by Lisa Kleypas
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 parishoners. 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 Wolverton,” 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 Raiford’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 dipped 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 dub, 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 Joyce 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.”
