Malia Martin (12 page)

“Well, I think I had better come up with a better one.”

They sat in silence for a time, the only sound
the slurp of the baby’s mouth against Sara’s knuckle.

“What did you do with the children today?” Melina asked finally.

“Ah, we read fairy tales.” Sara grinned. “The girls wanted me to read ‘Cinderella’ over and over again, and the boys groaned most of the way through. So I had them act it out.”

“Who got to be Cinderella?”

“They all did.” The women laughed.

And then Melina stopped. “I just had the most marvelous idea.”

“Really?” Sara asked. “If it’s anything like the ideas you used to have when we were girls, forget it.”

Melina giggled. “Remember how your father would yell? Oh, and he thought I was the devil’s own, he did. Always tryin’ to get you to play with those awful cousins the Duke had, because I was so beneath you.” Melina waved her hand in the air. “Your father could yell the head off a pig, he could.”

Sara shuddered to remember. “What is your idea, Mel?”

“Oh, why don’t you have a ball?”

“A what?”

“You know, like Cinderella!” Melina sat a bit straighter, winced, and slouched back against the pillows. “You could have a grand ball and invite all the eligible maidens in the area.” She looked at Sara, her eyes sparkling like jewels.

“They will all come, for they know that the Duke seeks a wife.”

“Well, that
we
seek a wife for the
Duke
, at least.”

Melina slapped Sara lightly on the knee. “Shush, he will
want
to marry, once he sees all the lovely creatures in their beautiful gowns.”

Sara sighed. “You haven’t met the Duke. He’s rather, well . . . he is not exactly an upright man of responsibility.”

“Well, I don’t know what else to tell you, Sara.” Melina shifted lower in the bed. “I think the grand Cinderella ball is a wonderful idea.”

Sara stood and pulled the blanket up over Melina. She patted the baby’s back and bounced as she moved to the window. “It is not bad, Melina.” Sara stared out at the bright red roses that coiled about the weathered gray gate outside. “There would be a lot to do to get ready. And we would have to have it soon. Not only do we need the Duke married in the next couple months, but the season will be starting soon, and I’m sure no one will want to travel all the way back here . . .” Sara started thinking of all the things she would have to do. A picture came into her mind of Rawlston all lit up, with music drifting from the ballroom and women in glittering dresses.

She turned to her friend, excited suddenly about the idea. But Melina was asleep, her hand curled on the pillow beside her face, her dark lashes long against her cheeks. Rose heaved a
contented sigh, and Sara realized that the baby had drifted off also.

Sara kissed the downy head against her breast and relinquished the light burden into the crook of Melina’s arm. Sara stepped back, staring at Rose. She had slept with Charles next to her body the first few days after he had been bom. She could remember everything, still—the smell of his hair, the feel of his mouth against her breast.

Sara squeezed her eyes against the tears that threatened. “Oh, God,” she whispered, then turned quickly and left before she woke the mother and her babe with her sobs.

Sara went immediately to the study. She cracked the door, said a little prayer, and shoved it open. “For the love of St. Peter!” she cried when she saw the work, untouched, upon the desk, then slammed the door and headed for the stairs. She passed a footman. “Where is that no-good . . .” Sara stopped, took a breath, and began again, “Where is the Duke, Ben?”

“In the kitchen, your grace.” The man bowed and continued down another hall.

Sara sighed. “Of course, he’s cooking.” She marched toward the back of the main part of the house and took the stairs to the kitchen. The cook and four maids, including Trudy, sat on stools facing the closed-top range John had bought ten years before. The Duke stood at the range, stirring something in a cast-iron pot.

“Now,” he said, turning to the group. “You must not boil it too long, or it will lose its flavor.”

“Are ye sure?” the cook asked.

“Very.” The Duke moved the pot off the fire. “Now we let it cook, and come over here to dice our fresh vegetables.” He moved toward a chopping block, and the cook and maid turned on their stools to watch him.

Sara had never been the best of duchesses. She had grown up as the vicar’s daughter. And even though her mother was the youngest daughter of a baron, Sara had been brought up in quite humble circumstances. It had always been hard for her to act as a duchess should. John had forever reminded her that she fell far short of succeeding at her manners.

But really, the new Duke went too far! He could not be everyone’s chum, for goodness’ sake. He was a duke! “Your grace!” Sara managed to say, with a modicum of dignity.

Teacher and pupils turned.

“Sara.”

“Can I see you?” She nodded toward the door.

The Duke chuckled. “I don’t know, can you?” The maids tittered, and Sara scowled.

“
Now
.” She turned on her heel and went out in the hall. When she finally heard the Duke follow her, she kept going until she came to the door of one of tire many sitting rooms. She opened the wooden portal and turned.

The Duke raised his brows as he passed her and went into the room. “Let me guess,” he said. “This would be the green room.”

“’Tis what we call it, yes.” Sara sat on one of the forest green chairs, and the Duke sat across from her on a lighter green settee.

Sara had counted as she walked, and now she felt a bit more calm. “Your grace,” she started, focusing her most serious look on the man.

“Do you know, very often, Sara, you remind me of a nanny I had when I was seven.”

“First,” Sara ignored his comment, “I realize that this is all rather new to you, but you really must act the part of duke as well as wear the title.”

“Daunting thought, that.”

“Fine, but it must be done.”

The Duke stood quickly and turned away from her, but he didn’t leave.

“These people are very proud to boast a duke as their lord!” Sara said passionately, sitting upon the edge of the seat. “’Tis a rare thing indeed, and this is an old title, one of great prestige.”

His grace plunged all ten fingers through his hair as he stood staring out the window at the small courtyard that graced the middle of Rawlston Hall.

“Give them a dignified man to look up to.”

The Duke said nothing.

Sara sighed. “Second, your grace, about the work in the study . . .”

“For the love of God!” The man turned, his hair ruffled and pulled from the queue he wore it in. “You tell me to be dignified as you speak to me as if I were one of your schoolchildren?”

Sara jumped from her seat. “That work in there is important!” she cried. “It must be done. But you dawdle about, riding, cooking, and whoring, giving not a second thought to the desperate straits in which Rawlston sits.”

“Whoring?” the Duke looked absolutely nonplussed.

Sara waved her hand in the air and turned away from him to pace. “It does not matter what you do—but truly, your grace, I must plead with you . . .” She faced him and stepped forward. “I beg you to do your duty to the title.”

He rolled his eyes and rubbed his jaw. Sara noted that it was clean shaven again today.

“I know you can,” she said, softening her tone. “When you inherited the title, I had Mr. Stuart find out what he could about you.”

The Duke blinked, a strange look suffusing his face, making his skin pale and his eyes dark. He looked terrified, really. Sara hurried on, “I know that you did very well as an officer during the war, your grace. If you could just find it within yourself to . . .” Sara searched for the right word.

“That was a completely different thing, Madame. It was strategies and planning with a bunch of men. It was almost a game. This,” he
held out his hand, gesturing about him at the room, “this is something much different.”

“It is not, your grace.” Sara stepped closer to him once more.

“Believe me, Sara, this is much different. Strategies are different from that never-ending work in the study, and those men never asked anything more from me than to lead them into battle . . .”

“And protect their lives?”

Trevor sighed and shook his head. “It was different. And actually, Sara, I have business in London I must attend to, and I really need to hurry back there.”

Sara felt as if all the air had left her lungs and there was no way to get any more. “What?” she asked in a small voice.

“There must be someone in this town with the ability to act as steward here,” the Duke continued. “I cannot do this alone.”

Sara took another step forward and fought for breath. “You cannot leave.”

“I must.”

“You
mustn’t!
”

The Duke sighed and dragged the leather band from his hair, so that it fell about his shoulders. “I shall make a deal with you, dearest Sara. Find me someone to help me forge through those papers, and I shall give you one month.”

Sara stared at the glistening, thick curls of hair that waved about the Duke’s face, then
dragged her gaze to his mossy green eyes. With one flick of his wrist, the man had become her wicked pirate again. With an audible gulp, Sara tried desperately to remember what he had just said.

“Do we have a deal?”

“Deal?” she asked weakly.

“Get me a steward, I’ll give you a month.”

That caused her to focus again. “Me? You’ll give
me
a month?” Sara turned so that the man’s looks would not distract her. “You do not understand, sir, and I despair that you ever will. It is not for me that I ask this. It is for them!” Sara gestured toward the door. “For the people.”

“For the curse, you mean,” the Duke said dryly.

Sara stopped in her tracks. Oh no.

“Yes, I know of your curse. I know why you needed me here so desperately.”

Sara clenched her fists and swiveled about. “
Rawlston
needs you!”

“Are you going to deny it, Sara?” His grace returned to the settee. He plunked himself on the velvet sofa, hooked his elbows over its back, and crossed his ankle over his knee. “You brought me here with the sole intention of marrying me off within the next two months.”

Sara swallowed hard. “That was not my
sole
intention.”

“It was one very important one.”

“Yes, your grace,” she finally conceded. “It
was. The people of Rawlston need to believe in something. And if that means I must get you married in the next two months, then so be it!”

“You are very passionate about this, Sara. What has it to do with you anymore?” His grace moved so that both his feet were on the floor. He leaned toward her. “Why do you care?” He shrugged, his gaze truly bewildered.

Sara huffed and closed her eyes for a moment to control her ire. “Everything comes so easily for you, doesn’t it, your grace?” She shook her head, opening her eyes to stare at him. “You do not have to try hard at anything. You cook like the best chef from Paris, ride a horse like the wind . . .” She pointed at him. “Oh, yes, I saw you this morning, hiding from me in the trees.” Sara turned away from him again. “You have enough money not to worry about it, and women fall at your feet, I am rather sure of that. And now you are a duke! The next best thing to royalty.” She laughed. “I’m amazed, actually, that you did not fall into being the King of your own country.”

Sara walked around the room, her heart beating hard as she warmed to her discourse. “Goodness, it must be nice being you, sir, not a care in the world, and not a thing to do that gives you the least bit of worry. Perhaps, your grace, since everything comes so easily to you, I could persuade you to do a good job at being the Duke of Rawlston?”

Sara turned back toward the door, went to it,
and placed her hand on the knob. She stopped, though, and faced the Duke one last time. “Do you even know how much I envy you? I had such
dreams
when I became Duchess. Oh, how I wanted to help these people . . . I was one of them, after all. I wanted to give them an heir, give them prosperity and hope, and, God, how I wanted to be the best duchess the world had ever seen.” She huffed a disgusted breath and turned the doorknob. “I failed, sir. Failed miserably. But I will
not
fail in making sure that the next generation succeeds.” With that, Sara threw open the door and stalked down the hall.

T
he woman had missed her calling. She should have been the frigging Queen. And unless he got the hell out of Rawlston, she was going to turn him into her jester. Trevor shoved a shirt into his bag and closed it with a bang. He curled his hand around the handle, his fingers digging into his palm as he once again remembered the Duchess’s words in the green room. He must act more dignified; he must get his work done!

Who the hell did she think she was? He slammed the door to his bedchamber behind him as he left, and stomped down the hall. That woman had pulled him along on her little string long enough, forcing him to come to Rawlston, deciding that she would get him married, shoving that pile of work down his throat. Well, he would have none of it.

If he must be a duke, he would at least use the power to his advantage rather than let the
title run him into the ground. Trevor slammed out of the house and headed for the stables. He would take care of the problems at Rawlston, but under his terms. He would send an honest steward to the place, and he would have to hire some sort of secretary to help him on the other end—the other end being Paris, not Rawlston, or even London.

He would live where he damn well pleased! “James,” he yelled, as he came into the stables. Lucky neighed, stomping his foot and arching his neck. Trevor just eyed the stallion angrily. “You’re not to give me any trouble this evening, Lucky,” Trevor ordered the horse.

“Yer grace!” James came out of a back room, wiping his hands against his dark brown pants.

“I have to go to London, James. Urgent business. I’ll take Lucky.”

“London, you say? Would you like me to bring out the carriage?”