The Offer (17 page)

The set formed and they were almost immediately separated. Sabrina set a smile on her mouth and let her feet move. She curtsied and walked down the line, giving her hand first to one gentleman, then to another. It wasn't particularly strenuous, yet she was out of breath at the end of the dance.

She felt his hand upon her arm. “I imagine you still tire easily.”

“Yes, but it gets better every day.”

“I don't want to return you just yet. As I said, I want to speak to you. Would you care for a glass of punch? It should help revive you.”

She nodded. She laid her hand on his arm. They walked across the huge ballroom to the dining room where there were several long tables holding quantities of food, everything from oyster cakes to apple tortes.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head.

Phillip placed a filled glass in her hand and accepted a goblet of champagne from a footman. “To London and your evident success.”

She sipped her punch. It was very sweet. She put it down. “Let's drink to a world that doesn't need to be changed. My success isn't just evident, it's a fact.”

“No, Sabrina. It's just that the world doesn't as yet know.”

“Do you intend to make an announcement?”

“It isn't necessary. Your world right now is made of glass. It will require but one thrown rock—but one vicious tongue—and it will shatter.”

“But that makes no sense. I haven't done anything to anyone. I scarcely open my mouth. My aunt does all the talking. I just smile and nod and do what I'm
told. No, Phillip, there'd be no reason for such viciousness as you describe.”

He could only shake his head. “You're remarkably innocent, Sabrina. It will happen, you know. It's just a matter of time. Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes, just this morning.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Phillip. I can never repay you.”

“I trust you've stopped your worrying?”

“For the most part.”

“You're lying, but that's all right. As I wrote in my letter, your grandfather is improving steadily. He's a tough old eagle. Your rapacious cousin, Trevor, will chomp at the bit for many years before taking his turn. Something I didn't write, just in case your aunt would read your mail, is that the earl is safe from Trevor, I promise you.”

She frowned, her eyes upon his exquisitely tied cravat. “What did you do?”

“I went to Monmouth Abbey. I saw the rotter. I made things perfectly clear to him.”

“You did what?
What did you say, Phillip? You actually saw him? Did you shoot him? Please tell me it was just a little hole in his arm, nothing to kill him.”

He laughed. “Actually, I believe in about six months I shall go back to Monmouth Abbey and beat him into the ground.” He didn't add that Richard Clarendon would probably be with him, or get there before he did. The thought of it nearly made him rub his hands together. “Now listen to me, Sabrina. Yes, I went to Monmouth Abbey and cornered both Trevor and your blushing bride of a sister. They deserve each other, you know.”

She looked up at him helplessly.

“But why?”

“They both have the moral fiber of ants.”

“I don't really know about Aunt Barresford's moral fiber.”

“No, not aunts. I was referring to the very small creature that always enjoys a picnic.”

“Phillip, why did you go?”

“I went because I owed it to you.”

“No, you didn't. You don't. I've told you. You owe me nothing. You saved my life, Phillip. Surely that's enough.”

“All right. I went because I wanted to see this pretty little dandy who cooed all over Richard Clarendon. I
wanted to see the bastard who tried to rape his sister-in-law, who should be under his protection.”

“He is very pretty. You told him not to hurt my grandfather?”

“Yes. Whatever else Trevor Eversleigh may lack, he doesn't lack an instinct for self-preservation. I told both him and Elizabeth, quite succinctly, that I would put a bullet through the future earl's heart if the old earl died. There was a lot of outrage, sputtering about it being none of my business and the like, but eventually they believed me. But I admit, I did have to resort to a rather drastic demonstration. I had to knock Trevor to the floor and stomp on him a couple of times. Elizabeth stood by, shrieking. Actually, now that I think back on it, I think she might have been pleased that I hurt the little bastard. Who knows? It's strange. Trevor yelled for the butler—”

“Ribble.”

“Yes, Ribble. He came to the doorway, stood there, saw what was happening, then just turned around and left.”

“But, Phillip, you're talking about fighting a duel with Trevor if Grandfather dies. I can't approve of that. He could hurt you. Why would you risk your life for an old man you don't even know?”

“He's your grandfather, Sabrina.”

“I've freed you of any obligations that Charles tried to foist on you. It puts me further in your debt. I can't bear it.”

“It appears you will have to since it's done.”

She'd told him the truth. She couldn't bear it. She fanned her hands in front of her. “I thank you, Phillip.”

Phillip felt a surge of anger at the position she found herself in, through no fault of her own, through no
fault of his either, but the defeat in her, the role of eternal supplicant, he hated it for her.

“I don't want any more thanks from you, Sabrina. They are growing quite boring. Yes, all these little mewlings don't fit you at all.”

Ah, that did the trick. Color crept up from her breasts to her hairline. Ah, her breasts, he tore his gaze away and looked directly into her eyes.

“Little mewlings? You fool, that doesn't even mean anything. I have to thank you, there's no way around it. Why don't you do something more fitting your character, which Charlie told me was wild and reckless and selfish? Yes, I now about all these ladies you do things with that you really shouldn't do because they're married. Oh, enough of that. He also told me that you liked to build on your house, but that didn't really count, just the other, which should shame you to your toes.”

“Selfish, am I? The other—wild and reckless—all right, I'll accept those. I'll even take your damned insults, but I draw the line at you calling me selfish. Don't you remember how I bathed you, Sabrina? How I toweled you dry? All of you? Every damned little inch of you? I proved to you that I wasn't selfish. I did everything for you.”

“I was unconscious. Well, I was barely conscious. Only a complete villain would bathe me when I was barely conscious.”

She was making no sense at all and he loved it. He wanted, quite simply, to see more. He fairly hummed with anticipation as he said, “You were nearly shrieking with pleasure when I suggested a bath. Unconscious? I don't think so, Sabrina.”

“A gentleman wouldn't remember such fine details.”

The color on her cheeks was blooming bright; her eyes were glittering with rage and life. Just a bit more,
he thought, just enough so that she would growl at him. A growl would prove that she was regaining her fighting spirit.

“Now, now, Sabrina, a gentleman should remember fine details. That ability aids him in pleasing the lady even more the next time. Should I not speak of them? I will think about that later. Ah, but I do remember that you weren't at all unconscious that memorable day I bathed you. As for the earlier days, you weren't completely unconscious either. You were in a fevered, almost frenzied state.” He looked at her left ear, framed by loose red curls. He said easily, knowing if there was a growl in her, it would explode upon him soon, “Don't you remember how I warmed you when you were so very cold?”

Hazy memory stirred and she felt her skin flush the color of her hair. He'd held her tightly against him, warming her with his own body. Now she remembered his hands moving up and down her back, cradling her against his chest. She remembered the dizzying warmth of him, how she'd tried to burrow into him.

“You're no gentleman.” She backed away from him, splaying her hands in front of her to ward him off, to ward the memories off.

He'd gone too far, pushed her too hard. No growl this time. Well, hell.

He said now, his voice clipped and hard, “You're right. I apologize. Let me assure you that you were indeed unconscious. I did only what I had to do to save your life. Don't become hysterical on me. I promise I won't mention any of it again.”

“I'm never hysterical.”

He laughed, he couldn't help it. “No, and I beg you never to become so. I have the rankest fear of a female who shows the incipient signs. Come, let's go dance again. Or, if you're too angry with me, I'll
simply return you to your aunt. The aunt married to a merchant, as I recall. No, forget I said that. You're breathing too hard. It bespeaks a nervous state. Calm down.”

“Your wit would fell an oak,” she said, whipped about, picked up her skirts, and walked stately as a queen down the corridor back to the drawing room, to the safety of her aunt.

“Now that insult really hurts,” he called after her, laughing. “Perhaps it wasn't an insult?”

He said polite good nights to his hostess and took his leave. Some hours later, after having consumed a half bottle of brandy at White's, he went to Martine's rooms on Fitton Place.

It was some minutes before Annie, Martine's maid, butler, and chef, cracked the front door open a few inches at his insistent knocking, demanding irritably who was trying to raise the dead.

When she saw him, she drew back with a startled, “My lord, it's after two in the morning.”

“A fine morning it is, my girl.” He knew he'd had a skinful, and gave her a big grin. He tossed Annie his greatcoat and hat. “No need to announce me, I'll surprise your mistress.”

He took the stairs two at a time, clutching at the banister several times to keep his balance, and burst unceremoniously into Martine's bedchamber.

A long candle suddenly spurted into wavering light.

There was Martine, propped up on her elbows, those beautiful lips of hers parted in a lazy smile.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, and swept her a drunken bow.

She sat up and the covers, as if with a sigh, fell to her waist. She was naked. He stared at the expanse of white flesh and became instantly harder than a rock.

He groaned and jerked off his clothes, leaving them to lie where they fell.

“Quelle sottise,”
Martine said in a hard Manchester accent. “Come, my lord, I believe you need my assistance, and quickly.” She pulled back the covers and drew him down into her arms. “You are drunk, Phillip? Too drunk to give us pleasure?”

“I'd have to be dead before that would happen. Trust me, Martine, I won't disappoint you. If I happen to skip some steps on the way, just remind me. I love to backtrack.”

She just laughed and bit his shoulder. “I will, but I don't think you will miss any steps, they're too much a habit with you.”

He grinned, and buried his face between her breasts. He knew she wanted him because she forgot to practice her French on him. At least some woman wanted him.

She stroked his dark hair, shiny and thick in the candlelight. She arched her back so he could kiss her breasts. “Ah, the pleasure of that.”

“I could give every damned woman in London pleasure,” he said between kisses, “including that stubborn little witch.”

Now this was interesting, she thought, until pleasure poured through her and she pulled him to her mouth so she could kiss him until neither of them could breathe. After some minutes of absolute enjoyment, he suddenly reared back and stared down at her. She saw that his eyes weren't quite focused.

He fell onto his side, balancing himself on his elbow. His right hand, out of habit, stroked her, molding her flesh, making her sigh. “She's a fool, Martine. I compromised her but still she won't have me. Oh, I didn't ask her to marry me again this evening, I knew better than that. I already did enough of that. Why slap
myself in the face again when I knew she'd refuse me yet again? No, I'm not that much of a fool.

“I don't know what to do about this. It gnaws at me. I hate this defeat in her. It doesn't suit her at all. But you know what? She had the gall to accuse me of losing some harebrained wager, in short, of having to be the sacrificial husband. Me, a sacrifice? I don't think so. It's a ludicrous thought.”

Martine blinked her creamy brown eyes at this outpouring. His hand was no longer caressing her. He was clearly abstracted, far away from her, at least in spirit. Well, truth be told, this could prove just as interesting. “You compromised a lady, my lord?”

“Of course I didn't. Do you think so ill of me?”

Martine sifted her fingers through his tousled hair. “But didn't you just say that—”

“There was no compromising involved. She would have died if I hadn't taken care of her. She knows it, I know it. The whole damned bloody world should know it.” He laid his hand on her stomach and began tapping his fingertips.

She smiled at him, encouraging him with her silence to talk. And he did. “Did you know that even Clarendon wanted her? Why the devil can't she see that social ruin is nipping close at her heels?”

“But if you didn't compromise her, then why would she be facing ruin?”

Phillip flipped over on his back. The weaving light from the single candle at the bedside was spiraling upward toward the shadowed ceiling. He could make out a patch of plaster that was cracked and in imminent danger of falling on the bed. “Call the damned carpenter, Martine. I don't want to have my head bashed in while we're in the midst of lovemaking.”

She made a soothing, agreeable sound, then said, “I don't understand why this girl who hasn't been
compromised refused Clarendon. A romantic figure, that one. I nearly swoon just speaking his name.” She was laughing at him. He frowned as she added, “However, at the sound of your name, Phillip, I do a complete swoon. Why don't you want him to marry this girl?”

“He just wants her. He doesn't love her. He's a rake and he's not worthy of her.”

“Do you love her?”

“Certainly not. I scarcely know her. You know I'm far too young to love anyone. Far far too young to wed.”

“Aren't you also a rake?”

“No, not really. It's all a matter of degree. I'm a very low degree, as in I'm barely on the scale at all. Most of it is just gossip. I'm not as clean as Rohan Carrington is known to be now, but it's close. All right, not all that close, but I'm not a womanizer, not like Richard Clarendon.”

“I've always enjoyed the degrees you've given to me, Phillip.”

“Stop twisting my words, Martine. Clarendon would have really compromised her, taken gross advantage of her innocence, had it been he who had found her. She was very lucky in her rescuer. I'm honorable. I might have felt lust for her, but never would I have acted on it.”

Martine pondered this for some minutes, then harked back to two words that quite struck her fancy. “Clarendon, he also wanted to be the sacrificial husband to this girl nobody compromised?”

“It wasn't ever a question of that. It was Charles Askbridge—the blockhead—who said that. Your romantic Clarendon would have shied away had he thought of himself as a sacrifice, no matter how much he shouted about his desire to marry her, if only I swore I hadn't damaged her.
Damaged
. Can you
believe that? After hearing that she nearly died, he had the gall to ask me if I'd damaged her. Sometimes it's a sorry world, Martine. It's a world that ranks down there with slugs.”