Malia Martin (15 page)

Trevor sighed. What a mess he had made, but how to repair it?

“I will find you a steward in the morning, and begin plans for the ball.” She curled her hand into a fist and pressed it against her side. ‘Thank you for living up to your responsibilities.”

Trevor stared at her, then looked over at the dishes and spilled food on the table and closed his eyes. He almost laughed again, but stopped himself. She had said that everything came easily to him. That had to be the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Plunging his hands through his hair once more, Trevor turned on his heel and left Sara’s bedchamber.

He was making her as crazy as he believed her in the beginning. She
would
be mad soon. Sara sat in front of her dressing mirror staring at her lips. They were puffy and red as they had never been before. John had never kissed her as Trevor had. Trevor! Sara closed her eyes and sank against the back of her chair. She was calling the man by his first name!

“I’m doomed,” she whispered, fingering her bruised mouth. How did one fight against such strange feelings as those that charged through her veins when the
Duke
was in the room? For the love of St. Peter, all the man had to do was smile, and she physically began to shake.

That smile. A crooked lift of one side of his mouth served as a sickening manipulation of a female’s blood supply to her head.

And then he would kiss her, touch her as he had tonight, and all her resolve scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind.

Sara moaned, propping her elbows on the table and dropping her face into her hands. Oh yes, she was losing the will to fight. There had actually been a moment this evening when she had just wanted to forget herself and experience what lay at the end of such a sensuous beginning.

Trevor’s skill had to overshadow that which her husband had called lovemaking. The beginning was definitely a thousand times better. She could only imagine where it went from there.

Sara shook her head and stood quickly. This was not a good line of thinking. She needed to remember Trevor’s . . . the duke’s shortcomings. And he did have many.

Not the least of which seemed to be his aversion to work. Sara decided another midnight adventure down to the study was in order, just to see if the man had gotten anything done. Only this time she was not going to do any of it for him.

Sara pulled on her dressing gown and headed down the hall, purposely staying close to the doors. At the duke’s room, she paused. Would he dare have a woman with him tonight? Light shone from beneath the door, and Sara moved a bit closer.

She heard the low rumblings of Trevor’s voice. He stopped, then started speaking again.
Sara backed away quickly and hurried down the hall. She halted at the top of the stairs, though, for a moment.

She had to be honest with herself. It hurt to hear him in there with another woman. He did have quite a way of making one feel . . . well, important. When he kissed her, and laid his hands upon her body, it was as if he worshipped her. Sara had to laugh out loud. Oh, yes, the man was quite a rogue—worse, actually, because he was so very good at being the charming gentleman.

Sara stood in the dark, quiet house and willed herself to remember this awful feeling of guilt mixed with embarrassment and humiliation. Next time that man tried to charm her with his smiles and good food, she would remember this very moment and be able to fight him. No matter how good the end promised to be, the after end, she was sure, would be even more awful than this.

Trevor had left early in the morning for a long ride on Lucky. He had awoken to a footman stoking his fire against the chill of an early spring morning. And then Grady had hustled in, complaining mightily of the condition and scarcity of Trevor’s clothes. He had finally sent the boy into the small town to buy whatever he wanted to. Trevor had no wish for new clothes; in fact, he liked old clothes. They were so much
more comfortable. But Grady was driving him mad.

And then there had been the gamut of servants to run as he tried to have a bite to eat and get out to the stables. Now that they were becoming used to his presence, they were hell bent on seeing to his every need, or what they thought his every need should be.

Trevor again slipped in a side entrance, intent on reaching his chamber without being seen, and hoping that Grady was still out shopping.

“Your grace.”

Truly, he-wanted to start sprinting down the hall when he heard Sara’s voice behind him. But he stopped, and turned. “Yes, dearest Sara?”

She blinked, then stood a bit straighter. “I have found a man to help you with the paperwork.”

“Ah!” Trevor clapped his hands together. Now, here was a retainer he would find useful. “That is wonderful!”

“He is in the study.”

“Of course, such a lovely room.” Trevor could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Lead the way, Dearest.”

Sara frowned. “I do not think you should call me Dearest, your grace. Tis not seemly.”

“But we are cousins, are we not?”

“Distant cousins, unrelated by blood, your grace.” Sara cleared her throat. “It would not
be good to become too familiar with one another.”

“It would seem a bit late for that.”

She blushed then, and in that second Trevor wanted to become very familiar with the woman right there on the rug. She was such an intriguing mix of straightforward shyness.

“Your grace,” Sara fixed a steady gaze on him. “Last night was a mistake. I . . . I was tired.”

Trevor bit his lip for a moment so that he would not laugh. “You wound me, Sara. But still you offer hope. Was only last night a mistake? I seem to recall becoming familiar with you on three other occasions.”

Sara arched her brows at him and pursed her lips. “On the first occasion, I thought you were a cook. And, well, the other times, I . . . you took me by surprise.”

“Then perhaps we could adjourn to the kitchens, where I could cook and take you by surprise once more.”

Sara shook her head on a sigh. “It is time to put away silly games, your grace, and be serious. I will not allow our relationship to wander from the boundaries our titles and ages require. Now, if you will follow me.”

She turned away from him. “Mr. Goldblume awaits you in the study.”

Sara started down the hall, and Trevor watched for a tantalizing moment. Her skirts were much too full for his liking, but he could
still make out the swish of her hips. His distant cousin had a wonderfully intriguing body. He remembered well the feel of her full breast in his palm. Such a small frame and fragile bones, and yet the woman had surprisingly full rounded breasts and hips. With an inward sigh, Trevor followed. If only they had met under different circumstances, in a different time and place.

They maneuvered the twisting corridors in silence except for the crackle of Sara’s petticoats and the soft tread of her slippers upon the carpet. Mr. Goldblume stood outside the study, actually, his hands clasped before him, his head down.

“Mr. Goldblume,” Sara said as they approached. “This is his grace, the Duke of Rawlston.” She turned to him, but Trevor stepped forward and cut off the rest of her introduction.

“Please, Mr. Goldblume, you
must
call me Trevor.” Obviously they would be spending much time together, and he could not stand the thought of dealing with all that paperwork
and
listening to that damned title at the end of every sentence.

Mr. Goldblume blinked earnest brown eyes. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding down his throat and popping back up again. “Anything you say, your grace.”

Trevor wanted to roll his eyes, but he stopped himself and just quirked his lips into a semblance of a smile.

Sara stood off to the side, biting her bottom
lip, and Trevor realized suddenly that she was trying not to laugh. The impertinent bit of baggage. He arched his brows at her, and she did the same back to him.

“Well, I shall leave you both to your work.” She stared at him pointedly. “And I pray that you will do just that,
your grace
.” She was sounding like the irate nanny again.

Trevor scowled, but she just turned on her heel and left them.

“Shall we begin then, Mr. Goldblume?” Trevor gestured toward the dreaded study doors.

“After you, your grace.”

Gritting his teeth, Trevor pushed open the doors and walked into the study. Mr. Goldblume followed, closing them into the stuffy room.

Trevor took a deep breath, regarded the desk for a full minute, and decided that he must get to know the young man behind him better before they dived into the tedious work that lay ahead. “Would you like a drink, sir?” Trevor asked.

“No, no, your grace, I am fine.”

Trevor advanced on the small table that held crystal glasses and a decanter of scotch. “Well, I am not.” He poured himself a finger of the brown liquid and dumped it down his throat. “A bit early, but I am not one for this sort of thing.” Trevor gestured about the room.

Mr. Goldblume bowed his head of dark brown curls, then looked back at Trevor with
thatlet-me-prove-myself-I-will-do-anything-for-you gaze. “I am, your grace. I have a great head for figures. And I would be honored to do anything you ask of me.”

Trevor nodded as he plunked his tumbler back on the table. “What is your name, Mr. Goldblume?”

“Seth, your grace.”

“And do you live in Rawlston?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“What do you do there?”

“I am a merchant, your grace. I own a small clothing store.”

Trevor had about had it with the ‘your graces.’ “Please, Seth, I must beg of you to call me Trevor or I may go stark raving mad.”

The man blinked and gulped audibly. “Yes, your . . . Trevor.”

The name almost choked him, Trevor was sure. “You own a store, but you have taken time out of what must be a hectic schedule to come here and help me.” Trevor realized that the reason they stood like two scarecrows in a field was that he had not sat. He sat, and Seth finally followed suit. “That is very generous of you, sir.”

“Not at all . . .” The man had almost said your grace, Trevor could tell. Instead he coughed, then said, “I am honored to be of service to you.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Goldblume seemed honest enough, but Trevor had been taught a hard les
son. He was determined to conduct their meetings so the man did not realize Trevor’s weakness. That had been his first mistake, putting his business dealings in the hands of an old schoolmate who, of course, knew of Trevor’s shortcomings in the academic sense.

The second mistake had been handing over his money to a thief.

“I have a different way of doing things, Seth. But it works very well for me,” Trevor said. “I will need you to read everything for me out loud, even columns of numbers. And then I shall dictate what I need you to write.”

“Yes, your . . .” Seth cleared his throat. “All right.”

“Good.” Trevor gestured toward the desk. “Would you like to sit there? I abhor sitting behind desks.”

The man scrambled from the chair he was in and sat behind the desk.

“Now then, our first order of business is a letter,” Trevor began. “I’ll dictate, Goldblume, you write.”

Seth took up a quill and dipped it into the inkwell at his elbow.

“Address it to a man named Mr. Sam Turtle at number fourteen Charing Cross Road.”

Seth scratched away, and Trevor settled more comfortably against his large leather chair. “Dear Turtle, I am in dire need of your services. I am looking for Andrew Stuart, a lawyer, late of Leicester Square.” Trevor continued the letter,
giving Tuttle specifics on when he had last seen his lawyer and where the lawyer worked. Then he and Seth got down to the business of making those damnable piles of paper smaller.

Trevor sat with his back to his new steward, keeping his eyes closed so that he could concentrate on what Seth read. It worked so much better than trying to read the words that they made great progress before being interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Trevor called out, actually in a fairly good mood for the first time in a week.

The knock sounded again. Ah, ‘twould probably be Filbert at the door. Trevor chuckled and hollered, “Come in!”

The door banged open and the crooked little butler glowered at Trevor. “Don’t need to scream your bloody head off, man!”

Trevor’s mouth twitched. “So sorry, Filbert.”

The man grumbled low in his throat. “This entire household goes around yellin’ like banshees. It’s enough to make a person stone deaf.”

Trevor tried for a moderately loud tone this time. “Was there something you wanted, Filbert?”

“Not me, yer grace. You got callers.” Filbert sucked against his teeth, his mouth looking like a dried apple. “It’s that Biddle woman.” Filbert obviously did not approve of the Biddle woman.

Seth stood, though, catching Trevor’s attention. The boy looked absolutely demented, a
smile stretching his cheeks so hard they looked like they hurt. “Is Miss Biddle with her?” he asked.

Trevor wasn’t one for social niceties, but he was sure Seth Goldblume had just made some sort of guffaw.

Filbert rolled his bony fingers in the air and waggled his bald head. “They’re both here waiting on his grace, they are.” He pointed at Trevor. “You make sure you put that woman in her place, you hear?”

Trevor truly wanted the woman in any place but his home. “Why don’t you call Sara down to talk to them?” He cleared his throat. “That is to say, I
am
rather busy.”

“No way I’m going to sic that Biddle woman on her grace. No way, no how!” Filbert shook his head so hard he lost his balance and swayed a bit in the doorway. Both Seth and Trevor lunged forward to help, but the man straightened, then scowled the two of them back. “They want ta talk with the Duke. But iffn’ you’re too busy, then I’ll just kick ‘em out.” Filbert tottered around and marched down the hall.

“I do not think that would be wise,” Trevor said. And started after the man.

“His grace says . . .” Filbert started to say through the parlor door.

“That he is quite delighted with such a lovely interruption to his work,” Trevor finished for the butler.