Malia Martin (7 page)

Trevor put his finger under the Duchess’s chin and pushed her mouth gently closed. “Her employer at the inn was abusing her, Sara. I told her she could have a place in Rawlston’s kitchens.”

Sara swallowed, and Trevor felt the movement against his fingers. He looked from her face to where his hand still touched her chin, and wanted suddenly to stroke his fingers down her slim throat. Could her skin possibly be as smooth as it looked? He indulged for a moment, sliding the pad of his thumb against her chin. Ah, yes, smooth as a baby’s bottom.

Sara wrenched away from him, her eyes dark and wary.

“I hope that I have not overstepped my bounds,” Trevor said, dropping his hand to his side. “By promising Trudy a place here, I mean.”

Sara shook her head quickly. “Of course not,” she said. “You are the Duke, sir, you can do anything you wish. I can only hope that you will continue using your authority so!”

It was Trevor’s turn to be wary. He cleared
his throat “Yes, well, if you could show her where to go . . .”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She stepped aside. “Come in, your grace.” Gesturing to the girl outside, Sara called to her, “Come, Trudy, Cook will be forever grateful for another hand in the kitchen. Especially now that we have another mouth to feed!” She beamed at Trevor.

Trudy hurried up the steps, curtseying when she gained the door. “Your grace, I am ever so grateful.”

“Nonsense, Trudy, it is I who am grateful for your help, dear girl. The kitchen is just down the stairs.” Sara pointed. “Tell Cook that I have taken you on.”

“Yes, your grace.” The girl backed down the hall, dipping curtseys as she went.

Sara turned to him when they finally heard the girl had clattered down the back stairs. “That was good of you, your grace,” she said as if it shocked her to her toes. “I did not realize that Mr. Lester was abusing her, or I would have done something sooner.”

“And what is this?” called a quavering voice from deeper within the monolith of the house. Sara turned and Trevor saw the oldest man on earth hobbling down the hallway toward them. “You answering doors now, your grace?” the man asked, his cane tapping against the marbled floor. “To the drawing room with you,” he yelled at the Duchess as he came up to them.
“And you.” He turned on Trevor. “Who may I say is calling?”

“Oh, no, Filbert, this is . . .”

“Tut, tut, tut!” Filbert cut off his mistress with the loudest tuts Trevor had ever heard. “I shall do what I ought, no need to coddle old Filbert. Now, off to the drawing room!” The butler turned to Trevor. “Who are you, man?” Filbert’s voice rang down the hall.

Sara just shrugged, so Trevor cleared his throat. “The Duke of Rawlston.”

“What’s that, boy?” Filbert leaned toward him, ear first.

“Duke,” Trevor said clearly, “of Rawlston.”

“Ah, yes!” He swiveled about, and Trevor automatically put out his hands to help the man who wavered precariously. Filbert, however, steadied himself with his cane, but then nearly bowled down the Duchess.

“What the devil are you doing in the hall?” The old man actually planted long, thin fingers against his bony hips. “I shall receive the callers all right and tight!” Filbert shooed Sara off in front of him.

“But, Filbert, ’Tis the Duke!”

“Quit your yapping and get in the drawing room.” The man prodded her with the tip of his cane. “Come on, now, don’t be makin’ me angry with you.”

“Filbert,” Sara tried again. “This is the Duke of Rawlston . . .”

“Don’t you think I can still do this job? Are
you trying to tell me you want me to retire?”

Sara blew out a frustrated sigh. “Of course not, Filbert,” she said loudly. Then, with a small shrug at Trevor, she ducked through a door just off the hall.

Filbert tsked mightily. “Women these days!” Straightening as best he could, he tugged the bottom of his waistcoat, stuck his nose in the air, and marched toward the doorway the duchess had just entered.

“Your grace!” The man’s baritone reverberated throughout the house. “Luke of Rat Town to see you!”

Trevor snorted, but caught himself when Filbert threw him a dirty look. A long silence elapsed from beyond the door, and Trevor pretended to scratch his nose to keep his hand over his mouth.

“Do show him in, Filbert.”

“What was that?”

“Show him in, Filbert!” The strength of her yell made Trevor’s ears ring.

“Well, then, keep your slippers on!” The old man turned murmuring, “Holy mother of God, ye’d think the house afire!”

Stiffening again, Filbert resumed his butler of the manor pose and in a nasal twang said, “She will see you in the drawing room, sir.” And bowed.

Trevor was already through the door before he realized that Filbert was stuck. Stopping, he
discreetly lifted the man’s arm, helping him back to an upright position.

“Much obliged,” Filbert said curtly, and hobbled off.

Trevor watched the man for a moment, then turned back to the drawing room door. Sara stood staring at him, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth, and her brows drawn together. “Filbert is rather deaf,” she said.

Trevor huffed, then chuckled, then buckled over, his hands across his stomach, and laughed so hard his cheeks started to hurt. When he finally began to calm, he straightened and realized that Sara had laughed with him. The woman sat on a chair, her head thrown back, a hand against her chest as she giggled.

“I like Filbert,” Trevor said, when he had re-covered sufficiently.

Sara smiled, her full lips lifting so that he could see her small white teeth, and Trevor found himself remembering their kiss.

“I love Filbert,” she said. “He is quite a character. I will have to introduce you correctly later. He probably will not even recognize you.”

“I am that forgettable?” Trevor asked, going to stand near Sara.

“Filbert is that blind.”

Trevor laughed again.

Sara pushed up from her chair obviously tin-aware of how close he stood, for her shoulder grazed his chest with her movement. He heard
the quick intake of her breath and felt what she must have, the tingle of awareness that went straight to his loins. Would it be so terrible to take the woman in his arms and finish the kiss they had started in his kitchen?

Sara moved backward quickly, her hand nervously touching her hair, then going to press against her stomach. Yes, it would be ill advised, Trevor concluded. He still was very unsure of the woman’s stability of mind—although he now realized that the Duchess’s insanity had probably been a story made up by Stu to keep Trevor from taking Sara seriously. He would have to see exactly what state the finances of Rawlston were in, then make his conclusion. And that would not be easy.

Sara had begun fishing among her skirts for something. Trevor watched as her hand came up holding his watch. She held the timepiece out to him.

“Here is your watch, your grace, as I promised. I am glad you have come.”

“You play a dangerous game, madame.” Trevor took the watch from her, their fingers brushing and causing Sara’s chest to rise with quickened breath. “Stuart wanted to have you committed, with that letter as evidence of your instability.”

“And you?” she asked.

Trevor ran a thumb over the smooth front of his watch, then clicked the latch and stared at its face. “I want to see what you are so desper
ate to show me.” He snapped the watch closed and shoved it into his pocket. “Is there something truly wrong here?” he asked looking into Sara’s wide brown eyes.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Come with me, please,” she said, leaving the room. Trevor followed her across the hall, through large double doors and into another smaller room. He looked about at the towering bookshelves, dark furnishings, and huge desk piled high with papers.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

Sara gestured toward the desk. “I have been taking care of this since John died . . .”

“Why didn’t you send it to my lawyer?” Trevor asked, as he crept toward the desk.

“I did, actually, in the beginning.” Sara scowled. “But he never paid any of the bills, and he certainly never dealt with the correspondence. It was horrible.”

“And what of
your
steward?” Trevor finally stood abreast of the desk, but he only glanced at the intimidating work piled there. His palms started to sweat, and he flattened them against his thighs. Bloody hell, it was like being back in school. He had spent his entire school career wiping his hands against his pants.

“My husband’s steward left even before John’s death,” Sara shrugged. “Truthfully, we could not pay him, and I was not going to get rid of any of the servants, because they have no other income and nowhere else to turn.” She
speared him with quite a malicious look. “That is the reason I have kept them on even though you have shown no interest in Rawlston Hall. You have refused to answer my correspondence, and I could not let them go hungry, so I have paid them from a small inheritance I have from my mother.”

Sara’s eyes glinted with anger. She looked ready to spit nails, actually. “’Tis a good thing my father married a woman with money, your grace, or your lack of responsibility would have had a much more desperate end.”

Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed a thumb against his jaw. He usually shaved only once every few days and liked to rub his fingers and thumb against the stubble as he thought. Unfortunately, in his new role as a man of responsibility, he had shaved that very morning. He shoved his hand through his hair. “Stuart has sent you no money whatsoever?” He asked this quietly, afraid of the answer.

“Absolutely nothing.”

Trevor closed his eyes for a moment. He had hoped that he was wrong about Stu: that the man had gotten foxed someplace and would drag himself home, get Trevor’s note, and take off to join him at Rawlston.

Trevor huffed a small, silent laugh. Stu was obviously not going to show up anytime soon. He had played the new Duke for quite a fool Trevor turned away from Sara and strode to the large fireplace. Masculine pieces of furniture
fronted the hearth, big chairs covered in dark leather. Trevor stood staring at nothing for a moment.

He could already feel himself drowning. If he’d been normal, he’d have been able to wrap up all the paperwork, set an honest man to keep on top of it, and run down the cheating Andrew Stuart. Unfortunately, Trevor was not normal. The paper on the old Duke’s desk made him greasy with sweat, and he knew that he would never be able to whip through it and run after Stuart also.

“What of the estate?” he asked, without turning around. “You say it is at ends. What do you mean?”

“Rawlston has not been a profitable estate since the conception of the title over three hundred years ago. John brought a bit of money to the title, but besides the small incomes he left to his children, there is nothing left. He kept Rawlston going with his own money, really. And the last few years there was not even much of that.”

Trevor sighed, then realized Sara had said something about children. He turned and stared at her. “Do you have children?”

Her face turned a light shade of pink, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “No.”

“But. . .”

“John had a daughter and a son with Rachel.”

“Rachel?”

Sara sighed heavily and turned away. “His mistress.”

Trevor suddenly remembered Sara mentioning the woman and felt like a toad for prolonging the conversation about her.

“Anyway, you should go through these things, your grace.” Sara busied herself at the desk, shuffling papers. “I have put out the books I kept. It will all explain itself, I am sure.”

If it was in books or on paper, it would not just “explain itself.” Trevor took a deep stilling breath and stood a little straighter.

“I have sorted it all through for you.” Sara smiled, her brows lifting in a beseeching manner. “I did not want you overwhelmed.”

“Of course not.” Oh, if that wasn’t the most hilarious understatement. He wiped his hands discreetly against the sides of his jacket. Without looking at the printed words that seemed to move across each page, Trevor went and sat behind the desk. He had not sat at a desk since school. “Is it hot in here?”

“No, actually, ’Tis a bit cool.” Sara took a stack of worn leatherbound ledgers and laid them neatly on the floor behind him. “You can go through those when you are done with these.” She gestured toward the paper on the desk.

As if he would ever be done.

“Now, these are bills that are current.” She patted a small stack. “These are overdue.” A much larger stack. “This is correspondence that
must be gotten to.” She tapped a huge stack with a slender finger.

“There is no steward at all?” his voice sounded a bit strangled, but Sara did not seem to notice.

“You can write for Mr. Stuart to come.”

“Hmm.” Trevor cleared his throat, cupped his thumb and fingers around his chin and scratched the underside of his jaw.

“I will leave you to this, your grace.” Sara backed away. “This evening, over dinner, we can go over the details of the tenants’ needs.”

Just what he needed, more details. He grabbed a piece of paper from one of the interminable stacks.

“Oh no!” Sara rushed forward, laying her hand against his. As if he had burnt her, she snatched her hand away and grabbed something off the desk. “Really, I think you should start with this. ’Tis quite urgent, actually.” She spread a letter out before him.

She waited as if to let him have time to peruse the words. Trevor blinked, the small letters running around the page as if they played a child’s game. Oh God. He looked away quickly, his cheek brushing against the side of Sara’s breast.

“Oh,” she cried. It was a small sound, and not completely one of abhorrent shock, either. Rather a mixture of awareness and need with just a touch of unease. A tantalizing mix, actually.

Trevor found his hands suddenly on either side of Sara’s small waist. It felt good to feel her beneath his hands. So good that he pulled her off her feet onto his lap and kissed her. Her breasts pushed against his chest, her soft bottom pressed against his legs and her breath feathered against his mouth.