Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(67)

For the better part of the afternoon Sara was cloistered with a group of young matrons whose eager gossip reminded her of the quote, “Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.” Quickly she discovered that her fears of being snubbed were groundless. The women were pleasant and friendly, and far more out-spoken than Sara’s village friends. Among them were Mrs. Adele Bartlett, a wealthy widow with an opulent figure and brilliant red hair, and Lady Mountbain, a mellow-voiced brunette with an earthy sense of humor. Two lively young women were seated next to Lily Raiford; Lady Elizabeth Burghley and Lady Stamford, Lily’s own sister. The group talked with shocking frankness about their husbands and lovers, exchanging bon mots and giggling quietly. It was not lost on Sara that the conversations of these aristocratic ladies bore a strong resemblance to those of the house wenches at Craven’s.

Although Lily seemed to enjoy the gathering, her gaze often strayed to the window. Sara guessed that she would have preferred walking outside or riding, rather than being confined indoors. Noticing Lily’s lack of participation in the discussion, one of the women addressed her nonchalantly. “Lily, darling, why don’t you tell us about your husband? After all these years of domesticity, how often does Lord Raiford demand his conjugal rights?”

Lily surprised them all by blushing. “Often enough,” she said with a private smile, refusing to say any more. They teased and laughed, and regarded her with envy, for Lily wore the look of a happily married woman—a rarity among the ton.

Lady Mountbain curled in a corner of a cushioned settee. Her wide, scarlet-hued mouth stretched into a speculative smile. “Enough talk about husbands,” she declared in her silky-rough voice. “I much prefer the subject of un married men—their activities are so much more interesting. Derek Craven, for example. There is something positively animal about him. Whenever he’s near, I can’t take my eyes from the man. Perhaps it’s that black hair…or the scar…”

“Yes, the scar,” Adele Bartlett added dreamily. “It makes him look even more of a brute.”

“Wickedly unprincipled,” someone else added in a tone of relish.

Adele nodded emphatically. “I’m so pleased you invited him to the weekend, Lily. It’s so exciting, having a dangerous man nearby. It makes one feel anything could happen.”

“Nonsense,” Lily said in reply to the comments. “Derek is no more dangerous than…than that cat near the hearth!”

A few gazes settled doubtfully on the sleeping animal, a fat and lazy tom who had far more interest in chasing after supper than after other felines. Reading their disbelief, Lily changed the subject adroitly. “No more talk about men—they’re bothersome creatures, and that is that. We have more important things to discuss!”

“Such as?” Adele was clearly wondering what could be more important than men.

“Did I happen to mention that we have an author in our midst?” Lily asked brightly. “You must talk to Sara—you loved the novel Mathilda, didn’t you?”

In order to keep from drawing attention to herself, Sara had taken an inconspicuous place in a chair near the corner. Suddenly she found herself the focus of every pair of eyes. A flood of excited questions erupted all at once.

“You wrote Mathilda?”

“My dear, you must tell us all about her! How did you meet?”

“How is she these days?”

Sara smiled and made a valiant attempt to reply, but she soon found that it didn’t matter what she said, for they all answered their own questions and went right on talking. Ruefully Sara glanced at Lily, who grinned and shrugged helplessly to show that the group was incorrigible.

Two hours before the appointed suppertime, the women began to disperse in order to change their gowns and ready themselves for a long evening. As she gazed around the room, Sara became aware of a new arrival, a blond woman to whom she hadn’t yet been introduced. Although the others gave the newcomer lackluster greetings, no one seemed inclined to claim her as a friend. Sara turned in her chair to glance at her.

The woman was slender and very striking. Her face was sharply sculpted, the nose aristocratically thin with a delicate point. Changeable eyes that held tones of blue, gray, and green were set deep below her plucked brows. A wealth of rich golden hair was cut with a fringe across her forehead and drawn on top of her head in a profusion of careless curls. Were there any warmth in her expression, she would have been stunningly beautiful. But the woman’s eyes were strangely flat and hard, like chips of stone. Her unswerving stare made Sara uneasy.

“And who are you?” she asked in a silky voice.

“Miss Sara Fielding, ma’am.”

“Sara,” the woman repeated, looking at her speculatively. “Sara.”

Uncomfortably Sara set her cup of tea down and began to brush invisible crumbs from her skirts. Noticing the others leaving the room, she wondered how she could follow suit without seeming rude.

“Where are you from?” the woman continued softly.

“Greenwood Corners, ma’am. It’s a small village not far from here.”

“But how sweet you are. Greenwood Corners. Of course. With a complexion as pure as a milkmaid’s, you would have to be from the country. And that delightful air of innocence…You make me feel quite protective. You’re not married, I see. Tell me, Sara, has any man yet claimed your affections?”