Dreaming of You (19 page)

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.”