The Offer (5 page)

She knew she was dying. She had wondered several times what it would be like. She just hadn't imagined that she'd be roasted alive from the inside out. It was strange, this heat that was cooking her slowly and thoroughly. Then she heard a man's voice, vague and far away from her, Phillip's voice. Who was Phillip? Somewhere deep inside her, she knew who Phillip was, but the knowledge of him escaped her. He said from above her, “Just lie still, Sabrina. The pain will stop in just a moment, and the heat.”

How could that be possible? She was dying from the fire burning her insides. Suddenly she felt a cold wet cloth against her face. She again heard a man's voice, clearer this time. “No, no, don't struggle. Just feel this. Don't you like it?”

She would give him a moment to make good on his words. She suddenly felt cool air on her chest closely followed by the cold wet cloth. She arched her back against it, wanting more, wanting it to cover all of her at once. She felt his hands about her waist, turning her over. She struggled until she felt the damp cloth moving up and down her back, and over her hips, cooling all of her.

Phillip bathed her with a cold wet towel several times an hour throughout the afternoon and into the evening. A weary smile lit his eyes when he touched his hands to her cheeks. For the time being, at least, he had broken the fever. He thought for a moment that he saw an answering smile before she closed her eyes in sleep.

Phillip shucked off his clothes, pulled off one of the blankets from Sabrina's bed, and stretched out in a large chair near the fireplace. He listened to the night wind howling outside, and the swirling gusts of snow
slamming against the windowpanes. It was a comforting sound that relaxed him and soothed his mind. He wasn't concerned about hearing Sabrina if she awoke during the night, for he was a light sleeper, his years on the Peninsula having taught him that men who released themselves completely into sleep often never awoke in the morning. The French had deployed small bands of soldiers, disguised as peasants, to slip into English camps and dispatch as many of its members as possible. He would never forget the deep gurgling sound that had erupted from the throat of his sergeant, a campaign-hardened soldier from Devonshire. Phillip had caught his assassin and choked the life from the man with his bare hands, but of course, it had been too late for his sergeant. He felt again the wave of nausea and fury that had consumed him as he had stood helplessly watching his man die.

He shook his head. He was tired, tired to his very bones. But she was still alive. He leaned over to pinch out the flame from the one candle that sat at his elbow. He looked for a moment at his large hands, with their elegantly manicured nails. They were the hands of a gentleman, a man whose pleasures and pastimes gave no clue of any preoccupation with the memory of the bloody violence that had occurred on the Peninsula.

He pinched the candle wick, sighed deeply, and settled back into the chair. He thought it curious that this one sick girl had stirred the embers of his past, making him relive scenes he'd believed long buried within him, or forgotten.

Miss Teresa Elliott frowned down into her glass of champagne. She eyed her host, saw that he was no longer paying her sufficient attention, and said, “Really, Charles, you must have some idea where his lordship could be. I thought you said that you yourself gave Phillip directions to Moreland. He isn't here. I want him here. You will do something about this now.”

“I did give him directions, yes. He should have come by now. I don't understand.”

“It appears to me that your understanding isn't what is important here. Come, aren't you worried about Phillip? After all, this wretched snowstorm has turned the world white. Perhaps Phillip is hurt, lying helpless somewhere. I really expect you to do something of consequence right now, Charles.”

Charles looked at Miss Elliott's very pretty face and thought for perhaps the dozenth time that wherever Phillip was, he was better off than being here. Perhaps even lying in the snow was better. Miss Elliott had charmed him in London. Here, at Moreland, she was driving him to Bedlam. He admitted he was impressed with her ability to hide this part of her character from prying eyes in town. Or perhaps she hadn't. After all, Phillip wasn't here and she wasn't as concerned about her manners. Damn Phillip.

“You act as if you don't care if poor Phillip is dying. And he could be, what with all that nonsensical snow. So irritating.” She snapped down her glass of champagne onto a side table. The glass was one of his mother's favorite set. He hoped it hadn't cracked. “Didn't you say that Phillip's valet is here? What is the servant doing here doubtless all snug in front of a fire when his master is dying in the snow? Surely you have put questions to him, forced him to answer, have you not?”

Enough was enough. Charles had exquisite manners. He had three sisters. He knew how to employ manners, how to gently soothe maidenly sensibilities, but enough was enough. He said in the sweetest voice that any of his good friends would have recognized as dangerous, “I begin to believe, Teresa, that the champagne has taken its toll on your brain. Naturally I have spoken to Dambler. He is growing increasingly concerned. However, since he doesn't imbibe, he doesn't keep repeating himself. He has no notion of where Phillip is.”

She was not a devotee of irony. She waved dismissal with a lovely hand that had never seen a day's labor in its life. “The man is obviously lying. He's lazy. He knows he doesn't have any duties to perform as long as his master isn't here. I don't for a moment believe that his lordship would send his valet ahead because he wanted to explore the countryside. And alone, of all things. It is absurd. What is there to explore? It is winter. It is not London or even Bath. There is nothing to be explored. You must deal with this, Charles. You must speak to him again, really question him closely this time, realizing what he is.”

It was either leave the room or strangle her. Charles motioned to a footman to refill Miss Elliott's glass. That was it, he'd get her dead drunk. That should shut
her up, maybe even send her to her bed with a headache. Dambler's story that the viscount wanted to roam Yorkshire didn't seem at all strange to him. He'd known Phillip since Eton. He'd always gone his own way. But in this instance, he thought it wildly unlikely that he was lying somewhere in the snow, lost and alone and freezing to death. Phillip wasn't the type of man to lose himself anywhere, unless, of course, he wished it. He felt Teresa's fingers tug at the sleeve of his exquisite coat that Gautier of Paris had fashioned exclusively for him.

“Unfortunately you are a man, Charles, and thus you don't wish to heed my warnings. I'm getting dire feelings about this. Very dire. Will you promise to send out a search party for Phillip in the morning?”

Charles gently disengaged his sleeve. Her sharp fingernails had left a pucker in the soft velvet. His valet would have a fit. He began smoothing it out as he said, “Teresa, as long as this blizzard continues, it simply isn't safe to send out anyone. They would themselves become lost within feet of the front gate. No, we must wait until the storm blows itself out, then if Phillip doesn't come, we will search.” He looked at her lovely white throat. He pictured his fingers wrapped around that lovely white throat. He sighed, adopting a placating voice that worked each and every time with his mother. Whenever he used the voice, she called him her dear boy. “Come, there is nothing we can do now. Would you care for some cards? Perhaps some dancing?”

She drank down more of his late father's excellent champagne. A small smile played over his mouth. Actually, truth be told, he thought it more than likely that at this very moment, Phillip was probably quite at his ease in some inn or in a nearby residence, downing warm ale and seducing the prettiest girl about.
Since Phillip had returned from the Peninsula, suffering a wound in his shoulder from the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo, he had adopted the attitude that discomfort of any sort was to be avoided at all costs. He saw her thump down another empty glass. What was he to do? To say? He'd try it another way. “Don't forget, Teresa, that Phillip was a soldier. Even if he did find himself caught unawares in the blizzard, he would have the good sense not to continue on his way to Moreland. I'm certain he's well protected from the elements. Were it possible, I would imagine his very good manners would dictate that he send me a message. However, the blizzard is an effective dampener of manners.” With a flash of inspiration, Charles realized what he had not said. “You know, wherever he is, I know that Phillip must be missing you terribly.”

He was a genius. He had scored a perfect hit. She preened. Oh, Lord, he mustn't forget to beg the absent viscount's pardon tonight in his prayers.

“Do you really think, Charles, that Phillip is just at this very moment pining for me, that he is—”

Charles was saved by the appearance of Edgar Plummer, a marvelous guest in his newly revised opinion, and his sister, Margaret. Plummer was old as dirt but he was smart. He liked Charles and thus sought to save him. Mr. Plummer bowed over Teresa's hand. “Allow an old man to tell you how very lovely you look this evening, Miss Elliott. Won't you please play the pianoforte for us?”

She refused three times, the seemingly accepted number of refusals to denote modesty, then allowed Mr. Plummer to lead her to the pianoforte at the end of the long drawing room.

“Oh, goodness, Charlie, now we're in for it. She's going to play some more of her tedious French
ballads. Just wait, I'll wager she'll dedicate them to poor Phillip.”

Charles groaned. “Don't say that, Margaret, she just might hear you.” He led his sister to a red brocade settee lovingly made for the family in the early part of the last century. “At last the lady is well occupied. Remind me to buy a Christmas present for Edgar. I will give him my favorite watch fob. Yes, that's it. Watch fobs are excellent gifts.”

“Was she bothering you again about Phillip?”

“It's her Greek chorus. I think Miss Elliott has matrimony in mind for Phillip. I did have the good sense not to tell her that the viscount is likely relieving his tedium during the storm in the arms of some Yorkshire beauty.”

Margaret, in all seriousness, said low, “But where, Charlie? At some inn? I thought Phillip was more discriminating in his taste. A taproom wench?”

Charles grinned. He'd rather expected to shock her, but it was not to be. She'd been married to Sir Hugh Drakemore for nearly a year now and his shy, frequently tongue-tied little sister was now worldly and assertive. He quite liked the change in her. As for her husband, Sir Hugh still seemed the same—serious, quiet, studied in his reflections. Ah, but there had to be more, a lot more, just look at the change wrought in Margaret. “No, you're right. That's a problem. Phillip is very selective. Perhaps he is visiting one of our neighbors and it is a daughter or wife he is currently enjoying.”

“No, Charlie, Phillip wouldn't seduce a married woman.”

“Now, how would you know that?”

“He told me.”

“Margaret, surely you're jesting with me, surely—”

“No, really. I asked him, you see, once about two
years ago when I fancied myself in love with him. He was so nice. He knew exactly how I felt and he was very careful of my feelings. I had heard that he'd bedded Mrs. Stockton, the ambassador's wife, and he hadn't. As best he knew, he'd turned the lady down and out of spite she'd spread rumors that he'd seduced her. It angered him, Charlie. He said married ladies were no longer on the playing field.”

Margaret, in love with Phillip? Charles had never guessed, never even speculated. “Come to think of it, I can't think of a single married lady that Phillip has bedded. You no longer, er, feel this way toward Phillip, do you, Margaret?”

“No, not after I met Hugh. One week with Hugh and every man I'd ever met faded out of my mind.”

“Good.”

“But you know, Charlie, I've often wondered why he has never married. I know for a fact how many lovely young ladies would gladly accept him.”

“Now therein lies a tale. Have you ever met the Countess of Bufford?”

Margaret cocked her head to one side, making the brown ringlets over her left ears fall to her shoulder. “Of course. She's a leader among the ton. Mother dislikes her intensely, but she told me she is too powerful to cross, that I must always watch my back around her. I told Mother that she looks so lovely, so innocent, so guileless, but Mother just laughed and told me not to trust her. I know that Lord Bufford adores her. What does she have to do with Phillip?”

“When she came out six years ago, she quickly earned herself the title of the Ice Maiden. She was endowed with both splendid beauty and wealth, and her instant success followed naturally from both of these facts together. Phillip was a young captain in the hussars, in London that spring because his father, the
late viscount, had just died. Phillip was young, inexperienced in the ways of women like Elaine, and raw with grief from the death of his father.”

“Good God, you don't mean that Phillip fell in love with that awful woman?”

Charles shrugged his shoulders. “I'm not certain exactly what it was he felt for Elaine, but I do know that he wanted her. Is that love? I don't know, Margaret. Phillip was only twenty years old, a boy. And boys are prone to lust, no other way to put it. Ah, look, Edgar is pleading with Miss Elliott to continue her concert. Cross your fingers that he will succeed.”

Miss Elliott broke out into another song, a doleful rendition of a French ballad of the last century. “At least she sings well,” Charles said.

“Come, Charlie, tell me what happened.”