Dreaming of You (22 page)

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 that 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.

“Somehow I thought you might follow me,” she said breathlessly. “At least, I hoped you would.”

The stern cast of Derek’s face concealed a torrent of repressed emotion. How could she smile at him like that? He was shaking with cold and heat and need. God, he couldn’t bear the way she looked at him, as if she could see down to the darkest recesses
of his soul. She began to approach him. Without meaning to he reached her in three strides and snatched her in his arms. Her joyous laugh tickled his ear as he lifted her off her feet. Urgently his mouth roved across her face with rough kisses that stung her cheek, her chin, her forehead. She caught his lean jaw in her hands to hold him still. The moonlight was captured in her glistening eyes as she stared up at him. “I want to be with you,” she whispered. “No matter what happens.”

No one in his life had ever said such a thing to him. Derek tried to think above the pounding of his heart, but she brought her soft mouth to his, and all reason was lost. Hungrily he bent over her, trying not to hurt her with the force of his kisses, trembling with an emotion as ferocious as it was tender.

Lily’s teeth chattered from the cold as she crept stealthily through the garden and positioned herself behind a frozen tree. Catching sight of Derek and Sara in the distance, locked in a passionate embrace, Lily broke into a wide grin. She had to restrain herself from doing a little victory dance. Rubbing her hands together to warm them, she considered a variety of matchmaking strategies.

“Lily.”

The quiet whisper gave her a start, just before her husband’s arms closed around her. “Why the hell are you out here?” Alex murmured, pulling her back against his tall body.

“You’ve been following me!” Lily exclaimed indignantly, keeping her voice low.

“Yes—and you’ve been following Derek and Miss Fielding.”

“I had to, darling,” she explained innocently. “I’ve been helping them.”

“Oh,” he said sardonically. “At first it appeared as if you were spying on them.” Ignoring her protests, Alex began to drag his wife away from the scene. “I think you’ve ‘helped’ enough, my sweet.”

“Spoilsport,” Lily accused, pulling against his firm grip. “I just want to watch a moment longer—”

“Now. Leave the poor devil alone.”

Determined to have her way, Lily braced her feet against the stone border of a pathway. “Not yet…Alex…
oof!
” With one easy tug, he had jerked her off balance, causing her to fall against him.

“Watch your step,” he advised mildly, as if the stumble had been her fault.

Her dark eyes met his twinkling gray ones. “You heavy-handed, overbearing
tyrant,
” she accused, and began to giggle as she pounded his chest.

Grinning, Alex subdued her struggles and kissed her amorously. He stopped only when she was out of breath. “At the moment Derek doesn’t need your help.” His hands wandered boldly over her tulle and satin ball gown. “But I have a problem that needs immediate attention.”

“Oh? What problem is that?”

His lips wandered to her neck. “I’ll have to show you in private.”

“Now?”
she asked, scandalized. “Really, Alex, you can’t mean—”

“Now,” he assured her, and capturing her hand in his, began to walk her back to the mansion.

Lily’s fingers laced with his, while her heart beat in anticipation. In spite of his obstinate, overbearing nature, she thought him the most wonderful husband in
the world, and was about to tell him so, when suddenly they nearly bumped into the solitary woman who crossed the path before them.

Lady Ashby whipped around and eyed them both like a baleful cat. From the seething anger on her face, Lily guessed that she had also followed Derek, and had seen him kissing Sara Fielding. “Lady Ashby,” Lily said sweetly. “Rather a cool night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

“It’s a relief from all the mismatched clutter inside,” Joyce replied.

Lily, whose taste in decorating was universally praised as being the epitome of elegance, took offense at hearing her home described as a “mismatched clutter.” “Now see here—” she began, and winced as Alex’s grip became painful.

“Sheathe your claws, ladies.” Alex pinned Joyce with an autocratic stare. “My wife and I would be delighted to accompany you back to the ball, Lady Ashby.”

“I don’t wish—” Joyce objected, but was presented with Alex’s rock-solid arm.

“I insist,” he said, ignoring his wife’s glare. It was clear that given the choice, the two women would much rather sneak back to the garden and spy on the embracing couple. In that moment Alex almost pitied Derek Craven, who was apparently neck-deep in trouble. On the other hand, Craven had brought it all on himself. Alex smothered a wry laugh as he was reminded of a quote he had once read…“These impossible women! How they do get around us!”

Too absorbed in each other to notice anything around them, Derek and Sara wound together, exchanging kisses of greedy violence, until the heat of desire was
stoked to a sweltering blaze. Derek’s feet spread to contain her body more closely within his embrace. His lips forged a path down her exposed throat. “Oh…” The catch of sound came from her throat as she felt the hot swipe of his tongue on her skin. Derek bent his knees and pulled her high against him, and breathed deeply in the perfumed vale where her breasts were pushed together.

Suddenly he lifted his head and buried his lips in the mass of her curls. “No,” he said, his voice muffled. His large body was still except for the rhythmic force of his breathing. Somehow it seemed as if he were waiting for her to convince him of something he wanted very badly to believe.

Honesty was too much a part of Sara’s nature for her to keep her feelings hidden. Although it might result in disaster, she had no choice but to lay her heart before him. “I need you,” she said, combing her fingers through his black hair.

“You don’t even know me.”

She turned her face and pressed her lips to the thin, healed-over scar, lingering in the space between his thick brows. “I know that you care for me.”

Derek did not pull away from her tender ministrations, but his tone was savage. “Not enough, or I wouldn’t be here with you. I wish to hell I had the decency to leave you alone.”

“I’ve been alone for far too long,” she said passionately. “There’s no one for me; not Perry, not any of the men in the village, or anyone inside that ballroom. No one but you.”

“If you’d seen anything of the world, you’d know there’s a hell of a lot more to choose from than Perry Kingswood and me. Thousands of ordinary, honorable
men who would fall to their knees in gratitude for a woman like you.”

“I don’t want anyone honorable. I want you.”

She felt him smile unwillingly against her ear. “Sweet angel,” he whispered. “You can do far better than me.”

“I don’t agree.” Ignoring his attempt to ease her away, she snuggled under his chin.

Reluctantly Derek folded her against his warm body. “You’re getting cold. I’ll take you inside.”

“I’m not cold.” Sara had no intention of going anywhere. She had dreamed of this moment for too many nights.

Derek glanced over her head at the light coming from the ballroom. “You should be in there dancing with Harry Marshall…or Lord Banks.”

She frowned at the mention of the two callow youths. “Is that what you think I deserve? You would pair me with some shallow, conceited dandy and claim that I’ve made a splendid match? Well, I’m beginning to think it’s a convenient excuse, this notion of yours that I’m too good for you! Perhaps the truth is that I’m lacking something. You must think I wouldn’t satisfy your needs, or—”

“No,” Derek said swiftly.

“I suppose you would rather be consorting with all those married women who keep whispering in your ear and making eyes at you, and touching you with their fans—”

“Sara—”

“Writers are very observant, perceptive people, and I can tell exactly which women you’ve consorted with, just by watching—”

Derek smothered her tirade with his mouth. When
she was quiet, he lifted his head. “None of them mattered to me,” he said roughly. “There were no promises, no obligations on either side. I felt nothing for them.” He looked away from her and swore, aware of the futility of trying to explain it to her. But she had to understand, so that she would have no illusions about him. He forced himself to go on. “Some of them claimed to love me. As soon as they said it, I left without looking back.”

“Why?”

“There’s no place in my life for that. I don’t want it. I have no use for it.”

Sara stared at his averted face. In spite of his un-emotional tone, she sensed the tumult inside him. He was lying to himself. He needed to be loved more than any person she had ever met. “Then what
do
you want?” she asked softly.