Malia Martin (19 page)

She wanted to turn, arch toward him, and guide his mouth to her breast. She shuddered.

“I am bothering you.” He straightened, a strange sound of hurt in his voice.

“No!” She turned. “Not at all. I do not mind reading to you. Perhaps, though, we should sit on the sofa together? It might be more comfortable.” Yes, she thought, that would fix the problem. She could hold the book between them, and he would not have to be so close.

She moved to the settee, and Trevor sat beside her.

“My mother used to read to me,” he said. “I have not had anyone to read to me in so long. I have missed it.”

Sara smiled at him. She would rather read herself than listen to another, but Trevor seemed quite earnest in his memories. “I am happy to oblige.” She held the book between them, but instead of moving away, Trevor came toward her. She could feel the heat of his body alongside hers as they were nearly touching.

“Um.” Sara felt her breath hitch in her breast.
For the love of St. Peter, this was a thousand times worse than having him hanging over her shoulder!

“Could you follow the words with your finger again?” Trevor asked eagerly, like a child would.

“Yes.” Sara poised her shaking finger under the next word and forced herself to read. By the end of the page, every nerve ending in her body was aquiver with anticipation. When Trevor took a deep breath, his arm would touch hers, and if she shifted just slightly, her thigh made contact with his. It was the worst kind of torture she had ever experienced.

Sara turned the page, her arm brushing his chest. She read again, but inside her head she chanted,
You are a Dowager. He is the Duke. You’re a mother figure, mother figure, mother figure . . 
.

He leaned closer, and she dropped the book to her lap, closing her eyes in a fight for control. Then she pushed the book away, turned quickly, and curled her hands around the back of his head.

“You are making me crazy,” she whispered harshly, then pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him, hard. She tasted his lips, his teeth, his tongue, pushing herself against his body.

He growled, his arms curling around her. And she wanted him in a way she had never wanted her husband. She had abhorred the act of sex with John. But now, with this man who
was not her husband, who would never be her husband, she hurt with the hollowness of her body. She wanted him around her, on her, inside of her.

“For the love of St. Peter,” she cried, shoving him away. They stared at each other, their chests heaving, Trevor’s eyes surely mirroring the animal hunger that ate at her.

“We must stay away from each other,” she said finally. “We cannot do this.” Sara stood, putting distance between them. “I have kept the dowager house closed, because I could not afford to open it, and I did not want to dismiss the staff here at Rawlston. But now there is no reason for me to stay here. I will move in the morning,”

He said nothing, just looked at her with an intense need in his eyes.

She backed away again. Her body felt as if she might crumple to the ground at any moment. Why did he do this to her? She did not even like him, truly. He was lazy. It had taken all her effort and an assistant to get him even to go into the library. And she would not so much as think of what he did, and with whom, each night in his room.

The man did not like to read, something in which she found immense pleasure. How could her body betray her thus, and want him so badly? It was as if God had made a man that was wrong for her in every way, but then had
added some kind of mystical potion that drew her to him relentlessly.

“Yes, I must leave this house,” she said with conviction. “Goodnight, your grace.”

“Goodnight, Sara,” he finally said, of course choosing words that made her tremble with need. She turned quickly and ran for the door.

Mr. Goldblume droned on behind him, but Trevor could not concentrate. He had tried. For an hour or more, he had tried, but today, listening to Goldblume’s voice was almost as hard as reading the letters himself. He heard another shout from the hallway as the servants hauled Sara’s trunks down the stairs and into the waiting carriage. Trevor pushed up from his chair and began to prowl the room.

“Shall I add this one to the list, your grace?”

The man could not seem to bring himself to use Trevor’s name. And Trevor had resigned himself to the fact that when he was in England, he would have to deal with the “your graces” and deferential bowing and scraping. How very tedious.

Trevor waved his hand. “Yes, add him to the list.”

“You have rather a long list here, your grace. It will cost a lot of money to do all these repairs and grant all these gifts. If you would allow me to say it, in this situation, it seems Mr. Toltom should pay for his own repairs.”

Since he had not been listening, Trevor would
have no way of knowing Mr. Toltom’s situation, or what he was asking for. And Trevor felt as if he owed each person the world, since he now realized that they had been ignored for years.

“Put him on the list.” He heard Goldblume’s quill scratching away. A word on one of the books in the bookshelf caught his eye, and Trevor stepped closer. He squinted at the words, willing them to unjumble themselves.

“Sheep,” he read from one of the spines.

“Your grace?”

Trevor ignored Goldblume and slid the book from its place on the shelf. He turned it face up in his hands and concentrated on the title.
The Breeding of Tee Water Sheep in Durham
. Trevor tucked the book under his arm and took a few of the ones next to it on the shelf.

“I am going up to my chambers for a while, Goldblume.” Trevor started for the door. “Continue with your work, put the requests down on the list, and balance the ledgers for me, will you?” He didn’t let the man answer, but charged through the door, avoided the footmen carrying trunks down the stair, and retired to his room.

S
he had done a marvelous job, she must admit. The ballroom was lit by hundreds of candles, and she had decorated with garlands of greens and fresh spring flowers. The tables were laden with food, and she had ordered much more than she needed so she could distribute what was left over among the tenants the next day. It was nice to have the means to do such a thing.

Guests had been arriving for three days, and Trevor had hidden himself in his chambers. He came out for meals, then ran for the stables. But of course, it did not matter. He was a duke after all, a wealthy one. He could have spit on their shoes, and the young women still would have batted their lashes and giggled mercilessly. It made her want to bolt, truly.

She had managed to pull the man aside once and remind him to spend some time with the young ladies, as he must choose one for a wife.
The words had actually stuck in her throat, which made her extremely angry with herself.

Sara smoothed the silk skirt of her forest green gown. It was new, bought with the extra money she had, now that the Duke was paying the Rawlston servants’ salaries. Mr. Goldblume had set it aside just for her. She knew the color looked good on her, setting off her blonde hair to best advantage.

Not that she needed to look anything but the widowed dowager, but still. Sara strode through the ballroom making sure all was just right. It was an unusually warm night, and she could just imagine how stifling it would get in the ballroom with the press of bodies and heat emanating from those dancing. She glanced around and saw young Wesley standing at his post in the doorway, his Rawlston livery smartly pressed.

“Wesley?”

“Yes, your grace.” The boy came over quickly. “What is it, your grace?”

He sounded nervous. It had been a long time since Rawlston Hall had been the scene of a soiree of any sort. And young Wesley had not even been a retainer in those long-ago days.

Sara smiled calmly. “I was just noticing how warm it is tonight. I want you to stand over here by the French doors.” Sara glided over to the row of glass doors that faced the balcony and the rear rose garden. “If it becomes too hot, open all these doors. I do not want them open
just yet, as it may become rather cool. Could you handle that, Wesley?”

“Of course, your grace!”

“Thank you, Wesley.” She wanted to laugh at the serious look on the footman’s face. He acted as if she had just asked him to guard the King’s jewels. She turned quickly, though, so the boy would not see the amusement on her face. As she moved, Sara saw something through the glass. She squinted, trying to see past the reflection of candles that glanced off the dark windows. Yes, there was someone out there. “I shall return in a moment, Wesley,” she said, opening one of the doors and going out to the balcony.

Warm, rose-scented air caressed her face. Sara breathed it in, enjoying the strange weather. One would think they were on a tropical isle, rather than two steps from the border of Scotland. She looked about, wondering if perhaps one of the young women, enticed by the warm night, had decided to take a stroll through the garden.

Her heels clicking against the stone steps, Sara descended onto the grass. Even though it was a lovely night, young women should not be touring the gardens alone. Sara craned her neck as she followed the small path through the rose bushes to the white gazebo which stood surrounded by hazel trees.

“Hello?” she called, ducking beneath a rather
low branch. She saw movement in the darkness of the gazebo.

“Sara.”

“Trevor.” Sara stopped. “What are you doing out here? The guests will begin coming down soon.” She heard the call of a coachman echo through the woods. “A carriage approaches even now, Trev . . . your grace. You should be there to greet them.”

She heard him sigh. “I don’ wanna go.”

“Well, that is just too bad, sir.” She peered into the inky blackness. “You have promised to do this, and
you will
go to the ball!”

“For you, Sara. I’ll do it for you.” There was an awkward silence. “Come here, Sara.”

She wanted to say no, then run the entire way back to the ballroom. This was not good. She knew with all of her heart that she should not be alone with Trevor Phillips. Especially in the dark, where it felt as if they were entirely alone in the world. Sara stood on the first step of three. “Did you need something, your grace?”

“Come here, Sara.”

She clasped her hands before her. “It is not a wise idea, your grace. I should greet the newcomers, particularly if you will not.”

He sighed again. She could see his outline now that she was closer, the whiteness of his shirt in the dark. “You do not have your coat on.” Sara accused him. “Goodness, Trevor, are you dressed for the ball?” She stomped up the rest of the stairs and stood before him. She
could smell horse on him. “For the love of St. Peter! You have been riding. You are not ready for the ball at all!”

“Ah, but you are, lovely Sara,” he said in a low, mesmerizing voice. “You look good enough to eat.”

He had an odd singsong tone to his voice. Sara blinked, her mouth dropping open in shock. She went quickly over to the man, sat beside him, and grabbed his face between her hands. Pulling him close to her nose, she sniffed.

“You are foxed!” She shoved him away, and he toppled over on the bench, laughing.

“Do not laugh, Trevor, or I shall have to beat you.” She stood and began pacing the small gazebo. “What were you thinking?” She groaned as she pivoted on her heel, her gown swishing about her ankles.

“‘Twas Robbie’s fault,” the Duke said, still prone on the bench. “He kept pouring this stuff down my throat that ought to be outlawed.”

“Robbie?”

“Yep, went to talk to him about the wool mill he worked in.”

Sara frowned. “Robert Duncan?”

“That’s the one!” Trevor managed to push himself up from the bench. He stood, rubbing his temples. “I don’ wanna go to your ball, Sara.”

“It’s not
my
ball, you drunken lout!
You’re
the guest of honor! You’re to find your wife here!”

Sara watched as Trevor laced his fingers through his hair. He sank back down on the bench and laughed again, only this time it sounded a bit more sober, and much more bitter. “I never wanted to marry.”

Sara bristled. “You must,” she said, as if there were no question that he would.

Her eyes were getting used to the darkness, and she saw him shrug. “I will, of course. I’m just tellin’ you now that I hadn’t ever planned on getting married.”

Sara made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “I’m sure you wished to spend the rest of your days gambling and whoring your way through Europe.”

Silence greeted that statement, and Sara felt terrible for saying it, even though she was rather sure it was true. And truthfully, the fact that it was true hurt
her
in some unfathomable way she really did not want to delve into further. “Come, Trevor, I will have Grady get you cleaned up.” She started for the stairs, but was stopped by a hand around her wrist.

“What . . . ooomph!”

Trevor yanked against her hand with such force that she spun around, smashing into his broad chest. Then he wrapped an arm about her waist so that she was anchored quite securely against the duke’s body.

“Do not speak to me as if I were a child, Sara, to be ordered about and married off. I am a man, alive, and with feelings.”

Sara closed her eyes, ashamed. “I am sorry,” she said truthfully. “I am so anxious that everything happen as planned, though.” She opened her eyes, staring straight into the dark orbs of Trevor’s. “I did not mean to hurt you. You are a good man, even though you . . .” No, she would not say more of his past. “You are a good man.”

He chuckled, a dark sound that reminded her that he was not quite sober. “Oh, Sara, you have no idea how good.”

His mouth came down on hers so suddenly, she was shocked into doing nothing for the first moment. He tasted of fruit and alcohol. Mrs. Duncan did make a strong blackberry wine.

Every time he did this to her, she just wanted more. She wanted him to touch her again. Sara trembled, her nipples hardening as she thought of how it felt to have Trevor’s beautiful hands against her naked skin.