Malia Martin (20 page)

Sara groaned, using every ounce of her willpower to pull her lips away from Trevor’s siren mouth. She did not turn away from him, though, but stayed within his arms, her fists curled in his shirt and her forehead against his chest. How could something that was so wrong feel so right?

“You must find your wife,” she said quietly, her lips brushing his shirt. She could not help herself. She pressed her mouth against the warmth that emanated through his shirt from his body.

He shivered. She felt the tremor course through him, and she flattened her palms against his chest, willing herself to push away from him.

He backed away first, leaning against the railing that encircled the gazebo, his hand against his mouth. They stood silently staring at one another for a full minute.

Even drunk, the man kissed well enough to set her entire body on fire. She turned away, her knees feeling like melted butter. “I will send Grady for you,” she managed to say, and walked on weak legs down the stairs and across the garden.

His head pounded and his stomach felt as if he had eaten a rock rather than drunk the five cups of coffee Grady had pushed on him. Trevor squinted against the brightness of the scene in front of him. The women around Rawlston seemed to prefer white, white silk that shone brilliantly beneath the candlelight. He closed his eyes completely and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He would marry the first woman to approach him wearing black.

“Your grace.”

Trevor peeled his eyelids open. Sara stood before him in her dark green gown. Such a soothing color, like a dense, cool forest against the glittering hot hell that surrounded him. “’Tis rather warm in here, isn’t it, Sara?”

“We have all the doors open, your grace. ’Tis
a warm night.” She blinked, her cheeks suffusing with a light pink blush.

“A lovely night meant for meeting lovers in the garden, rather than being pressed into this sweltering room.” Some devil in him had made him say it. He watched her face go from pink to red.

“I have another person for you to meet, your grace,” she said quickly. “This way.” She took off, weaving in and out of the groups of people standing at the edge of the dance floor.

Trevor nearly groaned, but he suppressed the desire and followed her. She stopped beside a short fat woman dressed in pink of all things and a rather stout younger woman in, again, white.

“Your grace,” Sara said with a smile. “This is Lady Hewitt and her daughter Lady Penelope. Lady Hewitt, Lady Penelope,” Sara gestured toward Trevor. “His grace, the Duke of Rawlston.”

And what did that tell them, Trevor wondered sardonically, as he bowed over their respective hands. Did they know his name? Did they know where he came from, what he liked to do? No, they knew exactly what they had known when they’d walked through the door. He was his grace, the Duke of Rawlston. He straightened, smiling as Lady Hewitt started in on the fact that it was such a warm evening.

Since every lady in the room had a fan clutched in her hand, and every gentleman busied himself with his handkerchief, blotting the beads of sweat from his brow, it seemed rather a moot point.

Trevor gazed at the round Lady Penelope. She was a spoiled-looking thing, her eyes of the beady variety, her mouth puckered in what must be a continuous pout, and her nose one that would put a Roman emperor to shame. Did Sara really want him to perpetuate that nose through the Rawlston line?

He glanced at the Dowager, who was eyeing Penelope’s dance card meaningfully. Trevor sighed. It seemed Sara did not care if his daughters looked like fat, pouty hawks. Just so he married . . . soon. Trevor laughed at something Lady Hewitt said and asked if he could put his name to lovely Lady Penelope’s card.

There was a wave of tittering and oohing as Trevor leaned over the small piece of paper Penelope slipped from her recticule. He chose a dance nearer the end of the sets, hoping against hope that the young woman would expire into a pool of sweat before then. Another laugh at some inane comment from Lady Hewitt, and Trevor felt he had done his duty.

“I think I have promised this next set,” he said, backing away.

Sara said goodbye to the ladies and followed him. “Do you have this set promised?” she asked. “Truly, Trevor?”

The woman had begun calling him Trevor rather often. It seemed she was so nervous
about the evening, she didn’t notice. Trevor did. He ran his finger under his limp cravat. “I do, actually. I am supposed to lead Helen Biddle out. But I do not see her now.” He gave the gathering a cursory glance, his eyes feeling as if someone had thrown a handful of sand at them.

He heard a breath hitch in Sara’s throat. She coughed lightly. “How could you not see her? She is like a light unto herself.”

Trevor followed Sara’s gaze across the room. Another young virgin in white hauled to his altar. Trevor sighed heavily.

“She is beautiful . . . so young,” Sara said.

Trevor glanced at Sara. Her smile was shaky at best, her fingers white as she clasped her hands in front of her. She blinked, her eyes glassy, as if she held back tears. Trevor turned toward her. “Sara?”

Her gaze swerved from the young girl to him. She blinked. “Go, Trevor, quickiy, so you do not miss the beginning of the set.”

He had a sudden urge to tuck a stray bit of golden hair back from her face, but he did not. As gauche as he was, he knew that would be a huge faux pas. He stared for a moment into Sara’s large brown eyes. “You are more beautiful than any woman here,” he said finally. It was true. He wasn’t sure why he said it, though, just that he felt she needed to hear it. “All the youth and pureness of any of these
girls cannot hold a candle to the beauty and character you possess.”

She took in a deep breath, the hollow of her throat throbbing with each beat of her heart. It made him dizzy with need. If they were alone, he would put his mouth there.

“Why do you say these things to me, your grace?”

Trevor made himself look up into her face. Her eyes were dark, nearly black. They were sad. Trevor frowned. He had just complimented her, opened his heart just a small bit, and poured out what he really felt. And she acted as if he had just slapped her across the face.

He did not understand women in the least.

“I do not understand you, your grace,” she said, shaking her head.

He had to laugh at that, a small, unamused sound. She stilled. “You tease me with your words, your looks.” She glanced around. “Your kisses. Why do you do this to me?”

They stood staring at one another silently for a moment, and then Trevor took her hand in his and brought her fingers to his lips. “I do not tease, Sara. I never tease,” he said, his breath feathering against her fingertips.

He stared at that spot, that soft, delectable throbbing spot just above her collarbone. She pulled her hand away and pressed it to the very place he wanted to put his mouth.

And then she left, leaving him hard and wanting, and staring at the floor.

“Your grace!”

Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to the voice of Mrs. Biddle.

“You have promised this set to my daughter, your grace!” she said stridently.

“Of course, Mrs. Biddle.”

Helen stood behind her mother, her large blue eyes a bit sad this evening. She smiled at him, though. “Mother, I am sure his grace remembered.” She smoothed her mother’s pique. “The set is just starting, and he has many guests.”

Mrs. Biddle was looking off toward the direction in which Sara had gone. “Yes, well, I wanted to make sure he remembered us.”

Helen laughed, the first show of true humor she had made. “No one would dare forget you, Mother.”

Mrs. Biddle’s eyes widened in a warning gaze at her daughter.

Trevor quickly cupped Helen’s arm in his hand. “I cannot stand to waste another moment talking, Miss Biddle, when I could be dancing with you.”

“Of course, your grace.”

They went to the dance floor silently as the quartet began the first few strains of a waltz. He had forgotten that Mrs. Biddle had strong-armed him into signing up for a waltz with her daughter. No paltry country reel for this historic turn about the dance floor.

Helen placed her hand on his shoulder, and he took her other hand in his. “I must apologize for my mother, your grace. She does have high hopes for me.” The girl rolled her lovely eyes.

Such a gesture intrigued Trevor as most of the young women during this long night had shared their mothers’ high hopes. “And what of
your
hopes, Miss Biddle?”

“I hope you marry someone quickly, your grace, so that Mother will realize her hopes are in vain.”

Trevor chuckled, deciding at that moment that he liked Helen Biddle. “Ah, well, if the Dowager has her way, then you will also.”

“Good, for her grace usually gets her way.”

“Just so,” Trevor laughed again. “And what do you plan to do, once I am most firmly placed out of your mother’s reach?”

Helen giggled, a sound he had never heard from the girl’s mouth. Usually, she seemed older than her years, her eyes knowing and her nature so still. But now her cheeks turned quite pink. “Oh, la, sir,” she said gaily. “I cannot divulge that information.”

“Whyever not?”

She sighed, her amusement dulling. “I am still trying to get a certain young man to get over his charming nervousness and speak directly to me.”

“Ah.” Trevor twirled the girl about for a moment. “I think I see it clearly now,” he said. They turned around again, and he caught Mr.
Goldblume watching them with an earnest look about him. He remembered, suddenly, the way Helen had tried to get the young man into the conversation when they had taken tea together. “You do not have your eye on my steward, do you, Miss Biddle?”

Helen looked at him rather sternly. “He is not your steward, your grace. Mr. Goldblume has a thriving business in town. He is just helping you.”

“It
is
Mr. Goldblume!” Trevor laughed. “You will need all the luck in the world to get that man to speak up about his intentions, girl! Especially with your mother hovering about.”

Helen stood straighter and stuck her perfect little nose in the air. “I love him. He will come around.”

Trevor sobered. “Of course he will, for he loves you too. I can tell by the way he lit up like the fireworks over Vauxhall Gardens when Filbert announced you the other day.”

“Truly?”

“I would not lie, Miss Biddle.”

“Of course you would not, your grace.” Helen had slipped back into her polite, wiser-than-God look.

They danced silently for the rest of the set. Before Trevor released her, though, he squeezed her hand. “I shall give Mr. Goldblume a little push, Miss Biddle. Perhaps he just needs his courage bolstered?”

Helen nodded as if he had just said goodbye
to her. “I would appreciate your help, your grace. Along with the announcement of your impending nuptials.” She smiled and walked away as Trevor laughed. He then went to find the young Mr. Goldblume.

The time was coming for his dance with Lady Penelope. Trevor truly wished he had passed over that card. He had found a nice potted palm to hide behind right near an open doorway. He was very much enjoying a slight breeze when someone nudged his elbow. He turned with a scowl.

“Your grace.” Ben, the footman, stood next to him. “I’ve a note for you.” He passed over a folded piece of paper.

“How did you find me, boy?” Trevor asked, taking the note. “I could have sworn I had found the perfect hiding place.”

Ben frowned. “I could see your head, your grace. You’re a mite taller than the plant.”

Trevor snapped his fingers. “Didn’t notice that. Thank you very much, Ben.”

The boy’s face lightened, and he nodded a few times. “At your service, your grace.”

“And mighty glad that you are, Ben.” He chuckled as the boy left, his chest puffed and his smile shining like a beacon.

Trevor slouched a bit as he unfolded the note. Thankfully, it was short. He mumbled as he read slowly. It always helped him, for some
odd reason, to read aloud. He could usually grasp the words’ meaning better. Trevor refolded the note carefully when he had finished and slipped it into a pocket inside his coat. It was a summons to meet at the gazebo. And it was signed by Sara

She must have seen him hiding. The woman most probably wanted to give him another dressing down. Trevor stood up straight and pivoted out onto the balcony. If she wanted him outside in the dark, so be it. But if she began railing at him as if he were one of her school-children, he would silence her in the most enjoyable way he knew.

Trevor smiled largely as he made his way through the deserted garden. It felt damn good to be out of that sweltering ballroom. He took a deep breath of clean country air and stared up at the vivid stars in the dark sky. It was too beautiful a night to be confined with a bunch of virgin twits in a ballroom.

As he came closer to the gazebo, he focused on the outline of a slim girl sitting upon the steps. He frowned, for he could see the shimmering of white silk beneath the moonlight. He slowed as he reached the gazebo. “Helen?”

“Your grace,” she sighed.

“What are you doing out here alone?” Trevor glanced around. “You should be inside, Miss Biddle.” He hoped she would run off quickly, before Sara appeared.

“I was to meet someone . . .” she stopped in mid-sentence. “What are you doing here?” she asked earnestly.

“Well, um . . .”

“Did you get a note to meet someone at the gazebo?”

“Actually, yes . . .”

“Oh no!” Helen twirled about as if she were searching for something. “She wouldn’t.” The girl stopped and looked up at Trevor. “We need to get out of here!” She turned as if to run.

Trevor grabbed her arm/afraid at her strange actions. “Are you all right? What is the matter?”

“No, let go! We must get out . . .” Her cries were cut off by a shrill voice that sounded across the garden.

“What on earth is that? I hear something, don’t you? It sounds like a young girl in distress. Hurry!” Feet pounding, gowns swishing, and then faces, five round faces, and ten blinking eyes.

Trevor realized that he still had hold of Helen’s arm. He let go, frowning. Helen slumped back down on the steps.