Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(64)

After Lily left to attend to her guests, Sara rang for a maid to help with her toilette. A French maid a few years older than herself appeared. The woman was blond and small, with round pink cheeks and a droll smile. “Je m’appelle Françoise,” the maid informed her, setting a pair of curling tongs near the coals beyond the fireplace grate. Busily Françoise bustled about the room, selecting a fresh gown from the armoire and holding it up for Sara’s approval.

“Yes, that one will be fine,” Sara said, removing her jacket and bonnet and unbuttoning the front of her wrinkled traveling gown. She sat at the small satinwood dressing table and pulled the pins from her disheveled hair.

The russet and golden-brown locks fell down her back. There was a pleased exclamation behind her. “Comme vos cheveux sont beaux, mademoiselle!” Reverently Françoise brushed out the heavy length of hair until it was a smooth, shining curtain.

“Do you speak any English, Françoise?” Sara asked the maid doubtfully. Françoise met her eyes in the mirror and shook her head with a smile. “I wish you did. Frenchwomen are supposed to know all about matters of the heart. I need some advice.”

Hearing the disconsolate note in her voice, Françoise said something that sounded sympathetic and encouraging.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Sara continued. “By leaving Perry I’ve thrown away what I thought I always wanted. I hardly recognize myself, Françoise! The feelings I have for another man are so compelling…I’m afraid that I might take whatever I can have of him, no matter how fleeting the moment is. If I heard some other woman confessing to such thoughts, I would condemn her as a fool and worse. I’ve always considered myself a sensible person, guided more by reason than by passion. I can’t explain what’s come over me. All I know is that from the moment I met him—” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Sighing, she rubbed her aching forehead. “I don’t think time will help. It hasn’t so far.”

There was a long silence as the maid brushed her hair in soothing strokes. Françoise wore a thoughtful expression, as if she were contemplating the situation. It didn’t matter that they spoke different languages—any woman who had ever suffered heartbreak could recognize it easily. Finally the maid paused in her brushing and gestured toward Sara’s heart. “Faire ce que le coeur vous dit, mademoiselle.”

“Follow my heart?” Sara asked in bewilderment. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.” Placidly the girl reached for a narrow blue silk ribbon and began to weave it through the loose locks of hair.

“That could be very dangerous,” Sara whispered.

Several minutes later Sara finished buttoning the high collar of her gray gown and checked her appearance in the mirror. She was pleased by the results of the maid’s efforts. Her hair had been neatly confined on top of her head in a heavy plait, while a few wisps at her temples had been curled into ringlets. Thanking Françoise, Sara left the room and wandered toward the grand staircase. Nervously she considered joining one of the ladies’ gatherings downstairs for some tea and conversation. She hoped the women would be friendly, or at least tolerant of her presence.

Pausing in the hallway to stare at a marble sculpture poised in a semi-circular niche, Sara tried to bolster her courage. She was in awe of the guests downstairs, and half-afraid of them. Lily had said the gathering included ambassadors, politicians, artists, and even a visiting colonial governor and his family. Sara was well-aware that she had nothing in common with them. No doubt they would consider her gauche and unsophisticated. Perhaps this was how Derek Craven felt, hobnobbing with aristocrats who were disdainfully aware of his origins. Poor Mr. Craven, she thought sympathetically. Suddenly she was aware of an icy tingling on her neck, and every hair on her body stood erect. She turned around slowly.

Derek was standing behind her, looking far from deserving of anyone’s sympathy. He stared at her like a jaded sultan surveying his latest female acquisition. His dark handsomeness was matched only by his extraordinary self-possession. “Where is your fiancé?” he asked in a distinctly unfriendly tone.

Sara was unnerved by his threatening stillness. “I don’t have a…That is, h-he…We’re not going to marry.”

“He didn’t propose?”

“No…well, yes, but…” Sara stepped back instinctively. Derek moved to close the distance between them. As they talked, she continued to edge away, and he followed like a stalking cat. “Mr. Kingswood proposed a few nights after my return,” Sara said breathlessly. “I accepted. I was very happy at first…well, not precisely happy, but—”

“What happened?”

“There were problems. He said I had changed. I suppose he was right, although—”

“He broke the engagement?”

“I…I think a case could be made that we broke it together…” As he advanced on her, she found herself backing into a nearby room, almost stumbling over a delicate gilded chair. “Mr. Craven, I wish you would stop prowling after me this way!”

His hard stare was relentless. “You knew I would be here this weekend.”

“I didn’t!”

“You planned this with Lily.”

“I most certainly did not—” She broke off with a startled squeak as he reached her and clamped his hands on her shoulders.