Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(61)

“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 br**sts 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 na**d 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.