The Offer (29 page)

He looked utterly appalled. “You told Richard that I didn't give you pleasure?”

She could only stare up at him. She would never understand a man's mind. Her chin went up as high as she could get it. “I told him you were a clod.”

“No,” he said slowly, studying her pale face, “no, you love me. You would never tell another man something that would lessen my worth.”

“None of this makes any sense. I either love you, in which case, how could I ever think to take a lover?”

“I don't know if you really love me. I think it's just infatuation, which might lead you astray, as in leading you directly to Richard. He has a way with women, I know that, only I do wish that you hadn't told him I'd been a clod. I wasn't, really, it's just that because of what Trevor did to you, you're still frozen and—” His eyes were on her face now. He didn't say anything more, just stared down at her. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek.

“So soft,” he said, then leaned down to kiss her. She leapt back.

“How can you want to do that to me when you think I'm a horrible woman?”

“No, it's just possible that perhaps you could be led down a path that would end in a place that wouldn't be good for you, a place I wouldn't like you to be.”

She said flatly, “You sound like a jealous husband, Phillip. Where there is no love—and surely you have
none for me—then the ground must be too arid to cultivate such a feeling.”

“I will never be jealous of a woman, particularly if the woman is my damned wife. I won't be cuckolded, Sabrina. You had your flirtation with Clarendon this evening, but there it will end. I would that you contrive to show some gratitude after all I have done for you.”

She'd sworn never to throw anything again, but she just had no control over the hand that reached down and grabbed her hairbrush. She watched that hand rise, then hurl the hairbrush at him. It hit him on the jaw, a clean hit, that caused him pain. The hairbrush bounced off and hit the carpet at his feet. He didn't say anything, just rubbed his jaw.

“You're a fool, Phillip. Get out of my room.”

“Not just yet, madam.” He was on her in the next instant. He threw her over his shoulder and walked to her bed. He pulled her over his legs and struck her with the flat of his hand. She tried to rear up, but he just smacked her again.

She cursed him but he just laughed. He gave her one extra smack, then pulled her to her feet to stand beside him.

“In the future when you throw things at me, this will be your punishment. Next time, I'll pull up that gown and petticoat of yours and you'll feel my hand. This was nothing, so don't you ever throw it up to me. Good night, Sabrina.”

He left her room without a backward glance. She yelled after him, “To think I actually believed living with you here was preferable to that miserable hotel. What a fool I was.”

The door slammed open and he stuck his head in. “Don't push me, Sabrina.”

“Push you? I've done nothing to you if you but had the brain to realize it.”

She was standing there, panting, and he heard the dreadful pain in her voice. He couldn't stand it. He stepped into her bedchamber. “Sabrina,” he said, his hand stretched out toward her.

She gave a small cry and ran to the other side of the bed. It gave her courage and both of them knew it. “You've said, my lord, that this is your house. Tell me, how much would you say that this bedchamber is worth? I would gladly pay you for it. Perhaps then you would stop reminding me how I must be grateful to you.”

“You may have this room. Good night again, Sabrina.”

“So you don't want to hear about how I made Richard follow me to that private room, how I locked the door against the curious, and how, despite his noble protests, I seduced the Marquess of Arysdale? It's in my blood, don't you think? After all, I did spend five days and nights with you. Yes, I'm a trollop, no doubt about that. I want to bed every man I meet after the enjoyment it brought me to be bedded by you. All that pleasure has driven my slut's soul to seek more and more. Richard is so very dark and brooding, I'll wager any number of ladies are after him. It makes my palms itch to touch him, just thinking about him.”

Phillip kept his mouth shut. He heard the hysterical pitch in her voice. He merely nodded to her and shut the door behind him. She stood there, staring at that door, biting her lip, her eyes bright with tears she prayed wouldn't fall. She wouldn't cry for him.

No, she would never cry again.

He said to her over luncheon three days later, “Listen to me, Sabrina. We live in the same house. But when I see you, you simply look through me. You're agreeable, I won't deny that, but you're just not here. You avoid me. It's enough. There's no reason for this false submissiveness of yours. It's driving me mad. I want you to change.”

She'd set down her fork and looked at him with great seriousness as he spoke, all her attention seemingly focused on him. But he knew it wasn't true. It was in that instant that he decided to take her to Dinwitty Manor. Out of London, away from all the cursed memories. Things would be different at Dinwitty. Cook could stuff food into her face, food that was ambrosia. She could help him design his tower. He hadn't looked at his drawings since last summer. But he was getting the itch again. He was ready now to begin again. He loved to build. He wondered if Sabrina would enjoy all the planning, watching the builders curse and sweat and fashion what he'd drawn. He'd write to Rohan and Susannah and invite them to come visit. Yes, that's what he'd do.

“How would you like me to change, Phillip? Whatever you wish, I will certainly do my best to comply.”

At that moment he believed he'd give just about anything to have her hurl a plate at his head. But she
didn't. She was sitting silently, her hands now folded in her lap. All that immense vitality of hers was extinguished. He hated it. Hell, he would lock her into the tower once it was built, if she was still acting this way.

“I want you to stand up. I want you to walk to me. I want you to kiss me.”

Without hesitation, she rose and walked to him. She stood beside his chair, then leaned down and touched her mouth to his. A fleeting light touch, nothing at all behind it, no feeling, no anger, just nothing.

Then she simply walked away, toward the window. She pulled back the draperies and looked out at the gray, overcast winter day.

“Would you like to go to Almack's this evening? You love to waltz. Would that please you?”

“If it would please you, then naturally it would be my pleasure as well.”

She didn't even turn to face him as she spoke. It enraged him. “I'm asking what you'd prefer, Sabrina.”

She turned and lowered her head. The toes of her slippers were more important, more interesting, than he was. She said, “I thought you found Almack's boring. It also looks as if it might snow today. The clouds are low and very dark.”

“Who cares if it bloody well snows? I like to waltz with you.”

“I see,” she said. She drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, nodding to him, and said, “I will naturally do your bidding.”

“Don't leave. Sit down.”

Without a word, she sat down.

“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.

After some moments the door slid cautiously open and a frowning maid's face appeared.

“What do you want?”

“I want my husband,” Sabrina said coldly, and shoved the door open, knocking the maid aside. She was standing in a square entranceway. On one side she could see into a small drawing room. Straight ahead of her was a slightly winding staircase that led to the upper floor. She heard a light, tinkling laugh from above, and without further thought, she grasped her skirts and rushed to the stairs.

“Oh, Gawd, wait, miss, wait! You can't go up there.”

“You just watch me,” Sabrina said over her shoulder, and began running up the stairs. She followed the sound of a woman's lovely husky voice from inside a room. The door stood some inches open. She stood for an instant, indecisive. At the sound of Phillip's low laugh, she pushed the door open and rushed inside. She drew up short, panting.

She stood inside a large bedchamber, dominated by a huge bed. Upon the bed a woman lay upon her back, clothed in nothing but alabaster skin. In an instant, Sabrina took in every detail of her exquisite body. She looked like a painting, damn her.

But it was Phillip who quickly captured her attention. He was standing next to the bed, his cravat hanging loose, his coat flung over a chair. At least he wasn't naked, but it didn't matter. He would have been as naked as his mistress in another three minutes.

The brief frozen tableau suddenly turned into furious life.

Phillip, who had been laughing at Martine's verbal baiting of him, turned to see his wife burst into the bedchamber.

He stared at her openmouthed, incredulous, disbelieving. Then he yelled, “What the devil are you doing here?”