Malia Martin (3 page)

“Just don’t think you should be spoutin’ off about it to the Duke,” Grady said. “He already thinks you’re crazy enough.”

“Tsk.” Sara turned the corner, heading toward the better parts of London. “I am not crazy, and I am not going to speak of a curse I do not even believe in.”

“Uh huh.”

Sara stopped and turned on her tormentor. “I do not believe in it.”

“That is why you have become more and more desperate for the man to return home as the end of his first year as Duke grows nigh.”

“I just want him to take over his duties.”

“Something tells me you’ll be forcin’ a wife on him, too.”

Sara refused to answer, because that was her very plan. She turned on her heel and started down the street once more.

“What if he has left already?”

“I may have to get myself thrown in jail again. And this time it will be harder, since everyone believes I’m touched in the head.” Sara hiked up her skirts. “Come on, Grady, let’s hurry.”

“Where to, exactly, yer grace?”

“The townhouse. Since he is in town, I am sure the man is spending all his loads of money opening up his house and filling it with servants to do his bidding.”

“Guess you’re right,” Grady said, breathing heavily as he ran to keep up with Sara.

“It sure feels good to be free,” she cried, as she took a little skip.

Grady just shook his head. “You ain’t like any old duchess I’ve ever known before, yer grace.”

Sara just laughed, her head back so she could feel the sun on her face.

“Don’t you think you should find another dress or something?” Grady asked, squinting through the lowering dusk at her.

“And how would I do that, Grady? Walk into a modiste’s shop and demand they give me a dress because I’m the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston?”

“Yes.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Besides the fact that the Duke has put it about that I’m headed for Bedlam, I’m rather sure most of London knows by now that the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston has not been able to pay her bills for the last year. Nobody is going to give me anything, especially on credit.”

Grady sighed. “What’s the world comin’ to? When a person of yer rank can’t even get credit, we might as well just all lie down and die.”

Sara tugged on a piece of sandy hair that peeked from beneath the boy’s cap. “Such the pessimist, Grady.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be tellin’ you right now, yer grace. The butler’s goin’ ta take one look at you and send you packin’.”

Sara pulled at her bodice and swiped at her skirt. “Is it that bad?”

“’Tis that bad, yer grace.”

Sara pushed at her hair, which she had tried to arrange atop her head with the few pins left, then stared down at herself. The lace had ripped from her bodice, showing more of her bosom than she was used to. And the skirt which had been a dark green reminiscent of oak leaves looked more like the bark of the tree now. “Well, perhaps he will not notice in the dark.”

Grady grunted.

Sara stood a bit straighter and lifted her chin in the air. “Do not speak to me so, urchin. When I wish, I can act the lady of the manor!” She winked, then swished her skirt and took a step toward the house before pausing. “You wait here, Grady. And do not get in any trouble while you do.”

Grady just nodded and disappeared into the shadows of a large shrub.

With a deep breath, Sara started forward once again. She would make it in to see the Duke. If she had to make a horrendous scene to get his attention she would. Anything, but
the man would have to acknowledge her and his responsibilities this very night.

She stopped before the twin curving staircases of Rawlston’s townhouse for a moment and stared up at the large front door. She had come to this home as a bride. She and John had arrived at just this time of night, actually, after the arduous journey from Rawlston Hall. She could still remember the servants swarming about them, hefting trunks and luggage. She had stood still in the middle of the chaos, staring up at the elegant townhouse in awe.

It had been her first trip to London and her last. And she had been filled with hope, bolstered by the knowledge that the entire town of Rawlston believed in her, wanted her, the new young duchess, to fill the Hall with children and make the lands of Rawlston prosperous once more. Even though she and the Duke had not married within the first year he had inherited, the people believed Sara would break the curse. She was one of them. She knew how important it was to bear the Duke’s heir.

Oh, she had failed them utterly. A wistful sigh blew through her lips before she could stop it. No time for self-pity now, she told herself. To make up for her failure, she must make sure that the next generation of Rawlstons did better than the last. Sara clamped her mouth shut and squared her shoulders, then she climbed the steps and frowned at the bare door. No knocker had been put out.

Doubt made Sara bite at her bottom lip. He must be here, she thought, he must! She straightened her bodice, lifted her chin, and banged her fist against the door. And then she waited.

And waited.

Sara tapped her ripped and soiled slipper against the top step, peered around the quiet neighborhood, then pounded again, this time a bit harder. Nobody came. She let out a lusty sigh, then took hold of the doorknob and twisted, just in case.

The door opened so quickly, she was yanked inside with it. She stumbled against the hard form of a large man and felt herself caught in the embrace of strong arms.

“Oh dear.” Sara pushed away quickly, peering up at the Duke’s butler. Rather an imposing butler, she thought, pulling her bodice higher and clearing her throat. He stood with the light against his back, so she couldn’t make out his face at all. But he seemed very tall, with wide shoulders, and she definitely remembered the feel of his hard chest against her.

“Do come in, miss,” the butler said.

Well, that was much easier than she had thought it would be. “Thank you, kind sir,” Sara said brightly, and stepped around the man and into the Hall. Her footsteps echoed eerily in the cavernous room, making it seem rather deserted. As the butler closed and bolted the front door, Sara peered discreetly into an open
room, its contents shrouded in white sheets.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” the man behind her said, and Sara jumped.

She clutched her hands together in front of her and turned around. “You expected me?”

“Of course.” He lifted dark brows over glittering green eyes, then pulled a gold watch from the pocket of his coat and flipped open the top with a flick of his thumb. “You are quite early, actually.”

Sara could only stare. This man had to be far and above the most beautiful butler she had ever seen. He stood tall and straight, with dark-as-night hair held back in a queue with a leather band. He had a long face with a strong square jaw that was, at the moment, covered with a day’s growth of dark beard. It should have made him look scruffy; instead, it made him look incredibly wicked, in a very tantalizing way. He looked, in fact, very much like a pirate. Not that Sara had ever seen one, of course.

She blinked and realized that she stared. He stared right back. She reached up to cover her low décolletage with trembling fingers. “That’s a lovely watch.” She dragged her gaze from his face.

“Thank you.” He snapped the thing closed and put it back in his coat pocket. “A present, a treasured present from my mother. I will never allow it to be stolen.”

He looked at her meaningfully, but Sara could not fathom what that meaning was in the
least. She furrowed her brow. This servant would not accuse her, the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston, of thinking to steal his watch . . . would he?

“Come,” the man said, and started down the hall.

Sara stared after him for a moment of indecision. Should she run from the house? What if this man was some flash-cove? She did not see any servants running about.

The man turned a corner, and she heard his footsteps clatter down stairs. He certainly acted as if he belonged here. He must be a servant, and he must know the whereabouts of the Duke. She must find the Duke. Sara closed her eyes, said a very quick prayer for her soul, just in case she was following the dark pirate man to her death, and ran after him.

She found the stairs, saw a light at the bottom, and flew down them, ending in a large, bright kitchen. The pirate impersonator stood at a stove, stirring something in a small pot.

Well, of course, he was the cook. The Duke probably had not gotten around to hiring any staff. But a cook one must have above all else. Still, he was not dressed like a cook. She eyed his tan breeches and dark coat, and remembered the silk cravat loosened about his neck.

“Are you making dinner?” she asked tentatively.

“Hmmm,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Just throwing together a little something. Are you hungry?”

Sara’s stomach answered with a loud growl. She slapped her hands against her midsection and bit her lip.

The pirate man turned and smiled hugely at her. For the love of St. Peter, what a smile the man had, a slash of perfectly straight white teeth against his swarthy skin. Oh, she could even picture a cutlass clenched between those teeth.

“Sit. I’ll spoon you out a bowl of my famous chicken soup.” The man turned back to his work.

She was sorely tempted, especially if it meant spending another moment staring at this lovely specimen of the male species. But she really must find the Duke. “Actually, I must get to my business.”

The man chuckled, the sound rich and low. For a small moment she thought how nice it would be to sit in this cozy room, stare at this lovely man, listen to his melodic voice and eat his chicken soup. How would one ever get anything done with such a man below stairs?

“But J am hungry. And you cannot get to your business until I am ready.”

“I cannot?”

“No, you cannot.” He ladled steaming broth into two bowls, took two spoons from a drawer, and turned toward her. “We should eat, keep up our energy and all that.”

Sara could smell the delicious soup from across the entire room and it made her stomach take notice once again. Her mouth actually began to water. “Well, I am sure it would not hurt.” She felt a tiny prick of conscience at the thought of Grady sitting out under a shrub, but then Mr. Pirate slid the bowl beneath her nose and motioned for her to sit at the small kitchen table with him.

She hadn’t eaten anything of substance in a fortnight. Grady would have to wait. She spooned a steaming bite into her mouth and closed her eyes. “Mmmm,” she moaned. “This is divine.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Sara took another bite and chewed. Her eyes snapped open. “Have you any bread?”

“
Mais, oui, mademoiselle
.” He stood and took a loaf from a cupboard. “Fresh bought this very morning.” Mr. Pirate tore off a chunk and handed it to her.

“Merci!” She smiled and took his offering. She dunked it in the soup and bit off a piece. “Oh,” she cried. “This is wonderful.”

“I’m so glad you approve.”

“You are a glorious cook, sir.”

“Well, thank you. I do try.”

“I will most definitely have to hire you away from the Duke.” Sara rolled her eyes, her mouth full even as she spoke. “Well, I would, if I had any money to hire you away
with
.”

The man lifted his dark brows in a mocking tilt. “You would?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I am rather cheap, actually.”

Sara stopped chewing and stared at him round eyed. “Truly? I cannot imagine that your talents would come cheaply.”

He smiled, a slow, incredibly sexy smile that made Sara gulp down the food in her mouth without chewing completely. Her throat clenched and she coughed.

“For you, my dear lady, I could see my way fit to offer my talents free of charge.”

Sara wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin that sat on the table and stared. “Free of charge? Are you serious, sir?”

“Very.” He scooted his chair closer to hers. “And you? How much do your talents cost?”

Sara laughed and waved her hand in the air. “Oh, goodness, sir, I really do not have many talents. And, truly, those I have are not worth anything at all.”

“Why is that so hard for me to believe?” the man asked, as he leaned toward her.

“I . . . well, I do not know . . .” Sara shifted in her chair, her soup-filled spoon hanging over her bowl. He was terribly close, so close she could smell the silky scent of musk he must use at his toilette. To sit so close to such a virile man and breathe in his scent made her shiver. She felt her heart thump against her chest. She glanced around the intimate room. They were
very much alone, and Sara was beginning to get just a bit nervous. She tipped the spoon against her lips and swallowed.

“Just by watching you eat a simple bowl of soup,” the man reached out and ran a finger along the edge of her torn bodice, “I’d wager a fortune that you have talents worth pounds of gold.”

At the touch of his finger against her skin, Sara jumped, the spoon dropping with a clatter to the floor. The cook’s finger followed the edge of her low neckline, gliding over the top of one of her breasts. Her hands shaking, Sara crossed her arms before her and clutched her shoulders as she drew back. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

“Shall we eat later, my lady?” His eyelids dipped heavily and he opened his mouth, his tongue gliding over his pearly white teeth.

“Oh dear.” Sara did not even recognize her own voice. And then his mouth came down on hers and she did not think she would ever recognize anything again.

T
he cook’s tongue immediately invaded her mouth. And Sara did nothing to stop him, shock making her lips slack. His arms came about her, crushing her to his chest, and he slanted his mouth over hers. She curled her hands against his coat, thinking she ought to push the man away; but in that moment she realized that this kiss was not an attack. The man holding her and running his tongue along her teeth was making love to her with his mouth.

And it felt good.

She found herself opening her mouth just a touch, and actually meeting his tongue with her own. Her conduct was absolutely shocking, really, and Sara, of course, realized that she must stop him, and quickly. But suddenly, in this silent moment below the stairs, with a complete stranger holding her with gentle hands, Sara felt . . . cherished. And she knew, in her heart of
hearts, that she did want it to continue.