Dreaming of You

  Sara caught her breath in a mixture of surprise and anger, not only at Joyce but at Derek. How could he have carried on an affair with a woman like that? Well, he and Lady Ashby were two of a kind! This is what it would be like, her mind slyly whispered ... always being confronted with evidence of his sins ... always having to make excuses for him. Not for the first time Sara wondered what she was doing here. Unhappily she considered telling Lily that she wanted to leave Raiford Park.

  “... stay away from Joyce Ashby,” Lily was saying. “If she suspects that Derek has feelings for you, she’ll make things very unpleasant.” Mumbling something under her breath, lily stomped up the stairs at an aggressive pace that Sara labored to follow. “Come with me—I want to show you something.”

  They went to the third floor, approaching a set of bright, thickly carpeted rooms that Lily explained were the schoolroom, the nursery, and the bedchambers for the nurse and the two nursery maids. The sound of childish babble and laughter drifted from the nursery. Standing in the doorway, Sara saw two beautiful black-haired children, a girl of eight or nine, and a boy who appeared to be about three. They were sitting on the carpet, surrounded by towers of blocks, games, and books.

  “These are my two darlings,” Lily said proudly.

  At the sound of her voice, both of them looked up and rushed forward eagerly. “Mama!”

  Lily embraced her children and turned them to face Sara. “Nicole, Jamie, this is Miss Fielding. She’s a very nice friend who writes stories.”

  Nicole curtseyed neatly and regarded her with interest. “I like to read stories.”

  “Me too!” Jamie chimed in, hovering behind his sister’s skirts.

  “Jamie can’t read yet,” Nicole said with dignity.

  “Yes, I can!” Jamie said, his temper sparking. “I’ll show you!”

  “Children,” Lily interceded, forestalling her son’s efforts to fetch a book, “it’s a grand day outside. Come have a romp in the snow with me.”

  The nurse wore a disapproving frown. “M’lady, they’ll catch their deaths of cold.”

  “Oh, I won’t keep them out long,” Lily said cheerfully.

  “You won’t have time to ready yourself for the ball—”

  “It never takes me long to change.” Lily grinned at her children. “And besides, playing outside is much more fun than going to a boring old ball.”

  Sniffing haughtily, the nurse went to fetch her charges’ coats.

  “May I take one of my dolls, Mama?” Nicole asked.

  “Certainly, darling.”

  Sara had to smile at Nicole’s quaint charm as the girl opened a painted toy cupboard and rummaged through a row of dolls. The child was an excessively ladylike little creature. Lily leaned toward Sara confidentially. “I encourage her to be as wild as she pleases, but she’ll have none of it. A little angel, she is. Completely unlike me.” She laughed quietly. “Wait until you have children, Sara—they’ll probably be perfect hellions!”

  “I can’t imagine it,” Sara said, trying to picture herself as a mother. A wistful smile crossed her lips. “I don’t know if I will. Some women aren’t meant to have children.”

  “You’re meant to.” Lily replied firmly.

  “How do you know?”

  “With your patience and kindness, and all the love you have to give ... Why, you’ll be the best mother in the world!”

  Sara laughed wryly. “Well, now that’s been established, all I need is someone to father them.”

  “The ball tonight will be swarming with eligible bachelors. For supper I’ve seated you between two of the most promising ones. Have you brought the blue gown? Good. I expect you’ll have your pick of any man you desire.”

  “I haven’t come for husband-hunting—” Sara began anxiously.

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you’ll ignore any good prospects that come your way, does it?”

  “I suppose not,” Sara murmured, deciding not to leave the weekend party. Now that she was here, she supposed there wasn’t much harm in staying.

  Clad in their splendid evening finery, the guests assembled in the drawing room and began the long and complicated procession into the dining hall, an opulent room with a fifty-foot ceiling. With the couples arranged by order of rank, importance, and age, the ladies lightly held the gentlemen’s right arms and promenaded to the two long tables, each of which would accommodate one hundred guests. The tables were laden with innumerable crystal goblets, silver, and fine patterned porcelain.

  Seated between two charming young men, Sara found herself enjoying the dinner greatly. The conversation was fascinating, for the table included poets quoting from their latest works and ambassadors telling amusing stories of life abroad. Every few minutes glasses were raised in a round of toasts, praising the host and hostess, the quality of the food, the health of the king, and every other notion that struck the guests as meritable. White-gloved servants moved quietly among the diners, bringing dishes of seasoned patties, tiny souffles, and crystal plates of bonbons to sample between courses. After the great silver tureens of turtle soup and the plates of salmon were removed, large platters of roast, poultry, and game were brought out. The meal was concluded with iced champagne, pastries, and a luscious selection of fruits.

  The cloths were removed from the tables, and the gentlemen leaned back in their chairs to enjoy Lord Raiford’s excellent stock of hock, sherry, and port, and to puff on cigars as they talked of masculine interests such as politics. Meanwhile the ladies retired to separate rooms for more tea and gossip. They would all rejoin in the ballroom an hour or two later, when dinner had settled.

  Seated to Alex’s left, Derek nursed a glass of port and listened to the conversation with deceptive laziness. It was not his wont to take an active part in after-dinner arguments, no matter how good-natured they were. Certainly none of the men made the mistake of engaging him in a debate. He was far from a great orator, for he disliked making speeches of any length. But he had a way of cutting to the heart of a matter with a few well-chosen words. “And besides,” one of the men murmured to his neighbor, “I would never be fool enough to debate with a man who knows how much I’m worth.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “He knows how much everyone is worth, down to the last farthing!”

  As the gentlemen drank deeper into their cups, the conversation turned to a bill that had recently been dismissed in Parliament. It would have abolished the practice of using climbing boys to clean chimneys. But Lord Lauderson, a fat, long-winded earl who had a habit of turning almost everything into an occasion for jokes and amusement, had made a humorous speech in the House of Lords that had killed the bill. A few of his witticisms were recounted at the table, and many of the men were laughing in appreciation. Proud of his own cleverness, Lauderson beamed until his face turned as pink as a cherub’s. “I say, I was in good form that day,” he said with a chuckle. “Glad to entertain, my good fellows ... always glad of it.”

  Slowly Derek set down his glass in order to keep it from splintering in his hand. He had supported the bill with as much money and behind-the-scenes manipulation as possible. With all that and Alex Raiford’s support, the bill had been guaranteed to pass—until Lauderson’s facetious speech. All at once Lauderson’s boasting was too much to take.

  “I hear you were quite amusing, my lord,” Derek said. His tone was soft, undercutting many of the boisterous jests that were being tossed back and forth. “But I doubt a group of climbing boys would have been as appreciative of your wit as Parliament was.” The table quieted immediately. Many gazes turned to his impassive face. Derek Craven always gave the appearance of never caring about anything ... but it seemed that this issue was of more than passing importance to him. More than a few guests recalled the rumors that Craven himself had been a climbing boy. Their smiles faded noticeably.

  “It’s clear that your sympathy rests with the boys,” Lauderson commented. “I pity the poor little wretches m’self, but it’s a necess
ary evil.”

  “The work they do could easily be taken care of with long-handled brushes,” Derek said evenly.

  “But not as efficiently as the small boys do it. And if the chimneys aren’t properly cleaned, our valuable homes could catch on fire—would you have us put our own lives and property at risk for the sake of a few cockney brats?”

  Derek stared at the gleaming mahogany surface of the table. “With that one entertaining speech, my lord, you sentenced thousands of innocent boys to death for years to come. To something worse than death.”

  “They are sons of day laborers, Mr. Craven, not sons of the gentry. They will never amount to anything. Why not put them to good use?”

  “Craven,” Alex Raiford muttered, fearing that an ugly scene was about to take place.

  But Derek lifted his eyes and regarded His Lordship in a cool, almost pleasant manner. “You almost tempt me to give you back a pig of your own sow, Lord Lauderson.”

  “What does that mean?” Lauderson asked, chuckling at the crude cockney expression.

  “It means the next time you defeat a bill I’m particular to, using one of your frivolous high-kick speeches, I’ll stuff your gullet full of soot and mortar and shove your fat arse up a chimney. And if you get stuck there, I’ll light straw beneath you, or jab pins into your feet to get you going. And if you complain of burns from a hot flue, or of suffocation, I’ll flay your hide with a leather strap. That’s what a climbing boy goes through every day of his miserable existence, my lord. That’s what the bill would have prevented.” Giving him a chilling glance, Derek stood up and left the dining hall with a measured tread.

  Lauderson had turned scarlet during the contemptuous speech. “What gave Craven the idea that his opinion is worth a farthing?” His voice echoed in the deadly quiet of the room. “A man of no blood, no education, and certainly no refinement. He may be the wealthiest bastard in England, but that gives him no right to speak to me in that insolent manner.” He glanced at Alex in rising indignation. “An apology is due me, sir! Since you’re responsible for inviting the man, I’ll accept yours in lieu of his.”

  The assemblage froze. Not even a creak of a chair disrupted the silence. Alex’s face was like carved marble as he returned Lauderson’s stare. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” he finally said. “The air in here has suddenly turned foul.” He left the table with an expression of distaste, while Lauderson’s eyes bulged.

  Alex couldn’t find Derek until the ball had begun. He walked into the ballroom, pausing to observe the orchestra nearly concealed behind huge banks of roses. A row of French crystal chandeliers, each weighing a thousand pounds, shed sparkling light over the gleaming floor and the huge columns of fleur de peche marble, lily presided over the ball with her usual warmth and grace, effortlessly making everyone feel welcome.

  Catching sight of Derek taking a drink from the tray of a passing servant, Alex went to join him. “Craven, about that scene in the dining hall—”

  “I hate the upper class,” Derek muttered, and took a large gulp of wine.

  “You know we’re not all like Lauderson.”

  “You’re right Some are worse.”

  Following Derek’s gaze, Alex saw Lauderson’s bulky form join a group of peers who were all engaged in toadying up to Lord Ashby. A haughty, irascible gentleman of the old school, Lord Ashby was usually making some speech or another. He believed that every word he uttered was like a pearl dropping from his lips. Because of his rank and wealth, the obsequious fools around him would never have dared to contradict that opinion. “Has Joyce approached you yet?” Alex asked.

  Derek shook his head. “She won’t.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Because I almost strangled her the last time I saw her.”

  Alex looked startled, and then smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

  Derek continued to stare at Lord Ashby. “Joyce was fifteen when she married that old bastard. Look at him, surrounded by those highborn lickspittles. I can see why Joyce turned out the way she did. Married to him, a girl in her teens would turn into either a trembling rabbit or a monster.”

  “You sound as if you have some sympathy for her.”

  “No. But I understand her. Life makes people what they are.” A scowl settled between Derek’s dark brows. He gestured to a corner of the room. “If any one of those fine barons or viscounts had been born in the rookery, they wouldn’t have turned out any better than I did. Noble blood counts for nothing.”

  Following Derek’s gaze, Alex saw a growing coterie of men around Sara Fielding. Her small but lushly curved body was clad in a blue velvet gown a few shades darker than her eyes. Her hair was pulled into a mass of chestnut? curls. She was uncommonly pretty tonight, exuding a shy charm that any man would find irresistible. Alex looked back at Derek’s expressionless face. “If that’s true,” he asked slowly, “then why let one of them have Miss Fielding?”

  Derek ignored the question, but Alex persisted. “Would any of them treat her more kindly than you? Take better care of her? Would one of those young fops value her as you would?”

  The green eyes glinted coldly. “You of all people know what I am.”

  “I know what you were,” Alex replied. “Even five years ago, I would have agreed that you didn’t deserve someone like her. But you’ve changed, Craven. You’ve changed enough. And if she finds something in you that’s worthy of her affection ... for God’s sake, don’t argue with a gift that fate has handed you.”

  “Oh, very simple,” Derek jeered. “It doesn’t matter that I was born a bastard. She deserves nothing better than a man with a false name, fine clothes, and a sham accent. It’s not important that I have no family and no religion. I don’t believe in sacred causes, or honor, or unselfish motives. I can’t be innocent enough for her. I never was. But why should that matter to her?” His lips pulled into a sneer. “A match between us wouldn’t be a gift of fate, Raiford. It would be a bloody joke.”

  Alex dropped the argument immediately. “Apparently you know best. Pardon, but I have to go search for my wife, who’s probably fending off her own set of admirers. Unlike you, I have a jealous streak as wide as the Thames.”

  “More like the Atlantic,” Derek muttered, watching his friend wander off.

  He turned his attention back to Sara and the bucks who hovered around her “jealous streak” couldn’t begin to describe how he felt. He despised the men who sought her favor. He wanted to snarl and gnash his teeth at them, and take her far away from their roving hands and leering gazes. But what could he do with her? The idea of making her his paramour was an unthinkable as marrying her. Either way, he would ruin her. The only choice was to stay away, but that seemed as simple a solution as stopping himself from breathing. The physical attraction was powerful, but more irresistible than that was the alarming feeling he had when he was near her ... a feeling that came perilously close to happiness. No man on earth was less entitled to that than he was.

  He was nowhere in sight, but Sara had the feeling the Craven was watching her. Earlier he had been mingling and exchanging pleasantries with guests. It hadn’t been lost on Sara that women were sending him all manner of signals; flirtatious glances, playful taps on his shoulder with their fans, and in one case the bold, deliberate brush of a thinly covered breast against his arm. Women were fascinated by his mixture of earthiness and elegance. It was as if there was a dark, smoldering fire buried beneath a layer of ice, and each woman hoped to be the one to break through his reserve.

  “Miss Fielding,” Viscount Tavisham interrupted her thoughts. He stood an inch too close and stared at her with soulful brown eyes. “Perhaps you would honor me with another waltz?”

  Sara smiled at him blankly while she thought of a suitable reply. She had danced with Tavisham twice already; a third time was out of the question. It would be noticed by the guests, and it would lead to improper speculation. Not that she didn’t like the impulsive young rake, but she didn’
t wish to encourage his attentions. “I’m afraid the dancing has made me rather fatigued,” she said with an apologetic smile. Actually, it was true. Several waltzes and vigorous quadrilles had made the soles of her feet sore.

  “Then we will find a quiet place to sit and talk.” He offered his arm in a courtly gesture. Clearly there was no way to avoid him. Sighing inwardly, Sara accompanied him to the long gallery with its multitude of French doors, and sat on a polished wooden bench with an ornately carved back. “Would you like some punch?” Tavisham offered, and she nodded. “Don’t go anywhere,” he admonished. “Don’t even bat an eye. I’ll return momentarily. And if any man approaches you, tell him you’re spoken for.”

  Giving him a mock salute, Sara pretended to freeze in place, and he grinned at her before leaving. Couples promenaded back and forth along the gallery, admiring the view of the terrace and the fountain in the snow-covered garden outside. Toying with the sparkling beadwork on her gown, Sara thought of the last evening she had worn it. A soft smile curved her lips.

  He had been carrying her spectacles right next to his heart. A man wouldn’t do something like that unless ...

  The thought filled her with nervous energy. She stood up, ignoring the protesting twinge of her feet. The garden was visible through the frosted windows, the hedges delicately coated with ice, the shadows cold and quiet. Pale blue moonlight gleamed over the frozen fountain and the bordered walkways. After the crowded, music-filled ballroom, the quiet garden was an inviting sanctuary. Obeying a sudden impulse, Sara slipped to the French doors and turned one of the gilded knobs. She shivered as a winter breeze caressed her bare shoulders, and closed the door behind her.

  The garden was like a snow palace. Carefully she made her way along a graveled path, filling her lungs with refreshing air. Lost in her thoughts, she wandered until she heard a sound behind her. It might have been the rustle of another breeze ... or her name, whispered in a low voice. Sara turned around, the ice-dusted hem of her skirt whirling and settling at her feet. He had been watching her, she thought, and a winsome smile broke over her face as she looked at the man standing a few yards away.