Malia Martin (17 page)

Sara blinked.

“Take them off.”

“You must be mad, sir!”

“You have no idea how mad, Dearest.” Trevor advanced on her, his member already hard with just the thought of Sara naked before him.

Her gaze fluttered down to that part of him
that pounded with the blood that rushed about in his veins.

“Trevor . . .” she said, but her voice had lost all its power. Her tongue slipped up to wet her upper lip, and she locked gazes with him once more.

“This is insane.” Sara took a deep breath, the movement bringing all his attention to the swell of her breasts. She realized it as soon as it happened, and lifted her hands as if to ward him off. “We were having a normal conversation. . .”

“There was nothing normal about that conversation.”

Sara pursed her lips then, and actually stomped her foot. She took a step forward and pushed her finger against his chest. “Don’t do this! I told you before. We are going to keep this relationship as it should be. I am the Dowager Duchess, and you are the Duke!”

Trevor grabbed her finger before she could stab it against him again and lifted it to his mouth. He touched the sensitive pad with his tongue, his eyes hard upon her face.

She gritted her teeth and yanked her hand away from him.

“You want to play your game with me, Duchess? You want me to think of you as a mother figure? Let me suckle at your breast, • then.”

Her jaw dropped and her mouth opened in a shocked “O.” Trevor was actually quite taken
aback himself. He had not meant to say that, but given that the only coherent thought in his head was the need to have this woman’s body around his own, it was quite plausible that he would say worse before it was over.

“I have never!” Sara hauled back and slapped him stingingly across the face.

Trevor blinked, saw red, then saw the back of Sara’s head as she struggled with the lock on the door. He moved up behind her, pressing her against the door and placing his lips against her nape.

She twisted the lock and jerked at the doorknob, but Trevor put his arms around her, one hand moving low over her abdomen and the other cupping a breast.

She whimpered.

He nibbled at her ear as he found her hot woman’s place through her dress and cupped her there.

Her head dropped back on her neck, leaving a beautiful line of pale skin exposed for his mouth. Trevor devoured it, kissing the hollow of her collarbone, her shoulder, slipping her gown down her arm and tasting the beads of sweat that glistened at the top of her spine.

Sara leaned against the door, her arms out, her fingers scraping against the wood, no longer desperate to get out.

Trevor found a lace at her back and pulled, her gown loosening and his euphoria heightening. He worked the lace with his teeth, his
breath hot on her back as he kneaded her breast and felt her woman’s place hot against his hand.

Her gown drooped, and he slipped his finger underneath her chemise, her nipple already pebble hard in the palm of his hand.

She moaned, her head dipping forward, her forehead thudding as it hit the door.

Trevor pulled Sara to him, turning her and lifting her as he stumbled to find a chair, a rug, anything.

And then there was a knock at the door. He stopped in his tracks as Sara stiffened in his arms.

“Your grace?” Mr. Goldblume’s voice came through the door. “Are you in there?” The doorknob rattled and for a terrified instant Trevor thought it would turn. Sara had fiddled with the lock; had she managed to unlock the door?

Sara gasped, yanking her gown up as she took a few ungainly steps away from him.

The knob rattled some more, and Trevor grabbed Sara’s arm. “Sh,” he said, as quietly as he could.

She glared at him, trying to restore her gown.

Trevor heard the muffled voice of Mr. Goldblume as the man spoke to someone else on the other side of the door. And then there was blessed silence.

“They’re gone,” he whispered.

Sara blinked at him. And then a tear spilled
from the corner of her eye and ran crazily down her smooth cheek. “Don’t ever do this to me again.”

Trevor swallowed against the pain in his throat. “But . . .”

“No! Don’t say anything.” She swiped at the tear. “You obviously care about one thing only. Well, save it for your bride.” She smoothed her bodice and hiked up her sleeve so that she recovered a bit of her decorum. She pinned him with a watery glare. “Remember who you are. Remember who I am. And never do this to me again.”

She turned on her heel, unlocked the door, and then said, without looking at him, “Helen would make a lovely duchess.” And she left, quickly, her head high, the only sound the swish of her gown in the silent hall.

She kept running off and leaving him hot and aching. And not just physically, damn it. The woman made his heart ache.

Trevor frowned and stalked out of the stuffy room and to the front door, shoving the portal wide open. A soft, cool breeze washed against his face, bringing with it the smell of earth and wildflowers. He sighed, closing his eyes and wishing he could take Lucky for a good hard ride. But of course, Mr. Goldblume awaited him.

Trevor stood there for a while longer, though, watching the shadows begin to lengthen across the gravelled turnabout.

He forced himself to put aside his obsession with the Duchess for a moment and focus on the problem of finding a wife. Obviously he could not put Helen on the list of potential duchesses. It would hurt Sara. She would not say it, but Trevor was not completely without sensibilities. If he took the illegitimate daughter of Sara’s husband to wife, it would be a slap to the Duchess’s dignity.

And he would not hurt Sara.

Trevor shut the front door and turned toward the study. It was not any sacrifice, actually. He had never thought to take Helen as his bride. The chit scared him, in truth, with her wise eyes and still nature. He liked fire . . . passion . . . Sara. Trevor groaned as he strode down the hall.

It was really too bad Sara had not turned out as he had imagined her when he’d read that she had been imprisoned for treason. The mad Dowager Duchess of Rawlston had entered his mind’s stage as a large gouty woman with white scraggly hair and perhaps a wart on her chin.

Such a woman would have made things much easier for him, Trevor thought, as he went to sit in his chair before the warm fire and listen to Mr. Goldblume read through the driest correspondence to which Trevor had ever been subjected.

Another night of scant sleep had made Trevor irritable. Even a brisk morning ride with Lucky had not made him any more ready to face the stacks of work that still sat in the study, despite all the correspondence he and Goldblume had gotten through the day before.

To make matters worse, with Mr. Goldblume’s help, Trevor had finally realized the extent of Rawlston’s debts. His own wealth, mostly inherited from his mother, would cover them, of course, but he had lost twenty thousand pounds to his deceitful solicitor, and he owed double that in back taxes. And of course, he would have to make major repairs on the small thatched houses like Ruth’s. That must take priority.

He had learned through the correspondence Goldblume had read him that many of his tenants had given up and headed out to larger cities with the intent of getting jobs in industry. Trevor had heard tales of the poor peasants who had made their way to London to find a better life. They lived in terrible, dreary slums and worked long hours in awful conditions. Those faceless people he had heard of were now faces. His faces, his people, and his responsibility.

The very thought brought terror to his heart. God, the lives that now depended on him! Him! Trevor Phillips, the worst student in the history of Eton, the only failure of the Phillips family. He had felt a wild urge as he galloped back
over the rocky earth toward Rawlston Hall to veer off in another direction and lose himself. Ride hell-bent toward Scotland and never look back. Or, perhaps, go south and ride all the way back to London. Anything but face the look of entreaty in Sara’s eyes as she urged him to do his duty. And deal with the raging lust that burned through him with her nearness.

Trevor left Lucky to James’s care and went quickly into the Hall, for he had an early meeting with Goldblume. Stomping his feet against the steps, Trevor dislodged some mud from his boots and yanked his gloves from his hands before shoving through the front door. He started for the stairs, wanting to change before retiring to the study, and nearly ran right into a footman who seemed to have appeared from beneath a rug.

Trevor smiled and tried to sidestep the boy, but the servant snapped his heels together and raised a silver platter so that it sat just beneath Trevor’s nose. The boy was obviously waiting for something.

Trevor looked from the tray to the boy, then back again. “What?”

“Your gloves?”

Trevor just stared. “My gloves?”

The servant blinked and inclined his head toward the salver. “Your gloves,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Trevor took in a short/agitated breath. He hated looking a fool. It had happened often
enough when he was a youngster at school, but he had successfully taken himself from any arenas where that would have to happen any longer . . . until now. He twisted his gloves in his hand, staring at the glistening silver tray that would probably pay for a good third of the back taxes.

“Good God.” Trevor took the tray from the startled servant. He turned it over, inspecting the craftsman’s stamp. “This tray is probably worth more than my horse, and it only performs the useless task of collecting my gloves?” Trevor shoved the salver back into the footman’s hands. “Sell this! Sell this useless piece of frippery and take my gloves from my hand. Better yet, I shall carry my own gloves!”

The young man backed away, nodding, his eyes large with fright. Trevor immediately felt like the largest toad alive. In his own pique, he had made another feel just as bad as he had earlier. Trevor stayed the boy with a touch to his arm.

The footman jumped at the contact, backing away even more.

“’Tis not your fault, boy,” Trevor said. “What is your name?”

The footman’s hands began to tremble, the salver clanking against the front of his liveried jacket. “Ben, sir . . . I mean, your grace!”

Trevor waved his hand. “Not to worry, Ben. I am in a foul mood this morning, and I don’t
mean to take it out on you. ’Tis bad of me, truly.”

Ben swallowed audibly.

Trevor sighed. It was hard to get used to all the fuss everyone made over him. Even though he was wealthy, he had eschewed society because it terrified him. And he had kept his life as simple as possible, which meant few servants and fewer friends.

It had been a lonely existence, and he had only begun to realize how lonely in the last few days as he tried to deal with hundreds of servants underfoot and the feelings of a woman to consider.

Suddenly, as Trevor stared at this young boy with terrified eyes, he wondered how he had ever lived such a hollow existence. Trevor smiled at the boy. “The Duchess has been running me ragged,” he confided in Ben. “That she has,” he mimicked the local way of forming a sentence. “I did not mean to snap at you, Ben, but that woman has me walkin’ backward, I tell you.” He winked, and Ben grinned.

“I know what you mean, your grace. The Duchess is a slave driver, she is.”

They laughed together. Then Trevor handed over his gloves. The boy took them from his hand. “You’re headed places, young man,” Trevor said seriously. “And I expect you to be here every morning to take my gloves after my morning ride.”

“Yes, your grace!” The boy stood straighter, his head tilting back proudly.

“It’s good to know I can count on you.”

“Yes, your grace!” The boy bowed and headed off down the hall at a fast trot.

Trevor smiled as he watched Ben. It felt good to give a boy reason to be proud. Trevor turned on his heel and started up the main staircase, reaching the landing before he realized that Sara stood poised above him at the top, her hand curled about the banister.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. Her cheeks burned a pale pink, and she ducked her head.

Trevor took another couple of steps, ready to just go by her without saying anything when she said, “That was good of you, Trevor.”

His legs actually weakened at the sound of his name on her lips. Just by using his name, this slip of a woman made him want to run through the country telling every boy to be at his door to take his gloves. And make their eyes shine with pride. And make Sara look at him with approval.

The thought made him swallow against the bile that rose in his throat. The thoughts, the feelings, everything was reminiscent of his younger days as he strove to please his father. And failed miserably.

Trevor cleared his throat and took the rest of the stairs two at a time, his hands trembling. When he reached the Duchess, he forced himself to shrug as if it did not matter. “I snapped at the boy. It was wrong of me, and I wanted to make sure he realized that I wasn’t angry at him.” Trevor glanced over as a maid turned toward them from down one of the halls. “‘Twas nothing,” he said lightly. “I shall be in the study, your grace, should you need me for anything today.” He nodded at Sara and left.

He ran, actually, down the hall and around the corner. And stopped only when he had slammed his bedroom door behind him and stood alone in the huge chamber. Thank God Grady was nowhere to be seen.

Trevor went quickly into the bathing room, poured water into the basin, and splashed it on his face. Water dripped from his nose as he leaned his hands against the cold basin. He relived that moment on the stair: that strong desire to please, the need for acceptance from one special person.

Trevor closed his eyes, his hands curling against the porcelain. He could not allow himself to want the duchess’s approval, to live for it. He would never be able to please her; she asked much too much of him. It would be like trying to please his father. And he had promised himself never to try and do anything so useless again in his life.

He must forget his idea of banishing the tension between them with sex. If he was to keep a level head, he must not allow himself any more close encounters with Sara.