The Offer

by Catherine Coulter

  Elizabeth looked at the beautifully carved mahogany of the balustrade on the stairs. She said, “She is gone now. Finally. Perhaps forever.”

  “Do you believe so? She is perhaps beyond earthly cares by this time, that is what you think?”

  Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “If she hadn’t been such a whining little fool, running to me for protection, if only she’d simply held herself silent, why then, she wouldn’t be where she is now. Can you believe she actually expected me to denounce you?”

  “Come, Elizabeth, you have always hated Sabrina. If you were a different class of woman, why, you could tread the boards on Drury Lane. If I were a stranger overhearing you, I would think that your heart is near to breaking because she might be dead. Did she not prove what she was? She was nothing but a worthless little whore. Does that not please you?”

  She looked up into that very pretty face of his, saw the faint sneer marring his mouth. “You and I both know that it isn’t true, none of it. Tell me, Trevor, would you have kept after her until you’d finally managed to rape her? Really, what would you have done once you’d accomplished what you’d set out to?”

  “Even though I have been your husband for but a very short time, my dear, know that I expect loyalty and obedience from you. I do not expect questions that hover on the disrespectful.”

  “Loyalty is what I’ve given you. Come, tell me the truth. Would you have continued to chase her after you’d managed to rape her?”

  He laughed, actually laughed. “The truth is a strange thing, Elizabeth. You hate your sister yet you are choosing to believe what she told you. Why don’t you believe me, Elizabeth? After all, I am your husband. I will father your children. Mine will be the last face you see when you lie dying.”

  For an instant she saw herself lying on her bed, quite dead, saw him staring down at her. He was smiling. “Stop it. Forget that I asked, forget everything.”

  “Very well, I shall. Now, I want loyalty even when we are alone. I don’t want any more of these speculations, Elizabeth. I want compliance and obedience from you. I want you to bend utterly to me.”

  “I choose to give you my loyalty because it is in my interest to do so, Trevor. But as the future Countess of Monmouth, believe me, I shall not allow you to sully the Eversleigh name.”

  Trevor regarded his passionless bride and wondered if any man would be able to make her scream with lust, make her buck as her woman’s pleasure overtook her. Probably not. He was an excellent lover, but she hated his touch, his using her. Since their wedding night, he’d treated her with unflagging gentleness, forcing himself to curb his demands. She didn’t flinch anymore, didn’t plead. That was a start. There would be a better time to show her that it was he who was her master, in all things. For the moment, it rather amused him to see her try to control him. She didn’t even realize that it was the shadow of the old earl that held him in check, and not any warnings from her. After the old man died, he would do precisely as he pleased.

  She would not allow him to sully the Eversleigh name? That alone would merit a punishment. He would gladly mete it out when the time came.

  But for now, he gave Elizabeth his most engaging smile and said with a lover’s gentle voice, “Alas, my dearest wife, men are sometimes weak. Wasn’t your father like that as well? Didn’t he seduce every woman who did not run from him? Ah, no need to answer. Perhaps you didn’t even know. Perhaps it was a lie fashioned by my own father. Now, you need have no further worry—surely you know that I love and desire you above all women. Sabrina? She was nothing, merely a young girl who chanced to whet my appetites one long afternoon. Just consider what it has gained you. I believe you owe me a great debt of gratitude. She is gone.”

  Elizabeth let his words pass. Her father hadn’t been a saint, for no man was a saint, but he hadn’t been like Trevor. And she was married to him for as long as she lived. It made her cold to her bones. Well, she would mold him, change him, guide him into behavior that wouldn’t shame her in the future. She stared down at the great emerald wedding ring on her third finger. It was something of which she should be proud, a symbol of what she had long thought she would never have in life. Yet, it still felt alien to her, as alien as it had almost two months ago when the earl had summarily called her to the library, placed the ring in her outstretched hand, and said without preamble, “You are to be married, Elizabeth. The Eversleigh emerald is yours. I trust you will like the fellow, for he will be the Earl of Monmouth after my death.”

  She’d stared at him, so startled she had to flounder for words. “My cousin, sir? Trevor?”

  “Of course, my girl. I could have wished for another heir but God doesn’t grant us that many choices. Of course it is Trevor. At least he isn’t a stranger to you.”

  But Trevor Eversleigh was a stranger. Elizabeth had met him only twice in her life, when he’d visited from his home in Italy.

  She was to marry him? She swallowed. “He is coming here, Grandfather?”

  “Certainly, how else could you wed with him?” He expected no answer, and waved Elizabeth toward a chair opposite him. “Sit down, and I will tell you the whole of it.”

  The earl looked down at his hands a moment, then began. “As you know, Elizabeth, Trevor is the grandson of my younger brother. You will not remember Trevor’s father, Vincent, for he besmirched the Eversleigh name and fled to the Continent with a divorced woman who was a harlot. I will not sully your ears with tales of his mother’s despicable behavior in Italy. At least Vincent married her so that Trevor is legitimate. Suffice it to say that she contracted the pox some three months ago and died a wretched death. It was then that your cousin wrote me. I don’t intend to hold the doings of Trevor’s antecedents against him, for he is, after all, my heir and the future Earl of Monmouth. I grow old, Elizabeth. I want Trevor Eversleigh here, at Monmouth Abbey, so that he may learn what will be required of him as the future earl. You might as well know too that it is my right to bestow the Eversleigh wealth where I wish. I have told Trevor that the wealth would be his if he agreed to take you for his wife. His reply, of course, shows his good sense. He will, of a certainty, live here with you, at least until my death.”

  “I cannot remember that my cousin Trevor even liked me, Grandfather.”

  “It’s been four years since you’ve seen each other. He is nearly twenty-eight, a man full grown, and you, I might add, are growing no younger with the passing summers. I will hear no romantic drivel from you, Elizabeth. He will treat you well enough, trust me for that.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” Elizabeth said, nodding obediently.

  “He will be arriving next week. Your banns will be read then.”

  The earl turned away from her, as if she were no longer in the room. “You may go now, Elizabeth, to contemplate your good fortune. Send Sabrina to me.”

  She had felt like dancing from the library, but she’d forced herself to walk away serenely. She smiled widely. A servant saw that smile and stared at her. Whatever her uncertainties about her future husband, she forced them from her mind. She was to be married. And not just married to anyone, she would be the future Countess of Monmouth.

  She’d given up hoping any suitable gentleman would want her, despite the handsome dowry. Her stay with her aunt, Lady Barresford, had netted only two offers for her hand, both from gentlemen with an obvious need for money. At long last she would be freed from snide comments about her inevitable spinsterhood, freed from unflattering comparisons between herself and Sabrina. And above all, she thought, her pale eyes shining, she would be the Countess of Monmouth. As soon as that old man died.

  Elizabeth felt Trevor’s fingers caressing her shoulders and flashed him a confident smile. She wondered, almost dispassionately, if her younger sister was dead.

  “I fear for Sabrina’s safety,” she said aloud, trying to disregard his hand, which was caressing her upper arm, moving toward her breast. He released her abruptly.

  “Yes, so do I.” He turned away from her. “I woul
d wish it could be different. It is really quite a pity, quite a pity.”

  Her chin went up just a bit as she said, “Perhaps she has found shelter. She is so pretty, so vivacious, anyone would help her, don’t you think? I have seen gentlemen scramble over themselves to please her. She always just laughed and teased them.”

  “You want your dear little sister home in the bosom of her family? Yes, of course you would give all you have to have her with us again. Perhaps soon she will be home. I would enjoy that. I would try to please her perhaps even more than you would. Is it possible that is true, Elizabeth?”

  She was trembling. He had won. Her voice was low, furious. “If she does return, if she dares to return here, I assure you, Trevor, that she will not long remain.”

  Phillip pulled off his cravat, tossed it on the settee, and sank down wearily into a chair beside Sabrina’s bed. He looked down into the bowl of soup. It didn’t look promising. He couldn’t think of what he’d done wrong, but obviously he’d done something very wrong, so wrong that he wondered if he could even get the stuff down. Yes, he had to. He brought a spoon filled with a clump of stringy vegetables and too salty ham chunks. They didn’t taste better with the brief bit of aging. He ate, didn’t think about what he was eating, just ate until he had finished. He set the empty bowl down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He wondered how long it would be before Charles became worried at his absence. Would he send men out to search for him? He smiled at his own silent idiot question. It was doubtful, yes, even more than quite doubtful. He imagined that a round of ribald jokes was very likely circulating among the gentlemen of his acquaintance at Moreland, each in turn, he thought, laying wagers on his imagined amorous encounter in the wilds of Yorkshire with some comely wench. What a pity he wasn’t living up to their lecherous fantasies.

  He gazed at Sabrina, who was sleeping fitfully, tossing from one side to the other. Her beautiful hair was tangled, but dry. He rose and leaned over her. He smoothed his fingers through the tangles, then braided her hair as best he could. It wasn’t a sterling result, but it would have to do.

  He found himself wondering about her family. She’d spoken in a soft cultured voice, with no Yorkshire accent. Although he realized he was rather an ass for doing it, he pictured a cold, domineering stepmother and a weak, absent father. How else, he wondered, shaking his head, could such a thing happen to a young, well-born girl?

  “Well, my dear,” he said to the silent Sabrina, “I’ll even find out if you have a birthmark soon enough. I will burrow into that head of yours and discover every detail you have hidden from me.” He laid the palm of his hand against her forehead, and cursed. Her skin was hot and dry to the touch. The fever he had so dreaded was upon her.

  Suddenly she opened her eyes, unseeing eyes, and struggled frantically against the blankets. She looked blindly through him and shouted, “No, you cannot, Grandfather. No! My poor Diablo, no.”

  Phillip grabbed her shoulders and pressed her back. She struggled against him until she had no more strength. She looked up at him, her eyes still unseeing.

  “Sabrina? Can you hear me? It’s all right. You’ve got the fever, but you will be all right, I swear it to you.”

  She quieted, closing her eyes. He released her.

  Suddenly she pulled her arms free of the blankets and struck him in the chest. “You bastard! Let me go, do you hear? Let me go!”

  What was going on here? Was it Trevor she saw again? She began crying, choking on her own tears. He couldn’t bear it. He pulled her up against his chest and began to rock her in his arms. “It will be all right, Sabrina. I wouldn’t lie to you. Trust me. No one will ever hurt you again, I swear it. You must rest now to get well. Once you’re well again you can hit me as many times as you wish.”

  She quieted at last. He thought she would sink back into sleep. But she reared back suddenly in his arms, trying to pull away from him. She stared straight at him and said, “It’s so hot in here. Why is it so very hot? I don’t like it at all. Have you no sense? Look, there’s even a fire in the grate. Why?”

  He remembered the awful fever that had eaten at Lucius, burning him from the inside out. “I’ll make it cooler. Try not to think about the heat, all right?”

  He gave her some water. She was trying to swallow it faster than she could breathe. She choked, coughing even as she tried to drink all the water at once. When at last she was done, the coughing stilled, she lay back and stared up at him. But it wasn’t him she was seeing. “Please, Mary, I have tried not to think about the heat, but it does no good. Please open the window. I’m so hot, so very hot.”

  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.

  8

  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.”