swarthy as a pirate’s against the snowy linen of his cravat. The scar on his face had faded, so that his intense green eyes dominated every other feature. Closed in a small room with these gently-born men, he seemed like a panther keeping company with house cats. Sara couldn’t have said a word to save her life. Her mouth felt as if it were filled with dust.
The other occupants of the room couldn’t help but notice the sudden electric silence. A few glances were exchanged, and brows were raised an expressive quarter-inch or so. Sara’s raw nerves jangled in warning as Lord Raiford approached her. Slowly she raised her eyes to stare at Lily’s imposing husband, whose broad shoulders blocked them from the gentlemen’s view.
Lord Raiford’s hawklike features were softened by a pair of warm gray eyes and a crop of golden hair the color of ripe wheat. He smiled and took her hand, pressing it between his huge palms in an unexpected breech of formality. “We’re fortunate to have our home graced by your gentle presence, Miss Fielding.” He slanted an ironic glance at Lily. “I suspect my wife hasn’t yet allowed you a few minutes to restore yourself after your journey.”
“I was just showing Sara to her room,” Lily protested, lowering her voice as the men returned to their game. “But I had to stop here first. I couldn’t abandon the lot of you without a word, could I?”
Letting go of Sara, Alex gathered his petite wife close and ducked her underneath the chin. “I know exactly what you’re up to,” he warned softly, in a tone the others couldn’t hear. “My beautiful, meddlesome little bully—for once couldn’t you allow others to manage their own affairs?”
Lily grinned at him cheekily. “Not when I can manage them so much better.”
Alex traced his thumb lightly over Lily’s jaw. “An opinion Craven doesn’t share, my sweet.”
Lily leaned closer to him and replied in a barely audible murmur. Sara averted her gaze as the two drew aside and engaged in a whispered exchange. She didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation. Nevertheless, she caught a few revealing snatches as they talked at the same time.
“—Derek doesn’t know what’s good for him,” Lily was saying.
“—concern should be what’s good for Miss Fielding—”
“But you don’t understand how—”
“—understand all too well,” Alex finished, and they stared into each other’s eyes challengingly.
Sara felt her color rising. There was a palpable attraction between the two that made her feel like an intruder on an intimate scene.
It was clear that Lord Raiford would have liked to say more to Lily, but he let go of her reluctantly and gave her an admonishing glance. “Behave yourself” was the silent but unmistakable message. Lily made a face and looked around him to wave at Lansdale and Aveland. “Enjoy the game, gentlemen,” she called. They responded with agreeable murmurs. Derek Craven was silent, coldly ignoring the womens’ departure.
Dejectedly Sara followed Lily through the carpeted hallway. Craven’s icy manner had been a rude surprise. She scolded herself silently for thinking that he might actually be glad to see her. Instead it seemed likely that he would ignore her for the entire weekend.
They approached a row of guest suites in the west wing, each with its own dressing and sitting room. Sara’s room was decorated in pastel shades of lavender and yellow. The elaborate garden below was visible from a pair of windows hung with divided curtains. Wandering to the tent bed with fluted columns, Sara touched a fold of the bedhangings. They were embroidered to match the delicate floral pattern of the wallpaper.
Lily opened an armoire to reveal Sara’s clothes. In a remarkably short time, the housemaids had unpacked her meager belongings with faultless efficiency. “I hope this room pleases you,” she said, frowning slightly as she saw Sara’s expression. “If you’d prefer another—”
“It’s lovely,” Sara assured her, and made a wry face. “It’s just that…perhaps I should leave. I don’t wish to cause trouble. Mr. Craven is annoyed by my presence here. And he is angry with you for inviting me. The way he looked at you…”
“He’d like to strangle me,” Lily admitted cheerfully. “Slowly. But the way he looked at you…Good God, it was priceless!” She gave a peal of laughter. “How does it feel to have the most unattainable man in England at your feet?”
Sara’s eyes widened. “Oh, he’s not—”
“At your feet,” Lily repeated. “Believe me, Derek has had this coming for years! When I think of all the times he’s infuriated me by acting superior and coldhearted, so utterly in control of himself and everything around him…” She shook her head, chuckling. “Don’t misunderstand me. I adore the big, hardheaded cockney. But it will be the best thing in the world for him if he’s taken down a peg.”
“If anyone’s going to be taken down a peg, it’s I,” Sara said under her breath. Lily didn’t appear to have heard.
After Lily left to attend to her guests, Sara rang for a maid to help with her toilette. A French maid a few years older than herself appeared. The woman was blond and small, with round pink cheeks and a droll smile. “Je m’appelle Françoise,” the maid informed her, setting a pair of curling tongs near the coals beyond the fireplace grate. Busily Françoise bustled about the room, selecting a fresh gown from the armoire and holding it up for Sara’s approval.
“Yes, that one will be fine,” Sara said, removing her jacket and bonnet and unbuttoning the front of her wrinkled traveling gown. She sat at the small satinwood dressing table and pulled the pins from her disheveled hair.
The russet and golden-brown locks fell down her back. There was a pleased exclamation behind her. “Comme vos cheveux sont beaux, mademoiselle!” Reverently Françoise brushed out the heavy length of hair until it was a smooth, shining curtain.
“Do you speak any English, Françoise?” Sara asked the maid doubtfully. Françoise met her eyes in the mirror and shook her head with a smile. “I wish you did. Frenchwomen are supposed to know all about matters of the heart. I need some advice.”
Hearing the disconsolate note in her voice, Françoise said something that sounded sympathetic and encouraging.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” Sara continued. “By leaving Perry I’ve thrown away what I thought I always wanted. I hardly recognize myself, Françoise! The feelings I have for another man are so compelling…I’m afraid that I might take whatever I can have of him, no matter how fleeting the moment is. If I heard some other woman confessing to such thoughts, I would condemn her as a fool and worse. I’ve always considered myself a sensible person, guided more by reason than by passion. I can’t explain what’s come over me. All I know is that from the moment I met him—” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Sighing, she rubbed her aching forehead. “I don’t think time will help. It hasn’t so far.”
There was a long silence as the maid brushed her hair in soothing strokes. Françoise wore a thoughtful expression, as if she were contemplating the situation. It didn’t matter that they spoke different languages—any woman who had ever suffered heartbreak could recognize it easily. Finally the maid paused in her brushing and gestured toward Sara’s heart. “Faire ce que le coeur vous dit, mademoiselle.”
“Follow my heart?” Sara asked in bewilderment. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” Placidly the girl reached for a narrow blue silk ribbon and began to weave it through the loose locks of hair.
“That could be very dangerous,” Sara whispered.
Several minutes later Sara finished buttoning the high collar of her gray gown and checked her appearance in the mirror. She was pleased by the results of the maid’s efforts. Her hair had been neatly confined on top of her head in a heavy plait, while a few wisps at her temples had been curled into ringlets. Thanking Françoise, Sara left the room and wandered toward the grand staircase. Nervously she considered joining one of the ladies’ gatherings downstairs for some tea and conversation. She hoped the women would be friendly, or at least tolerant of her presence.
Pausing in the hallway to stare at a marble sculpture poised in a semi-circular niche, Sara tried to bolster her courage. She was in awe of the guests downstairs, and half-afraid of them. Lily had said the gathering included ambassadors, politicians, artists, and even a visiting colonial governor and his family. Sara was well-aware that she had nothing in common with them. No doubt they would consider her gauche and unsophisticated. Perhaps this was how Derek Craven felt, hobnobbing with aristocrats who were disdainfully aware of his origins. Poor Mr. Craven, she thought sympathetically. Suddenly she was aware of an icy tingling on her neck, and every hair on her body stood erect. She turned around slowly.
Derek was standing behind her, looking far from deserving of anyone’s sympathy. He stared at her like a jaded sultan surveying his latest female acquisition. His dark handsomeness was matched only by his extraordinary self-possession. “Where is your fiancé?” he asked in a distinctly unfriendly tone.
Sara was unnerved by his threatening stillness. “I don’t have a…That is, h-he…We’re not going to marry.”
“He didn’t propose?”
“No…well, yes, but…” Sara stepped back instinctively. Derek moved to close the distance between them. As they talked, she continued to edge away, and he followed like a stalking cat. “Mr. Kingswood proposed a few nights after my return,” Sara said breathlessly. “I accepted. I was very happy at first…well, not precisely happy, but—”
“What happened?”
“There were problems. He said I had changed. I suppose he was right, although—”
“He broke the engagement?”
“I…I think a case could be made that we broke it together…” As he advanced on her, she found herself backing into a nearby room, almost stumbling over a delicate gilded chair. “Mr. Craven, I wish you would stop prowling after me this way!”
His hard stare was relentless. “You knew I would be here this weekend.”
“I didn’t!”
“You planned this with Lily.”
“I most certainly did not—” She broke off with a startled squeak as he reached her and clamped his hands on her shoulders.
“I can’t decide whose neck to wring first—yours or hers.”
“You’re offended that I’m here,” Sara said in a small voice.
“I’d rather stand in a bucket of coals than spend one night under the same roof with you!”
“You dislike me that much?”
Derek’s lungs began to work hard as he stared into her small, lovely face. The violent joy of being near her caused his blood to sizzle. His fingers flexed repeatedly into the softness of her shoulders, as if relishing the texture of her flesh. “No, I don’t dislike you,” he said, nearly inaudible.
“Mr. Craven, you’re hurting me.”
His grip didn’t loosen. “That night after the assembly…you didn’t understand a bloody thing I told you, did you?”
“I understood.”
“And still you came here.”
Sara stood her ground, although it took all her strength not to wilt beneath his scorching glare. “I had every right to accept Lady Raiford’s invitation,” she said stubbornly. “A-and I won’t leave, no matter what you say to me!”
“Then I will.”
“All right!” To her amazement, an urge to taunt him overcame her, and she added, “If you have so little control over yourself that you find it necessary to run away from me.”
His face was wiped clean of all expression, but she could sense the fury that blazed within him. “They say God protects fools and children—for your sake I hope it’s true.”
“Mr. Craven, I thought you and I could at least manage to be civil to each other for one weekend—”
“Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because we managed it quite well before the assembly, and…” Sara sputtered into silence as she realized how tightly he was holding her. The tips of her breasts grazed his chest. Her skirts flowed gently around his legs.
“I can’t manage it now.” He gripped her inflexibly, until she felt the hot, leaping pressure of his arousal against her stomach. His eyes blazed like emeralds in his austere face. “I can protect you against everything except myself.”
She knew that his grasp was deliberately painful. But instead of resisting, she relaxed against his hard body. More than anything she wanted to twine herself around him and crush her mouth against the place where the white linen of his cravat met smooth brown skin. Her hands crept up his broad shoulders, and she stared at him wordlessly.
Derek feared he was a hairsbreadth away from attacking her. “Why didn’t you marry him?” he asked hoarsely.
“I don’t love him.”
He shook his head in baffled anger, and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reply. Apparently thinking better of it, he closed his mouth abruptly, only to open it again. Were the moment not so tense, Sara would have laughed. Instead she stared up at him helplessly. “How could I have gone through with it when I don’t love him?”
“You little fool. Isn’t it enough that you’d be safe with him?”
“No. I want more than that. Or nothing at all.”
His dark head bent lower over hers. One of his hands released her shoulder, and his fingertips grazed the delicate curls at her temple. He was tight-lipped, as if enduring an exquisitely painful torture. Sara made an inarticulate sound as she felt his knuckles brush the highest edge of her cheek. The brightness of his gaze was like harsh sunlight. She felt as if she were drowning in the depths of burning green. His large hand cradled her cheek and jaw, his thumb testing the downy surface. “I’d forgotten how soft your skin was,” he murmured.
She stood there trembling against him, beyond all sense of pride and propriety. Impulsive words hovered on her lips. Suddenly she was distracted by the feel of a strange object underneath her palm, pressed flat against his chest. There was a hard lump in the inside pocket of his coat. She frowned curiously. Before Derek realized what she was doing, she reached inside the garment to investigate.
“No,” he said swiftly, his large hand gripping her wrist to stop her.
But it was too late; her fingers had already encountered the object and identified it. With a disbelieving look on her face, Sara pulled out the tiny pair of spectacles she thought she had lost at the club. “Why?” she whispered, amazed that he was carrying them in his breast pocket.
He met her gaze defiantly, his jaw set. A small muscle twitched in his cheek.
Then she understood. “Are you having problems with your sight, Mr. Craven?” she asked softly. “Or is it your heart?”
Just then they both heard the sound of distant voices down the hall. “Someone’s coming,” he muttered, and released her.
“Wait—”
He was gone in an instant, as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Still clutching the spectacles, Sara bit her lip. In her wild mixture of emotions—relief that he still wanted her, fear that he would leave—nothing was as strong as the desire to comfort him. She wished she had the power to reassure him that his love wouldn’t hurt her…that she would never ask for more than he could give.
Harrassed by a flood of minor difficulties, Lily searched for her husband and found him alone in the hunting room. He was seated at a desk with an empty cigar box in his hand. Alex smiled at the sight of her, but his expression changed to a questioning frown. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Lily talked even more quickly than usual, a sure sign of her frustration. “To begin with, Mrs. Bartlett is demanding that she have her room changed, claiming the view doesn’t suit her, when it’s perfectly obvious that what she really wants is to be located next to Lord Overtone, with whom she’s carrying on a flaming affair—”
“So let her have the room.”
“It’s already occupied by Stockers!”
Alex considered the dilemma with apparent seriousness. “I don’t think Stockers would like to find Overtone in his bed,” he mused, and snickered at the image of the two lecherous old rakes sneaking through the mansion at night to find the delectable Mrs. Bartlett.
“Oh, go on and laugh, but I have even worse problems to tell you about. The cook’s been taken ill. Nothing serious, thank God, but she’s gone to bed and the rest of the kitchen staff is trying to organize themselves, and I can’t guarantee that supper will be edible tonight.”
Alex made a dismissive gesture, as if that were the least of their worries. He held up the empty box. “My stock of cigars is out. Did you remember to order more?”
“I forgot,” she admitted with a rueful sigh.
“Hell.” He frowned. “What are the men and I supposed to smoke while we’re having our after-dinner port?”
“You wouldn’t like my suggestion,” Lily replied pertly. “Oh, the children have lost the puppy again—its somewhere in the house, Nicole says.”
In spite of his annoyance over the cigars, Alex laughed. “If that blasted animal ruins any more family heirlooms—”
“It was only one chair,” Lily protested.
They were interrupted by Derek Craven’s explosive entrance. The edge of the door careened into the wall as he came into the room and fixed Lily with a violent glare. “I’m going to stuff you down the nearest well.”
Driven by a strong instinct for self-preservation, Lily skittered hastily to Alex and settled herself on his lap. “I can invite whomever I want to my weekend parties,” she defended herself, watching Derek from within the protective circle of her husband’s arms.
Derek’s eyes blazed green fire. “I told you never to interfere in my life the way you do others—”
“Easy, Craven,” Alex said calmly, squeezing Lily tightly to keep her silent. “I agree that Lily occasionally goes a step too far with her meddling. But it’s always with the best of intentions…and in this case I don’t see why the presence of one small, shy woman should affect you so greatly.” He arched a tawny brow in the mocking tradition of his aristocratic ancestors. “With all your experience, surely you don’t perceive Miss Fielding as a threat?”
Both the Raifords were amazed to see a dark flush cover Derek’s face. “You have no idea in hell about the trouble she can cause.”
That remark earned a skeptical look from Alex. “She won’t cause any trouble this weekend,” he replied evenly. “We’re all here to socialize, enjoy the scenery, and take the fresh air.”
Glaring at them both, Derek hesitated as if yearning to say something else. Instead he left with a muffled curse, raking his hands through his hair.
There was silence as the Raifords looked at each other. Alex let out a long breath of amazement. “Christ. I’ve never seen him behave this way.”
“Now do you believe what I’ve been telling you?” Lily demanded in satisfaction. “He adores her. He’s gone mad over her.”
Alex didn’t argue, only shrugged. “He’ll deny it to his last breath.”
Lily snuggled against him. “Thank you for defending me. I actually thought he might try to box my ears!”
Alex grinned and fondled her slim body. “You know I’ll never let anyone raise a hand to you. I reserve that privilege for myself.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she warned, and smiled as he kissed the soft, perfumed space behind her earlobe.
“Lily,” he murmured, “for my sake as well as yours, leave the two of them alone. They’ll resolve the matter on their own—without any help from you.”
“Is that a request or a command?”
“Don’t test me, my sweet.” Although his tone was gentle, there was no mistaking the note of warning in it.
Knowing better than to cross her husband when he was in this mood, Lily toyed flirtatiously with the crisp points of his shirt collar. “I’ve always suspected I would have been better off married to a milksop,” she grumbled.
Alex laughed. “I’m exactly the husband you deserve.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” she replied, and kissed him lovingly.
Suddenly he interrupted the kiss and drew his head back. “Lily…have you mentioned to Derek yet that the Ashbys are attending?”
She grimaced and shook her head. “I couldn’t summon the nerve to tell him. He’ll never believe that I agreed to invite them with the greatest reluctance.”
“My father and Lord Ashby were close friends. And Lord Ashby has been a powerful ally of mine in Parliament. I couldn’t offend the old man by withholding an invitation—even if his wife is a poisonous bitch.”
“Why don’t you explain it to Derek? Good God, with him and Joyce under the same roof, I’m expecting bloodshed at any moment!”
For the better part of the afternoon Sara was cloistered with a group of young matrons whose eager gossip reminded her of the quote, “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.” Quickly she discovered that her fears of being snubbed were groundless. The women were pleasant and friendly, and far more out-spoken than Sara’s village friends. Among them were Mrs. Adele Bartlett, a wealthy widow with an opulent figure and brilliant red hair, and Lady Mountbain, a mellow-voiced brunette with an earthy sense of humor. Two lively young women were seated next to Lily Raiford; Lady Elizabeth Burghley and Lady Stamford, Lily’s own sister. The group talked with shocking frankness about their husbands and lovers, exchanging bon mots and giggling quietly. It was not lost on Sara that the conversations of these aristocratic ladies bore a strong resemblance to those of the house wenches at Craven’s.
Although Lily seemed to enjoy the gathering, her gaze often strayed to the window. Sara guessed that she would have preferred walking outside or riding, rather than being confined indoors. Noticing Lily’s lack of participation in the discussion, one of the women addressed her nonchalantly. “Lily, darling, why don’t you tell us about your husband? After all these years of domesticity, how often does Lord Raiford demand his conjugal rights?”
Lily surprised them all by blushing. “Often enough,” she said with a private smile, refusing to say any more. They teased and laughed, and regarded her with envy, for Lily wore the look of a happily married woman—a rarity among the ton.
Lady Mountbain curled in a corner of a cushioned settee. Her wide, scarlet-hued mouth stretched into a speculative smile. “Enough talk about husbands,” she declared in her silky-rough voice. “I much prefer the subject of un married men—their activities are so much more interesting. Derek Craven, for example. There is something positively animal about him. Whenever he’s near, I can’t take my eyes from the man. Perhaps it’s that black hair…or the scar…”
“Yes, the scar,” Adele Bartlett added dreamily. “It makes him look even more of a brute.”
“Wickedly unprincipled,” someone else added in a tone of relish.
Adele nodded emphatically. “I’m so pleased you invited him to the weekend, Lily. It’s so exciting, having a dangerous man nearby. It makes one feel anything could happen.”
“Nonsense,” Lily said in reply to the comments. “Derek is no more dangerous than…than that cat near the hearth!”
A few gazes settled doubtfully on the sleeping animal, a fat and lazy tom who had far more interest in chasing after supper than after other felines. Reading their disbelief, Lily changed the subject adroitly. “No more talk about men—they’re bothersome creatures, and that is that. We have more important things to discuss!”
“Such as?” Adele was clearly wondering what could be more important than men.
“Did I happen to mention that we have an author in our midst?” Lily asked brightly. “You must talk to Sara—you loved the novel Mathilda, didn’t you?”
In order to keep from drawing attention to herself, Sara had taken an inconspicuous place in a chair near the corner. Suddenly she found herself the focus of every pair of eyes. A flood of excited questions erupted all at once.
“You wrote Mathilda?”
“My dear, you must tell us all about her! How did you meet?”
“How is she these days?”
Sara smiled and made a valiant attempt to reply, but she soon found that it didn’t matter what she said, for they all answered their own questions and went right on talking. Ruefully Sara glanced at Lily, who grinned and shrugged helplessly to show that the group was incorrigible.
Two hours before the appointed suppertime, the women began to disperse in order to change their gowns and ready themselves for a long evening. As she gazed around the room, Sara became aware of a new arrival, a blond woman to whom she hadn’t yet been introduced. Although the others gave the newcomer lackluster greetings, no one seemed inclined to claim her as a friend. Sara turned in her chair to glance at her.
The woman was slender and very striking. Her face was sharply sculpted, the nose aristocratically thin with a delicate point. Changeable eyes that held tones of blue, gray, and green were set deep below her plucked brows. A wealth of rich golden hair was cut with a fringe across her forehead and drawn on top of her head in a profusion of careless curls. Were there any warmth in her expression, she would have been stunningly beautiful. But the woman’s eyes were strangely flat and hard, like chips of stone. Her unswerving stare made Sara uneasy.
“And who are you?” she asked in a silky voice.
“Miss Sara Fielding, ma’am.”
“Sara,” the woman repeated, looking at her speculatively. “Sara.”
Uncomfortably Sara set her cup of tea down and began to brush invisible crumbs from her skirts. Noticing the others leaving the room, she wondered how she could follow suit without seeming rude.
“Where are you from?” the woman continued softly.
“Greenwood Corners, ma’am. It’s a small village not far from here.”
“But how sweet you are. Greenwood Corners. Of course. With a complexion as pure as a milkmaid’s, you would have to be from the country. And that delightful air of innocence…You make me feel quite protective. You’re not married, I see. Tell me, Sara, has any man yet claimed your affections?”
Sara kept silent, not knowing what to make of the woman’s interest.
“Oh, you’ll capture a score of hearts,” Lady Ashby said. “Even the most hardened ones. No one could resist a pretty innocent like you. I believe you could make an old man believe he’s young again. Why, you could probably make a scoundrel renounce the devil—”
“Joyce,” came Lily’s calm voice. They both glanced at Lily, who wore an unusual look of hauteur. Sara stood up from the chair, silently grateful for the rescue. “I’m certain my friend appreciates all these flattering observations,” Lily continued coolly, “but she’s rather shy. I wouldn’t like you to make any of my guests uncomfortable.”
“What an accomplished hostess you’ve become, Lily,” Joyce purred, staring at Lily with active dislike. “One would never suspect you’ve led such a colorful life. You hide it so well. But you can’t conceal the fruits of your past entirely, can you?”
“What do you mean by that?” Lily asked, her eyes narrowed.
“I mean that your adorable daughter Nicole is a constant reminder of your liaison with Derek Craven.” Joyce turned to Sara and added smoothly, “Why, you look surprised, darling. I thought everyone knew that Nicole is Derek Craven’s bastard child.”
