by Lisa Kleypas
Sara smiled faintly as she slipped off the black cloak, revealing the sumptuous curves of her figure outlined snugly in blue velvet. “Good evening,” she said, lowering her voice at least an octave. “You must be Ellison. Miss Fielding has told me about you.”
Ellison, who had confided everything to her, from his mother’s recent illness to his fondness for kidney pie, clearly didn’t recognize her. “You’re a guest of Miss Fielding’s?”
“I’m very close to her,” Sara assured him. “She said I would be welcome tonight.” She shrugged her silky shoulders. “However, if that’s not the case—”
“Wait, madam ...” A trace of wonder entered his usually impassive voice. “May I ask your name?”
She leaned close to him. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she confided. “I’m afraid my reputation would tend to make things quite inconvenient.”
Ellison’s face turned pink. It was easy to read the thoughts that whirled through his mind. A beautiful, mysterious woman, with a vague connection to Miss Fielding ... “M-madam,” he stuttered in barely restrained excitement. “Could it be? May I ask if you are ... M-Mathilda? The real Mathilda?”
Her red lips pursed thoughtfully. “It’s possible.” She handed her cloak to him and glided into the building. She felt no shame at her ruse. After all, if anyone had a right to assume Mathilda’s identity, it was her creator!
A cluster of three young rakes who had stood behind Sara at the entrance stared after her eagerly. “Did you hear that?” one of them gasped. “Hang me if that ain’t Mathilda.”
“It could be a masquerade,” one of his companions pointed out reasonably.
“No, no, that’s her,” the first insisted. “I’ve a friend who spent an evening with Mathilda in Bath last June. She’s just as he described her.”
“Let’s follow her.”
“Mathilda couldn’t have been in Bath last June,” the third argued. “I heard she was touring the continent with one of the Berkleys.”
“Was that before or after she joined the convent?”
Sara did not notice the three men debating and following her. Having caught sight of Worthy, she made her way through the central hazard room. Her progress was impeded by a multitude of men suddenly offering to bring her punch, asking her to dance, pleading for her attention. Someone pressed a glass into her hand, and she accepted it with a smile. Pausing to sip the spicy mixture, she savored the flow of warmth through her veins. Gracefully she lifted a black-gloved hand to push a dangling curl away from her forehead, and smiled at the crowd around her. “Gentlemen,” she said in a throaty voice, “you’re quite a dashing assortment, and I’m flattered by your attentions, but you’re all speaking at once. I can only manage three or four of you at a time.”
They renewed their efforts enthusiastically. “Miss, may I escort you to one of the card rooms—”
“—a glass of wine?”
“—a sweetmeat or two?”
“—if you would dance the waltz with me—”
Sara declined all the invitations with a regretful pout. “Perhaps later. I must leave to greet an old friend, or he’ll be heartbroken at my neglect.”
“I’ll soon expire of a broken heart myself,” one of them exclaimed, and the gathering attempted to follow Sara as she slipped to the side of the room where Worthy stood.
Smiling in triumph, Sara stood before him and made a small curtsey. “Well?” she demanded.
The factotum bowed deferentially. “Welcome to Craven’s, madam.”
As the factotum resumed his preoccupied perusal of the room, Sara frowned slightly and inched closer. “Are you looking for someone?” she asked in her normal voice, following the direction of his gaze. “Is something happening?”
Suddenly Worthy’s eyes were riveted on her. He removed his spectacles, polished them roughly, and replaced them to stare at her in amazement. “Miss Fielding?” he asked in a shocked whisper. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Didn’t you recognize me?” She beamed at him. “Do you like the transformation? Lady Raiford is responsible for all of it”
Worthy choked and stammered, and could not seem to reply. As he glanced at her lusciously exposed figure, his face turned pale with fatherly dismay. Sara accepted another glass of punch from a passing servant and drained it thirstily. “How delicious this is.” she exclaimed. “It’s very warm in here, isn’t it? That music is enthralling—I can scarcely keep my feet still. I’m going to dance tonight, the quadrille and the waltz and—”
“Miss Fielding,” Worthy gasped, “that punch is much too strong for you. I’m going to have Gill bring you a drink without spirits—”
“No, I want to drink what everyone else is drinking.” She inclined her head toward him until her fruit-scented breath fogged his spectacles. “And don’t call me Miss Fielding. There’s no Miss Fielding here tonight.”
Worthy stuttered helplessly, polishing his spectacles once more. In the space of a few seconds he prepared a speech that would herald her immediate departure from the ball. He had never suspected Sara Fielding could be transformed into a blood-stirring temptress. Everything about her was different; her voice, her movements, her entire demeanor. Even the shape of her face seemed to have changed. By the time Worthy fitted the spectacles back onto his nose, she was gone, whisked away by a pair of dandies who managed to look bored and lecherous at the same time. The factotum began to signal frantically for Gill, hoping that between the two of them, they could avert the coming disaster. If Mr. Craven happened to see her ...
Sensitive to Worthy’s harried expression and wild gestures, Gill approached from the opposite side of the octagonal-shaped room. “Trouble?” the young man asked.
“Miss Fielding is here! We must find her at once.”
Gill shrugged, seeing no reason for concern. “She’s probably in a corner somewhere, watching and listening to everyone as usual.”
“Miss Fielding is not herself this evening,” Worthy said tersely. “It’s a dangerous situation, Gill.”
“You sound as if you expect her to cause some sort of trouble,” Gill said, and laughed at the notion. “That sweet, quiet little spinster ...”
“That sweet, quiet spinster is capable of setting this entire club on its ear,” Worthy hissed. “Find her, Gill, before Mr. Craven does. She’s wearing a blue dress and a black mask.”
“That describes at least two dozen women here,” Gill pointed out. “And I don’t think I could recognize her without her spectacles.” He poked Worthy’s arm, his interest occupied by a more urgent matter. “By the by, do you know what I heard just before I came over here? Mathilda may be attending the ball. Mathilda herself! Well, I’d like to hear Miss Fielding try to claim there’s no Mathilda after this.”
“Find her,” Worthy said in a strangled voice.
“Mathilda?”
“Miss Fielding.”
“I’ll try,” Gill said dubiously, and sauntered away.
Worthy scanned the crowd for a sight of Sara’s blue gown, his foot tapping the floor. As he considered alerting more of the club’s employees to search for the elusive Miss Fielding, he heard a soft drawl that sent a chill down his spine.
“Looking for someone?”
After gulping painfully, Worthy turned to face Derek Craven’s grim countenance. “Sir?” he croaked.
“I know she’s here,” Derek said, his green eyes hard behind the stark black mask he wore. “I saw her not a minute ago. Slinking around to look for me, asking questions—she’s as subtle as an elephant stampede. I hope I can keep from killing the bitch with my bare hands—or giving her a scar to match the one she gave me.”
With equal parts of relief and horror, Worthy realized Craven was referring to Lady Joyce Ashby. “Lady Ashby had the effrontery to attend the ball?” Temporarily he forgot about the problem of Sara Fielding. “Would you like me to remove her from the club, sir?”
“Not quite yet,” Derek said grimly. “First I’m going t
o talk to her.”
Joyce Ashby waited by a massive column, watching the milling crowd like a cat studying its prey. Her slender body was draped in a gold silk gown that matched her hair. A mask of gold and silver feathers covered her narrow, perfectly sculpted face.
Suddenly a clenching pain attacked the back of her head, as a large hand twisted in the mass of her curls. The unseen man behind her twined his fingers more tightly, preventing her from turning her head. Joyce’s breath escaped in a hiss of pain. Slowly she relaxed. “Derek,” she murmured, staying perfectly still.
His voice was low and filled with hatred. “You stupid bitch.” His hand twisted until she inhaled sharply and arched to ease the pull on her scalp.
“I wanted to see your face,” she gasped. “That’s why I came. I wanted to explain—”
“I know why you’re here.”
“It was wrong of me, Derek. I didn’t want to hurt you. But you left me no recourse.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I can’t let you leave me,” Joyce said steadily. “I won’t. I’ve been manipulated and abandoned by every man I’ve ever depended on. The first time was my father—”
“I don’t care,” Derek interrupted, but she continued insistently, ignoring the pain of his grip in her hair.
“I want you to understand. I was forced to marry at the age of fifteen. The bridegroom was as old as my grandfather. I despised Lord Ashby at first sight, the lecherous old goat. Can you imagine what it was like, climbing into bed with that?” Her voice turned acid. “His wrinkled skin, his bad teeth, his body shriveled with age ... oh, quite the impassioned lover he was. I begged my father not to sell me to an old man, but he was mesmerized by the thought of the Ashby lands and wealth. My family profited greatly by the marriage.”
“So did you,” Derek pointed out.
“I promised myself that from then on I would take whatever pleasure I could find. Never again would I let anyone control me. I’m different from all the spineless bitches who allow men to mold their lives however it pleases them. If I allowed you to toss me aside so easily when you tired of me, I would be nothing, Derek. I would have been reduced to the state of the fifteen-year- old child I once was, forced to submit to the will of an indifferent man. I won’t be abandoned, you smug cockney bastard.”
She caught her breath as she was spun around and brought face to face with Derek’s harshly shadowed countenance. He had removed his mask. “There’s your revenge.” he snarled. “Does it please you?”
Transfixed, Joyce stared at the stitched wound on his face. “I did hurt you,” she murmured, sounding awed and contrite, and eerily satisfied.
Derek fitted the mask back over his face. When he spoke again, there was a weary note in his voice. “Get out of here.”
She seemed to be empowered by the sight of his scar. “I still want you.”
“I don’t heel to anyone.” he said roughly. “Especially not to a well-worn little purse like you.”
“Come back to me,” Joyce entreated. “I’ll make life very sweet for you.” Her smile was tainted with menace. “You’re still handsome, Derek. I would hate to see your face cut to ribbons.”
“Until you, I’d never met a woman who had to threaten a man into her bed.” The barb found its mark—he saw a flush collect at the outline of her mask. “Don’t cross me again, Joyce,” he said through his teeth, taking her wrist in a grip that made her wince. “Or I’ll make you wish you were dead.”
“I’d rather have your retaliation than your indifference.”
With a sound of disgust, Derek motioned for a club steward, who was standing several feet away and talking sotto voce with an exotically dressed woman. Quickly he approached them. “Take her out of here/.”Derek muttered, shoving Joyce toward him. “And if I see her back again tonight, I’ll have your head.”
“Yes, sir.” The steward ushered Joyce away with quiet haste.
Feeling unclean, Derek took a drink from the tray of a passing servant and downed it quickly. He grimaced, disliking the cloying sweetness of the punch. It was strong stuff, the liquor passing smoothly down his gullet and settling with fiery warmth in his belly. He waited for it to numb the boiling resentment, the distaste, and worst of all the twinge of pity. He understood what it was like to rail against one’s own helplessness, the desperate struggle for dominance. Many times he had sought revenge for wrongs done to him. It would be the height of hypocrisy for him to pretend he was any better than Joyce Ashby.
The noise in the room became almost deafening with the antics of the crowd at the hazard table. Derek hadn’t noticed the unruly group before, having been completely immersed in the scene with Joyce. Setting the empty cup aside, he drew closer to the hazard table. He checked the work of his employees; the croupiers raking in the dice, the “flasher” hired to complain publicly about the bank’s “losses” and thereby draw heavier play, the waiters who ensured that everyone had glasses filled with punch or wine. The only two who weren’t attending to their jobs were the ushers, who were supposed to bring the club patrons upstairs when they desired to visit a house wench.
But no one wanted to go upstairs. The group of boisterous men, spanning all ages and levels of social consequence, was gathered around one woman. She stood at the side of the table, tossing dice from a cup onto the green felt. She was flirting simultaneously with at least a half-dozen players.
Derek smiled unwillingly, his bitterness fading a little. It had been years since he’d seen a woman handle a crowd of admirers so deftly—not since Lily Lawson in her gambling days. Fascinated, he wondered where the hell she had come from. He knew about all the new arrivals in London, and he’d never seen her before. She must be some diplomat’s wife, or some exclusive courtesan. Her lips were red and pouting, her pale white shoulders enticingly bare above the blue velvet of her gown. She laughed frequently, tossing her head back in a way that caused her chestnut curls to dance. Like the other men present, Derek was captivated by her figure, the luscious round breasts, the tiny waist, all revealed by a well-fitted gown that was unlike the shapeless Grecian styles of the other women.
“A toast to the loveliest bosom in London!” Lord Bromley, a rakish young ne’er-do-well, exclaimed. Titillated and excited, the crowd raised their glasses with a cheer. Waiters rushed to bring more liquor.
“Miss,” one of them begged, “I entreat you to cast my dice for me.”
“Whatever good luck I have is yours,” she assured him, and shook the dice in the box so vigorously that her breasts quivered beneath their shallow covering. The temperature in the room escalated rapidly as a host of admiring sighs greeted the display. Derek decided to intervene before the crowd’s mood became too highly charged. Either the vixen didn’t realize the lust she was inciting, or she was doing it deliberately. Either way, he wanted to meet her.
Sara cast the dice and laughed in delight as a triple came up. “House pays thirty to one!” the croupier called, and the group’s roar of appreciation was equaled only by a clamor for the woman to roll the dice again. Before she could say a word, she was neatly plucked out of the crowd by a pair of strong hands.
The protests were quelled immediately as the men recognized that the abductor was Derek Craven himself. Their tempers were mollified as Derek motioned for a bevy of seductive house wenches, who filtered through the group with inviting smiles.
Slowly Sara looked up at her captor’s masked face. “You took me away from the game.”
“You were about to cause a riot in my club.”
“Your club? Then you must be Mr. Craven.” Her red lips curved provocatively. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. How can I make amends?”
He studied her intently. “Come have a walk with me.”
“Is that all? I thought you might make a more daring request.”
“You seem disappointed.”
She shrugged. “With your reputation, Mr. Craven, it’s only reasonable to expect an indecent proposal.”
H
is mouth quirked with a subtly flirtatious smile ... a smile unlike any he had ever given Sara Fielding. “There’s every chance I’ll oblige you.”
She laughed throatily. “There’s a chance I might accept.”
All at once Sara thought she had given herself away. Something in her voice had awakened a spark of recognition. He was staring at her far too intensely. “Who are you?”
Sara tilted her head back to look at him, daring him to guess. “Don’t you know me?”
The hint of a smile disappeared. “I intend to.”
A sense of reality began to pierce the pleasant fog surrounding her. Sara became uneasy, taking a half-step away from him. “It’s possible I arrived with someone,” she said, wishing for the return of her earlier recklessness. She needed another drink.
“You’re not leaving with him.”
“What if I’m married?”
“You still won’t leave with him.”
Sara laughed and feigned alarm. “I’ve been warned about men like you.”
He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I hope you didn’t listen.” His lips brushed the sensitive curve of her jaw. Sara closed her eyes while a nerveless quivering took over her body. She tried to summon the strength to pull away from him, but instead she stood against him docilely, as if she had no will of her own. There was the delicate catch of his teeth against her earlobe, and the low murmur of his voice. “Come with me.”
She couldn’t. Her knees were too weak. But somehow she allowed him to lead her to the next room, into the midst of the whirling couples. His supportive arm slid around her, and his vital grip enclosed her hand. So this was what it felt like to be held for too closely, to have a man stare at her with desire in his eyes. “You’ve never been here before,” he said.
“You’re wrong.”
He shook his head. “I’d have remembered you.”
“Actually,” she said in a hushed voice, “I’m not here now. This isn’t happening at all. You’re just visiting a dream of mine.”
