Malia Martin (16 page)

Filbert scrunched up his bushy gray eye
brows and pursed his lips. “That is not what you said. But I know my place, yes I do!” He shot a withering look at Mrs. Biddle, then hobbled out the door. “Well, get on in there, young man. Or are you going to listen at the damned keyhole?”

Trevor glanced behind him and saw that Seth hovered about in the hall. The boy was wringing his hands so hard, Trevor was surprised his fingers were still attached.

“Come in, Mr. Goldblume!” Trevor said a small prayer of thanks to the gods. He was not alone.

Seth blinked, moved his weight from one foot to the other, and finally pulled his hands apart, only to begin rolling the bottom hem of his jacket. Trevor waved for the young man to come into the parlor. “Do join us, sir.”

Seth nodded, his eyes large as he came haltingly into the room. His gaze went immediately to the vision of Miss Biddle and never left. Trevor sighed. Well, it did not look as though he would have much help from the lovestruck Mr. Goldblume.

Mrs. Biddle looked down her nose at the merchant and sniffed. Then she turned a radiant smile upon Trevor. “We had to return, your grace, when we heard the wonderful news of the ball you are to give!”

Trevor gaped. Sara was quite the proficient one. A steward found and the ball announced
and he had only ridden his horse. It was quite intimidating, actually.

“Shall you be there, Mr. Goldblume?” Helen asked his steward. The poor man looked as if the lovely Miss Biddle had just begun speaking in tongues.

“Of course he shall,” Trevor answered for him. “According to the Duchess, everyone in the vicinity is invited.”

“The
Dowager
Duchess, you mean,” Mrs. Biddle said bitingly.

Trevor arched his brows. How very shrewish that sounded, Mrs. Biddle, he thought.

Helen’s wise voice interrupted them again. “I shall save a dance for you/then, Mr. Goldblume.” She looked directly into the man’s eyes, her voice a calming tone when compared with her mother’s.

“Well!” Mrs. Biddle sounded as if she had just witnessed a carriage come crashing through the wall. “I never!” She glared at her daughter. “’Tis a bit early, Helen, to be promising dances! And what if Mr. Goldblume does not want to come to the ball?” Her voice rose on the last word making it sound like she was warbling through a very bad opera. “I mean,” here Mrs. Biddle shook her head and gave Trevor a knowing look, “he would, after all, be with people not his own.”

Mr. Goldblume said nothing, but just stared at Helen.

Trevor frowned. “Come, Mr. Goldblume, are
you a Lilliputian? You did not tell me.”

The man finally turned his adoring gaze away from Helen. “Excuse me, your grace?”

Mrs. Biddle looked quite stumped, but Helen laughed. Her head tipped back delicately and laughter spilled from her bowed lips like the ringing of sweet bells. Mr. Goldblume’s regard snapped back to his lady, and Trevor also stared. The girl was quite perfect.

She straightened, her eyes glittering with merriment. “Such a wit, your grace,” she said.

Trevor could not help pushing out his chest a little. He surveyed the room. In truth, it was nice to be back on familiar ground. A beautiful woman, her gaze steady upon him, admiring his charm and . . . and Sara. Trevor’s roaming eyes stopped upon the Duchess who stood in the doorway.

T
heir gazes locked and she cocked her head, her brows arching in some question Trevor could not imagine. He jumped to his feet and caught a movement at the corner of his eye. Helen had stood also. She dipped a curtsey, her eyes downcast for a moment. “Your grace. We are honored that you have joined us.”

Sara smiled at the girl, a warm, sincere smile. “Helen. I have not seen you since you returned from your finishing school in Edinburgh.” Sara came forward, her hands out, and Helen placed her own in the duchess’s. “You are lovely, dear, truly lovely.”

Mrs. Biddle chose this moment to make a terribly offending noise that sounded as if it came through her nose.

Trevor noticed that Sara’s fingers spasmed, but Helen just tightened her own grip. “Thank you, your grace,” the young girl said levelly. “Coming from such a beautiful woman as your
self, that is a wonderful compliment.”

Trevor blinked at the girl. Surely she must be some sort of fairy princess. And he did want to kiss the chit for smoothing over Sara’s feelings.

They said something else to each other, softly, so that no one else heard, then broke apart. Mrs. Biddle had not stood, and she did not make any effort to show any deference to Sara. It rankled Trevor, and he had the sudden urge to boot the woman out the door and tell her never to set foot on his doorstep again. He took a step forward, but Sara moved to his side.

She placed her hand upon his sleeve. “You and Mr. Goldblume have been busy this morning, your grace. I am thankful.” She said this just above a whisper, for his ears only. Trevor swallowed, all thoughts of Mrs. Biddle fleeing. He could only think of Sara’s beautiful golden hair nearly touching his shoulder, her lovely, pale fingers against the darkness of his sleeve, and her scent. He took in a deep breath. She must have been in the garden, for she smelled of earth and grass and lavender. And she was thankful to him.

He had to touch her. Whisper soft, he smoothed his finger across the top of her hand against his sleeve. “Anything for you, Sara dearest.” The words came out of his mouth, and he meant them. And it frightened him so, that he pulled back and turned away before she could.

“Have you called for tea?” Sara asked him shakily.

“Um, no, actually,” Trevor answered. Despairing as Sara left his side, taking her special sweet scent and body with her. She sat far away from him, nearer to Mr. Goldblume. “I shall ring for Mary,” he said

Sara nodded, her concentration obviously not on him. She seemed agitated, actually, pleating her skirt between her fingers and asking Goldblume if he did not find the weather rather warm, even for spring. Trevor jerked the bell pull. Mary came in quickly, her eyes downcast but her color high.

“Tea, please, Mary,” Trevor said.

The woman’s eyes widened as if she found that instruction something out of the ordinary. Then she dipped her head and backed out of the room. Her gaze darted between Mrs. Biddle and the duchess, though, and Trevor realized suddenly that this must be the first time Sara had entertained the older woman.

And of course, that would be true. Mrs. Biddle had been her husband’s mistress, after all. The woman was speaking quietly to her daughter, her brows bouncing up and down above her eyes. Trevor watched her as he took his own seat. What had possessed the woman to call at Rawlston Hall? It was quite forward of her, and, now that he thought of it, not at all proper.

“Your grace,” Sara turned to him immediately. “How do you find Rawlston? Are you enjoying getting to know the place?” She entreated him with pleading eyes to answer positively.

“I am enjoying it immensely.” He turned toward his rapt audience. “The town is quite nice.”

“Nothing compared to London,” Mrs. Biddle said with a trace of bitterness. “I miss the city very much.”

“So you have been to London, Mrs. Biddle.”

“I am from there, your grace.” She smiled, her features softening as she obviously remembered better times. “My family lives there. My father is a man of great wealth and power.”

“Really?” Trevor asked, intrigued. “Whatever brought you here, then, Mrs. Biddle?”

The entire room went sickeningly silent. Trevor, of course, immediately realized his faux pas. He wanted to bang his hand against his forehead. He absolutely hated all the things one mustn’t talk about, or must, as the case might be, when in society. He had always tried to stay away from such circumstances as he found himself in now.

Mary entered then, fortunately, although she slowed as she came through the door. Obviously she felt the tension as they all sat staring at one another in silence. The maid looked around with a frown, then dropped her gaze and set about placing the tea tray on the table beside Sara.

Sara.

Trevor’s horror at his social ungraciousness slipped away as he watched her trembling hands move a delicate china cup closer to the teapot.

“Would you like milk, your grace?” She asked quietly, without looking up from her task.

Trevor realized suddenly the pain this encounter must bring her. To sit in the same room with the woman to whom her husband had given children. She glanced at him then, her eyes dark.

“Yes, please, Sara,” he said remembering her question. And he smiled at her, noticing fully, and for the first time, the Duchess’s sad eyes the groom had once spoken of.

She quirked a small smile in response and said, “We have no chocolate, your grace, but I shall pour, as much sugar in as I dare.”

Trevor laughed, though his throat had gone terribly dry. In that small inconsequential moment, he had just connected with another human as he had never done before. Someone understood something about him: knew him as no one else in the room did. Sara knew he abhorred tea. She knew of his sweet tooth and joked with him while those around them sat frowning, not understanding their banter.

God, it felt good.

Trevor licked his dry lips. And, Lord, did it scare him. Trevor stood and took the teacup
Sara had poured for him. He kept his gaze averted, but could not stop himself from making sure their fingers collided as he took the cup.

Just that one touch made him want to drag Sara into his arms. Trevor turned deliberately away and sat again on the other side of the room from the Duchess.

He poured the vile brown liquid down his throat and wished, not for the first time, that he had finished his seduction the night before.

All of these thoughts must be delirium caused by not being able to slack his lust. For the love of God, he had not stayed celibate this long since he had turned sixteen. And he had never let his need for a woman build up for so long with no outlet.

Trevor finished his tea and slapped the cup on the table next to him as Mrs. Biddle turned the conversation back to the topic of the ball.

There were hardly any more strained silences. It was a tough interview, though, and Trevor actually found himself wishing to be back in the study, of all places. Mrs. Biddle avoided eye contact with the Duchess, and when they did happen to cross, the older woman’s gaze frosted over and she turned away quickly. Trevor realized as the two Biddle women finally took their leave that Mrs. Biddle had managed the entire half hour without once speaking to Sara.

And Sara had shared the same courtesy.

As he watched Filbert close the door behind the women with a tremendous
thwack
, Trevor could only sigh with relief and hope they never came back. What was the woman thinking?

“She is putting forth Helen as a candidate for your bride,” Sara said, as if she could read his mind.

Mr. Goldblume had retired once more to the study and Filbert had hobbled far enough down the hall that he could not hear them.

Trevor turned to the Duchess, who stood behind him. “Are you quite serious?”

“Quite.”

He blanched. “But really, no matter how beautiful the chit is, she is . . . that is . . .”

“She is a bastard.” Sara shrugged. “True. But, as you said, she is a beautiful one, and a girl of many talents, as well as grace.”

Trevor frowned. “Still, and I am asking in all sincerity, as I have not spent much time mingling in society, is it de rigueur for a woman of Mrs. Biddle’s station to call on me?” He stepped closer to Sara, just in case there were servants listening, and dropped his voice. “
Could
Helen actually be considered a candidate for my bride?”

Sara tilted her head back and looked at him with her large brown eyes. “You are a duke. You may do as you wish.”

Trevor watched as her full lips formed the words. They trembled when she stopped, and
then she softly bit her lower lip for a mere second.

“May I?” he asked, still staring at her mouth, and no longer caring or speaking of Mrs. Biddle or her angel daughter. His thoughts drifted back to the idea he had entertained while having tea. He needed an outlet for his sexual needs. And he would very much like that outlet to be in the form of this lovely woman beside him.

“Do you like her?” Sara asked.

Trevor dragged his gaze up over her small upturned nose to her lovely almond-shaped eyes with their screen of lush dark lashes. “Like her?”

“Helen?”

Trevor took another step closer to Sara, putting himself just a breath away from her so that he could sense the warmth of her body. “She is beautiful,” he said, without thinking of his words. His only thought at that moment was how he wanted to pull Sara against him, feel her heat, not just sense it.

Sara closed her eyes suddenly and backed away. “She
is
beautiful.”

Trevor despaired the space between them, and he decided that this time he would not allow it to become wider. He grasped Sara’s arms, pulling her against him.

“Yes,” he said softly, “she is.” He bent and kissed her gently, just a quick caress: her lower lip between both of his.

She blinked, too surprised to do anything else, and he smiled with that knowledge.

“She is a beautiful, angel-like child.” He kissed her deeply, tasting her as she stiffened and wrenched her face to the side.

“What are you doing?” She tried to get away from him, but Trevor tightened his hold on her arms.

“Not this time, Duchess. We need to finish this.”

“Are you insane?” she demanded, her eyes flashing in alarm. “We are standing in the front hall, anyone could walk by and see us.”

“A problem easily remedied, Dearest.” Trevor swiveled around on his heel, keeping one hand firmly about Sara’s upper arm. “Here we go.” He pulled her across the marble hall and through a doorway, then locked it behind them.

“What are you doing?” Sara’s voice held a note of hysteria.

“This,” he said, turning on her. “I cannot stand another moment of watching you walk, pour tea, talk to the servants, and not know what you look like without these confounding layers of clothes.”