Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(95)

Derek was at first puzzled and then wryly resigned to the small uproar they created whenever they appeared in public. “Next month they’ll take an interest in someone else,” he assured Sara. “We’re a temporary curiosity.”

What he didn’t expect was the fascination of the populace for a pair of commoners who lived like royalty. They were labeled “refreshing” by one source, “upstarts” by another. A caricature by George Cruikshank depicted them as flash gentry trying to ape the rarefied manners of the elite. The Cravens were a window through which ordinary people could view the lives of the upper crust and imagine themselves in such a position.

The interest was stirred even more when it became known that Sara was the reclusive author of Mathilda. There was speculation in coffeehouses and pubs across the city about whether Mrs. Craven was Mathilda in disguise. Sara heard the name being called out from a crowd observing the arrival of theatergoers as they attended a production at Drury Lane. “Look ’ere, Mathilda!” a man called out as she emerged from the carriage. “Show us yer face!” As Sara glanced toward him in bewilderment, a cheer scattered across the gathering. “Mathilda! Ye’re a lovely sight, dearie!”

“ ‘Show us your face,’ ” Derek muttered beneath his breath as he escorted Sara up the front steps. “Soon you’ll be declared public property.”

Sara began to laugh. “I think they just want to believe there is a Mathilda somewhere.”

Before going to their box seats, they drifted apart to exchange social pleasantries with the multitude of acquaintances who swarmed around them. Husbands who were assured that Derek was no longer crawling into their wives’ beds had begun to treat him with cautious pleasantness. People Sara barely knew or had never met took special care to fawn over her. Her hands were repeatedly decorated with kisses from dandies and smooth-voiced foreigners, while she was overwhelmed with praises for her hair, her gown, her charm. For the most part they were respectful…except for one insolent knave whose voice was all too familiar.

“Damn my sparklers if it ain’t Mathilda!”

Sara turned warily to confront Ivo Jenner’s cheeky grin. “Mr. Jenner,” she said, acknowledging him with a polite nod.

His sly gaze roved over her. “Fancy little warming pan, you are. Crawen’s a lucky bastard to ’ave you in his bed ewery night. ’E doesn’t deserve such a fine splice as you.”

“Mr. Craven is an exemplary husband,” she murmured, trying to edge away from him.

“Fine-feathered gentleman, your ’usband,” Jenner scoffed. “Tell ’im ’e’s nofing but an apple-polishing cockney bastard—”

“If you don’t leave right now,” Sara interrupted, “you’ll have a chance to tell him yourself.”

Jenner followed her gaze, his insolent smile broadening as he saw Derek shouldering his way toward them. By the time he reached them, Jenner had melted into the crowd.

Derek seized Sara’s arm. “What did he say to you?”

She blinked in wary surprise at his rough tone. “Nothing of any import.”

“Tell me.”

“It was nothing,” she said, wincing in pain. She twisted her arm free. “Derek…please, don’t make a scene.”

He seemed not to hear her. His gaze was riveted on Jenner’s retreating figure. “I’ll teach that weedy bastard to lay a blasted finger on what’s mine,” he growled.

Sara’s lips tightened in annoyance. He was behaving like a mongrel fighting over a bone. She knew why Jenner always angered him so easily—Jenner’s swaggering cockiness reminded Derek of his own past. “I’m not your property,” she said.

Although Sara’s voice was as gentle as always, there was a cool note in it that raised Derek’s hackles. He looked at her sharply. She had never spoken to him that way before. He didn’t like it. “The hell you’re not,” he said gruffly, daring her to argue.

She kept her gaze averted from his. “I would like to go to our seats now.”

For the rest of the evening Derek was infuriated by the reserve in her manner. She virtually ignored him, all her attention focused on the play. It was clear he had displeased her. Sara’s withdrawn manner was worse punishment than any argument could have been. He steeled himself to be just as cool to her. If she was expecting to wring an apology from him, she could wait until the devil went blind. She was his—he had a perfect right to defend her against the advances of scum like Ivo Jenner!

After they returned home and retired for the evening, they kept to their own sides of the bed. It was the first night of their marriage that they didn’t make love. Derek was miserably conscious of her soft body so close by, his own acute desire for her, and, even worse, his need for her affection. In the morning he was vastly relieved when Sara awoke in her usual good humor, the previous night apparently forgotten.

Derek lounged in the bathing tub while she perched on a nearby chair and read the daily paper to him. The Times carried detailed descriptions of Sara’s ivory gown and the five-carat blue diamond on her finger, the Cravens’ reported opinions of the play, and speculation on whether Derek was truly a “reformed rake.” “There’s not a word of truth in any of it,” Derek said. “Except the part where they said you were resplendent.”