The Offer (Baron 2)

“I’ve asked you for your wishes in this matter. It’s not a question of your doing my bidding.”

“But my desire must perforce be to do your bidding, my lord.”

“Very well. My bidding is for you to cease acting like a spiritless old horse.” He thought he saw a spark of anger in her eyes and found that he wanted nothing more than to fan that spark into a flame that would burn him but good. He wanted blood in her eyes. He wanted to see her fists. But she remained infuriatingly silent.

He continued, doggedly, “Perhaps Richard Clarendon will be there. I realize that he’s just a friend, to both of us. Perhaps you would like to see him.” It was as close as he’d ever get to an apology. He didn’t believe that men were fashioned for abject apologies. It didn’t matter how wrong they were. But it was an offer of one. Surely she saw that.

“In that case, my lord,” she said, raising her head to face him, “yes, I should very much like to go.”

“What the devil did you say?”

“I said I’d really like to go. And as you said, it matters not if it snows.”

He wasn’t at all certain now that she’d understood his apology. Did she want to go just because Clarendon would be there? He didn’t know. He eyed her with growing frustration.

“I don’t like this marriage business,” he said finally, rose from the table, flung down his napkin, and strode from the dining room.

“I know you don’t,” she called after him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t much like it either.” Yes, she thought, staring again toward the window, this marriage business is the very devil.

Sabrina walked slowly to the windows and pressed her cheek to the chill glass. She supposed she’d wanted to goad him, and she had succeeded, not that it had solved anything.

She wandered into the library. For want of anything better to do, she pulled out a novel from one of the lower shelves and curled up in a curtained window seat.

She opened the small vellum tome of Voltaire and forced herself to concentrate on the French that was surely brimming with wit. Her attention soon wandered to the light flakes of snow that pattered gently against the windowpane, dissolved into small drops of water, and streaked in slender rivulets down the glass. She traced the brief existence of each splashing snowflake with the tip of her finger.

She must have dozed, for her head snapped up at the sound of voices in the library.

“I merely wanted to ask you, my lord,” she heard Paul Blackador say to Phillip, “for it indeed is a strange bill to receive from a tradesman.”

She was alert in an instant. Phillip’s voice held her utterly still.

“Ah yes, the carpenter. Martine told me he was a saucy one. For your information, Paul, I had thought I’d be smashed during the night by a piece of falling plaster in the bedroom. Do pay the man.”

Sabrina’s fingers tightened about the thin book until she could picture the male grins on their faces. She’d never felt such fury in her entire life. Well, maybe she had, but all her grand fury had happened only since she’d met Phillip.

“There’s another bill, my lord, for a gown from Madame Giselle. The total, I think, is a trifle excessive.”

Sabrina heard the brief rustling of paper as, she supposed, the bill changed hands.

“It is a bit much,” Phillip said, without much interest. “As I’m off to see the lady, I’ll ask her about it. Anything else pressing, Paul?”

There was nothing more except a speech about the Corn Laws that Paul wanted him to present to the House of Lords. After a bit of discussion, Phillip left, Paul after him.

The library door closed upon the rest of Paul’s words. Sabrina bounded from her hiding place and shook her fist at the closed door. She had married the greatest hypocrite imaginable. She was to remain chaste—he was even jealous of Richard Clarendon—while he continued doing what he’d always done.

Phillip had told her to cease being a spiritless old horse. Very well, she would certainly grant him his wish. She felt life and rage sing in her blood.

She found Martine Nicholsby’s direction on the carpenter’s bill. She memorized the address on Fitton Place, then tossed the paper back on its neat stack.

Ten minutes later, a warm cloak around her and gloves on her hands, she met Greybar in the entrance hall. He was staring at her, as if she’d suddenly become someone else. Well, she had.

“His lordship has left, Greybar?” At his nod, she said then, “Call me a hackney. I wish to leave right now, no longer than a minute from now.”

For a minute it looked like he would question her. She gave him the most arrogant look she’d ever seen her grandfather make. It worked.

Thirty minutes later Sabrina found herself staring at a two-story brick town house, sandwiched between other houses in a very quiet, unpretentious street, not a mile from Phillip’s house. She pulled her ermine-lined cloak more closely about her and stepped quickly from the hackney. From the corner of her eye, Sabrina saw Lanscombe, Phillip’s tiger, climb into the box and prepare to drive the curricle around the corner. How like Phillip, she thought, to ensure that his horses received the proper exercise while he made love to his mistress inside. She wondered how long poor Lanscombe was to tool the curricle about before fetching his master. Sabrina saw Lanscombe’s jaw drop open when he spotted her. He gazed at her dumbly, shaking his head.

Sabrina turned her back on him, walked up the front steps, raised her gloved hand, and pounded upon the door.