The Offer (8 page)

“Lady Elizabeth.”

She shook herself free of the memory and turned irritably to the butler. “Yes, Ribble?”

“If I may inquire, my lady. Is there any word of Lady Sabrina?”

Elizabeth knew that servants had their ways of discovering things. Surely this old fool of a butler knew that Sabrina had disgraced herself. Yet he had the temerity to approach her, the now undisputed mistress of Monmouth Abbey, to inquire after the little slut.

“I fear, Ribble,” she said coldly, “that my sister could not have survived the blizzard. The men are still searching, as you know, but soon his lordship will realize the futility of it and call them back. Her body will undoubtedly be recovered when the snow melts.”

She saw a spasm of grief pass over the old man's smooth forehead.

“It's naturally a tragedy,” she continued more coldly still, moving away from him, “and a loss to all of us. But life continues. We continue. You may follow me to the drawing room now, Ribble. I don't wish to keep the marquess waiting.”

The marquess was standing by the windows, staring out at the snow. Elizabeth felt her belly muscles clench at the sight of him. She'd never wanted another man, just Richard Clarendon. He was magnificent, all strength and muscle, beautifully made, his face hard and cold, drawing her easily to him, and any other woman he wanted. She swallowed and stretched out her hands. “Richard, why ever are you in Yorkshire, now of all times? Surely London is a more pleasant place than Yorkshire at this time of year.”

The Marquess of Arysdale straightened from his negligent pose at the bowed windows. He strode across the room, his grace stunning her, making her hot and breathless. He raised her hand to his lips. “It's a pleasure to see you, Elizabeth. Marriage appears to agree with you. I only regret that I wasn't able to attend your wedding.”

Elizabeth trembled when his mouth touched her wrist. She couldn't help it. She also knew that he was quite used to such a response. He was a rake, a womanizer, enjoying himself with any woman that pleased him at the moment. She had long known it, but she'd never cared. Now that she was married and knew well what men wanted of women's bodies, she wondered how different lovemaking would be if Richard were her husband. A stain of red deepened on her cheeks
as she pictured Richard naked over her. He wouldn't be soft and smooth as Trevor was. He wouldn't be cruel.

“Where is Sabrina, Elizabeth?”

Sabrina, he wanted to see Sabrina. She felt the heat cool in her body. She lowered her eyes and said in a shaking voice, “Please sit down, Richard. The news I have for you isn't pleasant.”

“Damn you, woman, what the devil do you mean by that?” She felt more than saw the instant difference in him. The lazy animal grace had disappeared. He was alert now, ready to kill, if need be.

“Please, Richard.” She waved to a blue brocade settee.

“Enough of this. Where is Sabrina?” He took his seat unwillingly beside her. She felt the barely leashed energy in him. The violence so very close to the surface. It thrilled her and frightened her.

She wished she could tell him what Sabrina had done, tell him that the little princess was nothing more than a trollop, that she'd disgraced herself and run away from home, but she wasn't stupid. Richard was unpredictable. It was very possible that he'd go into a rage, perhaps even kill Trevor. If that happened, she wouldn't have anything. No, she had to be calm, to think clearly. “Sabrina has vanished,” she said. She lowered her head and waited in silence.

“Sabrina's not a damned witch. I have never seen her with a broomstick. What the deuce do you mean, she's vanished?”

“It's just as I said, Richard. She fled the Abbey last Sunday, before the blizzard. She left Grandfather a vague letter telling him she intended to go to Aunt Barresford in London. But, of course, we have heard nothing. We fear that she could not have survived.”

The marquess roared to his feet and stared down
hard at her, his dark eyes hard and dangerous. “Damnation, Elizabeth, what is this idiocy? Sabrina knew that I was coming to visit her. Indeed, there is no doubt in my mind that she knew the reason for my coming.”

Elizabeth kept the smile hidden. He didn't realize that he'd just given her immense power, and all so very innocently. She raised her pale eyes to his harshly beautiful face. “Perhaps, Richard, you have just provided us with the reason for her running away.”

If she'd been a man he would have struck her. She knew it and gloried in it. He had to rein himself in. “That's a damned lie, Elizabeth, and you know it.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, alarmed now. “Where are you going, Richard?”

He said over his shoulder, not even turning to face her, “I'm going to see the earl. It appears I won't get a sensible answer from you.” He turned then, to look at her fully. “You know, Elizabeth, you haven't changed at all.” Then he was gone and she was left standing there, alone, in the middle of the huge drawing room. She rubbed her arms. She was cold. What had he meant?

 

Sabrina was running down a long, narrow room. People were staring down at her, yet they made no move to help her. She whirled about in her flight at the sound of footsteps closing behind her. Trevor was coming toward her and she saw lust burning brightly in his eyes. She backed up. Something sharp dug into her back and she cried out as she turned. The people's eyes were watching her, uncaring and cold. He was nearly on her. He stretched out his hand. She screamed as a hand clutched her shoulder.

“Sabrina, wake up.”

But her terror held her back in that room with all those faces staring at her. The hand shook her again, harder this time.

“Wake up, you're having a nightmare. Come, sweetheart, you can do it.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared up at Phillip's face. She felt such tremendous relief that she didn't think. She reared up and threw her arms about his back. She said against his chest, “The faces. There were so many faces and none of them said anything, they just stared at me. They didn't care. None of them would help me.”

Phillip held her tightly against him, smoothing tangled hair back from her forehead. “It's all right now, Sabrina. There's nothing to fear now. You're here and I'm here and I won't let that damned nightmare get close to you again. What faces did you see?”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and leaned back in the circle of his arms to look up into his face. “Yes, the faces. They must have been the portraits in the gallery. So many of them, all long dead, they couldn't have helped me.”

As calm as a vicar, he said, “So you fled to the portrait gallery to escape from Trevor?”

“Yes,” she said, then gulped. She didn't say another word, just concentrated on getting a hold on herself.

“Who are you, Sabrina? And who is Trevor?”

She wanted to tell him everything, she truly wanted to, but she couldn't. So long as Trevor and Elizabeth stood together at Monmouth Abbey, she could never return, nor had she any wish to. She could well imagine Phillip's reaction were she to pour the whole sordid story into his ears. He would take her back and undoubtedly force a confrontation with Trevor. God only knew what her grandfather would do, what would happen to him. No, she couldn't allow it. She had
made her plans and as soon as she gained her strength back, she would leave Yorkshire and go to her aunt Barresford. She never wanted to return to Monmouth Abbey for as long as Trevor and Elizabeth were there. And that would be always. She thought of her grandfather, of him not knowing if she was alive or dead, not understanding. She felt tears sting her eyes and shook her head. Crying wouldn't help and it would just make Phillip question her more. She forced herself to pull away from him.

“I told you that my name's Sabrina Eversleigh. Trevor is someone who is of no concern to you.”

“That may be true, but I know he's a bastard and that he hurt you. I do wish you'd just tell me the truth, but if you still wish to keep it all inside you, well, then, I still have some time on my hands. A little mystery always amuses me. Yes, I have both patience and time on my side.”

He eased her back onto her pillow. She immediately reared up again, balancing herself on her elbows. “My money. What did you do with my money?”

“I suppose you mean the three pounds and some odd shillings I found in your bodice?”

“You know very well that's what I mean. Where is it?”

He'd meant to embarrass her. Not well done of him, but he wasn't feeling all that much charity with her at the moment. He rose from her bed. “Obviously there isn't a gaming hall hereabouts where I could dissipate your fortune. Your three pounds are quite safe, I assure you. Since you are awake, I must insist that you eat some more of my soup. You don't wish to go home looking like an orphan from the workhouse.”

She felt hated, useless tears burn her eyes. She said, as if by rote, “My home is in London. And it is to London that I must go when I'm well again.”

“I suppose you'll tell me that you were out for a nice winter's stroll and got lost in your Eppingham Forest.”

She shrugged. It infuriated him. “I was here visiting acquaintances of my family. I live with my aunt in London. Please, Phillip, you must help me return to her.”

“Who are these acquaintances you were visiting?”

She just looked at him, that stubborn chin of hers up.

“What's your aunt's name?”

Her chin went higher, but he saw that it was costing her. She looked fixedly at a point just above his left shoulder. “She's married to a London merchant and lives in the city. Her name would mean nothing to you.”

“Ah, I understand now. You are an orphan.”

She was taken aback and he saw that she was. Actually she'd never thought of herself as an orphan, even though both of her parents were dead. She remembered her mother's face when she'd received word that her husband had been killed in the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo. Her mother had died shortly thereafter. Yes, she was an orphan. She nodded and was silent.

“God, but you're stubborn. How can you expect me to get you back to your aunt, if you will not tell me who she is?”

“I've told you that I was on my way to get the London stage that stops in Borhamwood. That was where I was going when my horse went lame. I didn't realize that it would snow; well, I did, but I thought it would hold off longer.”

The viscount rose, giving her a look of acute dislike. “Enough, Sabrina. If you continue with these unbelievable tales when you're better, I just might be tempted to beat you.”

“A man's threat,” she said, eyeing him with contempt. “None of you think anything of threatening someone smaller than you are.”

He just grinned at her. “Spare me your indignation. You know very well that you pulled those words out of a hat. Except, of course, for this Trevor fellow, who, when I discover his identity, I will kill with no hesitation at all. Now, calm yourself down, my lady. I'm going to fetch your soup now.”

“Don't you dare call me that.”

A very strong reaction, one that gave him the truth. And she knew she'd spilled it. Her face was frozen. He said easily, “Even though you're not wearing a signet ring, it doesn't matter. I'm not altogether ignorant of the ways of ladies of quality. And despite your spurts of impertinence, that's exactly what you are.”

She shook her head back and forth on the pillow and fell into a spasm of coughing. Phillip leaned over and clasped her against him, gently rubbing her back until the hoarse coughs subsided.

“I feel so wretched.”

He felt her warm breath against his shoulder. “I know.” He pressed her gently back down and covered her. “No more inquisition for now.”

Phillip paused at the doorway, then turned back to look at Sabrina. She was lying there stiff as a sapling, her hands fisted at her sides. What the devil would happen to her? And to him, if she didn't tell him the truth? Or if she did, for that matter?

“Your visit is poorly timed, Richard. It would have been better if you'd but come a week ago.”

The marquess was pacing back and forth in front of his chair. The earl found the young man's energy exhausting.

The marquess whirled about then, saying, “I couldn't get anything from Elizabeth, my lord. Perhaps you will tell me where Sabrina has gone so that I may go fetch her.”

“Stop staring down at me like Satan himself. Sit down, my boy. I have enough idiots in my own household without adding you to their numbers.”

The marquess curbed his impatience and his rising temper and lowered his lean body into a leather chair facing the earl. He looked closely at the crippled old man and for the first time felt a stab of alarm. He'd aged years since the last time Richard had seen him. His eyes seemed sunken in his face and his shoulders drooped. Something had happened, something awful.

“Very well. I'm seated. Tell me what's happened to Sabrina.”

“She's gone, Clarendon, with but a note to me. My men are scouring the area within a twelve-mile circle, but as yet there is no sign of her.”

The marquess waved an elegant hand impatiently. “Yes, I know that. Elizabeth told me of the letter
Sabrina wrote to you. The letter said she'd gone to her aunt Barresford in London.”

The earl's voice was flat, almost emotionless. “Yes, that damned letter. No one of Sabrina's description has left from the posting house in Borhamwood. She's well known in the village. No one has seen her.”

“Then she's staying with friends near here.”

“I'm sorry, Richard, but no.”

The marquess bounded from his chair. He began his pacing again, back and forth in front of the earl. “Of course she's nearby. The people she's with are simply protecting her. From what? Well, I can easily imagine Elizabeth and Trevor dishing out more misery than she could endure. She left simply because she couldn't bear to stay.”

“She would have come to me if that had been the case. She would have told me. She would have known that I'd deal with Trevor and Elizabeth. No, that isn't what happened.”

“Damnation, this is bloody ridiculous!” The marquess leaned over the earl's chair and placed a hand on each arm. “Why, sir? Why did she leave?”

“What did Elizabeth tell you?”

“Elizabeth?” The marquess shrugged, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “She told me some nonsense about Sabrina running away because I was coming to see her.”

A travesty of a smile crossed the old earl's face, quickly to be gone. “It appears that Elizabeth is playing off all her stories. In a way, my boy, I wish I could believe that, but you must know the truth of it—to the best of my knowledge, Sabrina didn't remember that you were coming. You have been singularly unsuitorlike these past months, Clarendon, for a man who professes to care for my granddaughter.”

Richard drew back, his dark eyes narrowing. “If you
will recall, my lord, I agreed to leave Sabrina be until she reached her eighteenth birthday. Her birthday was two weeks ago. It would appear that you have not much encouraged my suit with her.”

To the marquess's appalled surprise, a long tear fell from the old earl's eye, falling crookedly down his wizened cheek. He pounded his fist against the arm of his chair. “Don't you understand what I've been telling you? She's gone. She's very likely dead by now. Her horse returned, lame, and we have had no sign of her. The blizzard blew hard for nearly three days—no one could have survived it. No one.”

The marquess curbed a shaft of fear that tore through him, then he quashed it. “Sabrina is young, my lord, but she isn't a fool. She's safe, somewhere, she must be. Dammit, sir, do you have any idea why she left in the first place?”

The earl forced himself to think about his nephew and heir. Trevor Eversleigh would not make much of an earl, but at least he was an Eversleigh and the line would not die out. He knew that if he told Clarendon the story Elizabeth and Trevor had foisted upon him, the marquess would likely kill Trevor without a second thought.

“I'll not have you yelling at me, Richard. I'm sorry, but I simply don't know.”

At the incredulous look on the marquess's face, the earl added, his voice hard and laced with pain, “The grief is more mine than yours, my boy. I have lost my granddaughter.”

“I don't accept your answers, old man,” the marquess said, his voice colder than the icicles hanging from the roof. “Sabrina isn't dead.”

The earl turned his bony hand palm up in a helpless gesture.

The marquess strode quickly to the door. His hand
was on the doorknob when he turned back suddenly. “Where is your nephew, my lord? I would like to meet the fellow.”

The earl couldn't manage to hide a frisson of distaste as he said, “Trevor is in his bedchamber, nursing a chill. He was leading the search when he was overcome by the cold.”

The marquess didn't try to hide his contempt. “Are you certain this idiot is of your blood?”

It made the earl smile. “I'm certain. I suppose the explanation is logical enough. Trevor lived all of his life in Italy. Thus he isn't used to the harshness of our winters.”

The marquess looked as if he would puke. “Will you send for the fellow, my lord, or shall I visit him in his sickroom?”

The earl saw there was no hope for it, and nodded slowly. “Fetch us both a glass of sherry, Richard. I will see if Trevor is well enough to see you.” He raised his hand and tugged the gold tassel on the bell cord.

 

Trevor pulled open his dressing gown. The maid, Mary, lay on her back, her legs parted, her skirts and petticoats bunched up about her waist. She was still wearing her stout work boots and thick woolen stockings, fastened above her knees with black bands. “Please, sir, won't you come to me now?” She stretched out her arms to bring him down upon her.

Trevor slowly slid his fingers along the inside of her thighs. She moaned as he caressed her, and pushed her hips upward toward him.

“Such a slut you are, my girl,” he said, his voice low and thick. He felt her tremble and quickly straddled her. She tried to clasp her arms about him to bring his mouth down to hers, but he struck them down. He pushed her skirts higher, until they were
covering her face, then he dug his fingers into her flesh.

She cried out. He thrust deep and she moaned. Was it from pain or from pleasure? He didn't care. “Yes, Mary. You adore the pain, don't you? The pain and pleasure together move you, don't they?”

Trevor brought his hand up, riffled his way through all her petticoats and closed his fingers over her breast. He kneaded her as he spoke low to her, telling her how she pleased him, telling her she was a slut and he would give her what she craved. He smiled when he felt her stiffen beneath him. He leaned down and bit her, even as he went so deep it must hurt her. Even as she cried out in pain, she fell into spasms of pleasure. She loved it and hated herself for loving it. She knew with all the clarity of someone who rarely looked deeply into herself that he had recognized this weakness in her, this sinfulness, this perversion, yes, he'd recognized it and he'd come to her, calling to her as a master would to his dog. And she'd come.

Trevor tensed, then let his own release take him. He gave a shout of satisfaction. He called her a whore once again and she welcomed it for she knew it was only the truth. He lay beside her now, his face on the counterpane. Then suddenly he rolled off the bed and stood there, his dressing gown open, his fists clenched, cursing. Damn Sabrina. She was a slut like the rest of them, yet she'd denied him. Now she was dead and he would never have her. He gazed at Mary, who was lying on her side now, her clothes still frothed around her like icing on a cake. She was so easy, coming to him with scarce a backward glance or thought of her mistress, Elizabeth. She'd been easily had. She wasn't Sabrina. He wanted to hurt her because she was here and Sabrina wasn't, but he knew it wouldn't be wise. After the old man was dead, then he could do just as
he pleased, but until that cherished day arrived, he would have to moderate his actions.

There was a knock on the bedchamber door. Mary's eyes flew open to look at him in consternation.

“Cover yourself, quickly.” She jumped from the bed, frantically straightening her clothes. Trevor straightened the covers, and pulled his dressing gown closed. He motioned Mary behind the screen in the corner of the room.

“Who is it?” he called, his voice querulous, an invalid's voice.

“It's Jesperson, sir. His lordship wishes to speak with you in the library.”

“A moment. I must dress. Are you certain this is important? What does his lordship want?”

“There is someone he wishes you to meet, sir.”

“Very well. Send me my valet.” He turned to Mary. “You might as well do something useful while you are here.” He pointed to the chamber pot. “I will call you when I require you again.”

She made a silent vow in that moment that she would never again come near him, but just as she thought it, she knew she probably would. She took the chamber pot and left the bedchamber. She knew he forgot about her the moment she was out of his sight. She also knew that when the old earl died, Monmouth Abbey would become a very different place. She thought of Lady Elizabeth. She hadn't much liking for that bitter young woman, but still, she knew Trevor would make her life a misery once he was the undisputed master here.

When she reached the door, she looked back at him over her shoulder. He had shucked off his dressing gown and stood naked by the fireplace. His body was not as beautifully formed as his face. He appeared soft and white, almost like a woman. But he wasn't anything like
a woman. The pain he'd inflicted still remained, but it seemed only to heighten the memory of the ferocious pleasure he had given her as well. She passed his valet in the long corridor. The man knew she'd been with his master. He looked straight through her.

 

Trevor walked into the library some twenty-five minutes later.

It was about time, the earl thought, looking at him with as little dislike as possible showing on his face. “Ah, here you are, Trevor. This is the Marquess of Arysdale. Richard, my nephew, Trevor Eversleigh.”

Trevor stretched out his beringed fingers and winced as the dark, powerfully built man mangled them in a strong handshake.

“My lord,” he said in a soft, smooth voice, “it is an honor.” He turned an emerald ring on his finger, away from the bitten skin that had been crushed by the marquess's large hand.

The marquess saw this gesture, took in Trevor's fobs, high shirt points, and lavender waistcoat, and instinctively drew back. God, he thought, disgusted, the man was a vain coxcomb. He hoped to heaven that he wasn't also a pederast. That would do no good at all for the Eversleigh line.

“Trevor, the marquess is here because of Sabrina. He is gravely concerned, just as we are, about her disappearance.”

Trevor drew a lace handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and daubed his forehead. “It is a tragedy, my lord. My poor Elizabeth is prostrate with grief. There has been no sign of Sabrina, nothing at all to help us find her.”

The marquess wondered, dispassionately, if Elizabeth were still a virgin. He prayed not. He said pleasantly, although it was difficult faced with this vain
idiot, “I'm to marry Sabrina, sir, and am looking for a logical explanation for her leaving.”

A furious pulse beat in Trevor's neck. He wasn't, however, stupid. “I fear, my lord,” he said, his voice high and lisping now, “that I can't be of assistance to you. Of course, my sister-in-law's precipitous departure has come as a great shock. No one has any idea why she left.”

The marquess turned away, unable to hide his contempt, and quickly drew on his gloves. “I won't trouble you further,” he said to the earl.

“What do you intend to do, Richard?”

“Scour the damned county for Sabrina, my lord. Good day, sir,” he said to Trevor, and strode from the library.

Trevor looked after the marquess. “You didn't tell me that Sabrina was to wed that man.”

“She hadn't as yet accepted him.”

“I see,” Trevor said. He began slowly and precisely to turn the gold fob on his waistcoat. “Such a brute of a fellow he is. Surely he is too large, too demanding, to wed a child like Sabrina.”

“He is a man. Go back and nurse your chill, Trevor, I wish to think.”

A slight sneer crossed Trevor's face. “I believe, my lord, that my chill has been sufficiently attended to. I shall speak with my poor Elizabeth now.”

The earl's voice halted him at the door. “I would suggest, nephew, that your so-called reason for Sabrina's running away not reach the marquess's ears. He is not an understanding man and he would kill you with his bare hands. If you have ever exercised caution in your life, now is the time.”

“I've been very cautious since I've come here to England.” Trevor then shuddered delicately. “Did you say he would kill me with his bare hands? He does have very large hands, doesn't he?” He left the library, his footstep soft as his breath.