Malia Martin (8 page)

At mathematics, reading, and writing he might be a miserable failure, but at the game of love, Trevor was rather adept. He reveled at the sense of being on safe ground once again, slip-ping one arm around Sara’s waist and clasping the back of her head with his other hand. Her hair was smooth and soft against his fingers, and he groaned as he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

She opened for him, and he went deeper, smoothing his tongue over her teeth, then going past them to the underside of her lip. She tasted like no other woman he had ever experienced. It was not a taste he could name, just clean and pure and good.

“Ohhh,” Sara moaned, and Trevor could not agree more. Until she pushed away, shoving against his chest and staggering to her feet. She plastered her hand against her face, squinted her eyes shut, and took a deep breath. “We cannot do that.”

I
t had been the only thing, besides kissing the woman three days before, that had really felt good since Trevor had set foot upon English soil. “Why not? I wanted it . . .”

Before he could finish reminding her that she had started out wanting it also, the Duchess’s eyes snapped open. “You wanted it?” she mimicked him. “And you get everything you want, do you not, your grace?”

Trevor tapped his teeth together. He sensed another tirade, and truly, he enjoyed Sara in a tirade. He liked her hot brown eyes dark and her chest heaving. Since she obviously wouldn’t oblige him in the bedroom, he would take it where he could.

“You are a spoiled cad, sir!” Bending at the waist, Sara shoved a finger at his chest. Oh yes, good position. Her breasts pushed up against the neckline of her gown. “You take what you want, live as you want with absolutely no
thought to anyone besides yourself. Well, welcome to a new life, your grace. You cannot just prance about Paris, hanging the grand title of duke upon your nose and not earn it!”

Trevor tapped his finger against the arm of his chair and decided to goad her. She was so passionate when angry, and it was much more fun to watch her build to a nice healthy rage than do the work piled in front of him. “I would never prance, your grace. But I could, actually, hang anything I wanted upon my nose.”

“Oh!”

“Being a duke does give one much leeway when it comes to what one can and cannot do, does it not? Of course, as I said, I would not prance, and I wouldn’t flout my title, Duchess, because I never wanted it in the first place.”

“Of course!” Sara straightened as Trevor watched with regret. “You do not want the title.” She fluttered her hands about in a disgusted gesture. “So you pretend it is not there.” She curled her fingers so that her hands fisted before her. “But it
is
there! You are the Duke of Rawlston. And you
must
take care of Rawlston. You must be here for your people. I just cannot do it anymore.”

“But you have done quite a good job of it . . .”

“Oh!” She slapped her hands flat against the desk, leaning there for a moment. She shook her head. “You do not understand. This is a job you must do, your grace. I cannot do it, a steward
cannot do it. You must be a leader to these people. You must help them improve their lives. You must marry and provide an heir for this title.”

That was an awful lot of musts. Marry? Lead people? Trevor swallowed. He had absolutely no intention of staying at Rawlston any longer than it took to find an honest steward and throw money at the rest. Trevor ran his finger nervously under his cravat, pulling the silk material away from his neck.

Sara pushed away from the desk with a disgusted groan. “Why?” she asked, tilting her head back and speaking to the ceiling. “Our one chance: a young man with money. And he is a womanizing, lazy lout!” She yelled this last part, pierced him with a look reminiscent of a rather irate nanny he had endured at age seven, and stomped out of the room.

The silence she left behind was deafening. Trevor sat for a moment staring at the desk of paperwork. Sara’s last few comments had answered his first question of why they shouldn’t kiss. The woman expected much too much from him, and he liked to stay far away from people like that.

His father had been the same, and it had made for a childhood Trevor would rather forget. The great Sir Rutherford Phillips had expected his son to follow in his footsteps of high academic achievement and constant service to the King. And it had riled him no end, and Trevor had the whipping marks to prove it, that his son would never do well at anything worthwhile.

His father had expected much of him, and Trevor had failed. His mother had not expected anything at all, and he had failed her as well. After both of them had gone on to their final reward, Trevor had painstakingly rid his life of anyone who would need him in any way.

And for that reason, he would not be kissing the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston again. In fact, he very much wanted to run out the door of Rawlston Hall and never look back.

Trevor curled his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep them from trembling. The work piled on the desk seemed to mock him as he closed his eyes against it. The answer to his dilemma was not quite as simple as keeping his lips to himself, though. Rawlston, if the amount of paperwork was any indication, expected much of him as well.

One problem at a time, though. Trevor pushed his chair back and stood. He had just endured a very long journey on horseback. And he had just realized that he had been played the fool. He definitely did not want to sit puzzling over stacks of confounding correspondence.

He shoved through the heavy double doors once again and went to seek out some thoughtful soul who would perhaps show him to his room and bring him a bath. A scullery maid bustled by, rags and bucket in hand.

“I say,” Trevor stopped her.

She looked up, startled.

Trevor ran his fingers through his hair. What did he say now? “Hello, I’m the Duke, take me to a bedroom?” Trevor blinked—sounded good, actually. “I’m the Duke,” he began.

The girl’s eyes rounded and she dropped her bucket. He stooped to help her, and she started gasping as if she might suffer an apoplectic fit right there in the hall. She clutched her things to her chest and nearly ran from him.

Trevor sighed, deep and loudly, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged hall. He hated being a duke.

He started up the main staircase that curved toward the upper floors. At the top he was presented with four different hallways. He turned in a slow circle, stopping only when a door off to his right opened and a large woman with a huge ring of keys at her waist came through the portal.

“And who might you be, prancing about my house?” she asked in a deep, brassy voice.

Trevor did not say anything for a moment. He did not dare announce his title again, just look at what had happened to the last maid.

“Cat got your tongue, young man?” The woman advanced on him, and Trevor actually felt threatened.

“I’m the Duke,” he said quickly.

The woman stopped. “Well and it’s about time you were!”

“Yes, well, I am rather tired from my journey. Could you perhaps show me to a room and order me a bath?”

“Tsk!” She bustled over to him. “That Filbert didn’t announce you, did he?”

“Actually, he did.” Trevor smiled, remembering, then became serious again. “’Tis the Duchess who left me without an escort. She became rather perturbed with me.”

“Ah!” The woman turned around and started down the center hall. “Well, come on, then, and I’ll show you your room.”

Trevor had to run to keep up with her.

“The name is Elleanor—Ellie’s what everyone calls me,” she said, as she took a turn and strode down another hall. I’m the housekeeper. Anything you want, you just tell me. I keep this place shipshape, that I do.” She stopped finally before a door. “I’ll send up a boy with some hot water for your bath.”

“Thank you, Ellie.”

She waved her hand in the air. “‘Tain’t nothing, your grace. We’ll need you smellin’ fresh and clean to attract a wife, now, won’t we?”

Trevor arched his brows as Ellie turned away and huffed back down the hall. Attract a wife? Both Ellie and Sara seemed rather excited about getting him married off. He was only eight and twenty. He had absolutely no plans to rush the marital situation into fruition. He had never really given much thought to getting married, actually. And he certainly was not going to start
now. The whole mess with Stuart and Rawlston was enough trouble for him at the moment.

He entered his room, then stopped, paralyzed with the hugeness of it all. His chambers alone were nearly the size of the townhouse he’d just left in London. The entire house was like a city; the estate must be the size of a small country. He sank into a chaise near the window and leaned his elbows on his knees. Overwhelmed was definitely an understatement.

The work involved in dealing with a place this size was not something he would ever be able to handle. He would have to find a steward or solicitor soon. And until then he would have to get along by himself. He dropped back against the cushions of the chaise with a loud sigh and stared at the ceiling.

It was the most ornate ceiling he had ever seen. Plaster had been grooved into oval frames, and someone had painted some pretty risque scenes there. Trevor turned his head.

He liked his ceiling. He had finally found a good thing about Rawlston Hall.

The painting just above him depicted a scantily clad woman and her beau in a passionate embrace; the next scene over showed the same woman, but fewer clothes. Trevor wondered which duke had commissioned the amorous ceiling. A duke after Trevor’s heart, that was for sure.

He chuckled, studying the paintings until someone knocked on his door. He sat up and
rubbed his eyes with his thumbs. “Come in.”

A line of servants entered, all carrying two buckets of steaming water. “For your bath, your grace,” the boy at the front of the line said, as they marched past him, across the room, and through a doorway. Trevor stood and followed, entering into a large washroom with a huge tub in the middle.

“Holy Mother of God,” he said, staring at the tub. It was the largest he had ever seen. Truly big enough for two people, perhaps three.

The servants each splashed their buckets of water into the deep porcelain tub, filling it nearly half-full. The last boy handed over a bar of milled soap.

Trevor stood staring at the white lump in his hand, then looked up, suddenly remembering the horse he had left in the driveway. “Could you bring in my bag/boy?” Trevor asked. “It’s out with the horse in front of the house.”

“Ellie took care of it, your grace. Got really mad at the groom, she did. Your bag’s in your room.” The boy cocked his head toward the chamber, then smiled, gave a jaunty salute, and left.

Trevor peeled out of his travel-worn clothes and stepped with a bone-deep sigh into the hot water. He dropped down, the water rising up the sides of the tub, then leaned his head back and promptly laughed. Above him was the most titillating portrait of all. “Oh,” Trevor said to the ceiling. “The Dukes of Rawlston must enjoy their bathtime.” He chuckled again, then sat up and splashed water on his face. As he washed his hair, he wondered what Sara would think of the paintings on his ceiling. Suddenly Trevor stopped, realizing that she had surely seen them. She had, most probably, lain with her husband in the chamber next door.

Trevor remembered the large bed that dominated the middle of his room. Like everything else, it was huge and draped with heavy velvet curtains the color of ripe plums. Truth be told, he would actually like to see Sara sans clothing within the confines of such a bed. But the thought of her there for an aging husband made Trevor wrinkle his nose.

He dunked his head quickly and rinsed the soap from his hair. Then he stood and quit the tub, grabbing a large drying sheet that hung over the back of a chair. As he dried off, though, he had to contemplate the reason for his sudden disquiet. Jealousy was no longer a common emotion for him. He had experienced it as a young man in school, often. Not for women, though. Rather, he had coveted his chums’ academic abilities. Now, however, Trevor was experiencing almost the same uneasy pang of want at the center of his chest.

Could he be jealous?

That would make him jealous of a dead man—not a good thing. And strange, very strange.

Wrapping the towel low about his hips,
Trevor tucked the end in to anchor it. He padded into his chamber and rifled through his bag. He found a shirt and shook it out, then took out a pair of breeches and laid them on the bed next to his shirt. But, of course, his disquiet was not jealousy. It must stem from his realization of Sara’s great expectations for him. As a result he should not be thinking of her in any way other than as a tyrannical taskmaster. Most definitely she would need to stay dressed in his thoughts, if that were the case.

Actually, the most intriguing picture was materializing in his mind of Sara as a naked tyrannical taskmaster . . .

A knock at the door interrupted his shortlived fantasy, and Trevor blinked. He really must keep the chit layered in clothing within his thoughts from here on out. Distracted by his mind’s wanderings, Trevor yelled for the person at his door to enter.

Or, better yet, he rationalized, turning back to his musings, he must not think of her at all . . .

“Sara.” It took a moment to register that the subject of his thoughts did, in fact, stand before him in the flesh—quite properly clad flesh, at that.

It was then that he noticed she had stopped just inside the door, her eyes large and her mouth open.

Trevor’s hand went automatically to the towel hanging about his hips. He felt
a
water
droplet splash against his shoulder from his hair and travel down his chest.

Her eyes followed its path, and Trevor swallowed thickly.

“I . . . I came to apologize,” she said finally, her head snapping up and her gaze boring into his face as if she were terrified to let her eyes look anywhere else. “I didn’t realize . . . I mean . . .”

Trevor smiled, hooked his thumb beneath the edge of the towel just under his navel and sauntered forward. Sara’s gaze drifted down, then shot back up to his face. It was bad of him, truly. But it was nice to be in the position of making someone else sweat just for the moment.