The Offer (Baron 2)

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?” h

e 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?”