Free Malia Martin by The Duke's Return

one much leeway when it comes to what one can and cannot do, does it not? Of course, as I said, I would not prance, and I wouldn’t flout my title, Duchess, because I never wanted it in the first place.”
    “Of course!” Sara straightened as Trevor watched with regret. “You do not want the title.” She fluttered her hands about in a disgusted gesture. “So you pretend it is not there.” She curled her fingers so that her hands fisted before her. “But it is there! You are the Duke of Rawlston. And you must take care of Rawlston. You must be here for your people. I just cannot do it anymore.”
    “But you have done quite a good job of it . . .”
    “Oh!” She slapped her hands flat against the desk, leaning there for a moment. She shook her head. “You do not understand. This is a job you must do, your grace. I cannot do it, a stewardcannot do it. You must be a leader to these people. You must help them improve their lives. You must marry and provide an heir for this title.”
    That was an awful lot of musts. Marry? Lead people? Trevor swallowed. He had absolutely no intention of staying at Rawlston any longer than it took to find an honest steward and throw money at the rest. Trevor ran his finger nervously under his cravat, pulling the silk material away from his neck.
    Sara pushed away from the desk with a disgusted groan. “Why?” she asked, tilting her head back and speaking to the ceiling. “Our one chance: a young man with money. And he is a womanizing, lazy lout!” She yelled this last part, pierced him with a look reminiscent of a rather irate nanny he had endured at age seven, and stomped out of the room.
    The silence she left behind was deafening. Trevor sat for a moment staring at the desk of paperwork. Sara’s last few comments had answered his first question of why they shouldn’t kiss. The woman expected much too much from him, and he liked to stay far away from people like that.
    His father had been the same, and it had made for a childhood Trevor would rather forget. The great Sir Rutherford Phillips had expected his son to follow in his footsteps of high academic achievement and constant service to the King. And it had riled him no end, and Trevor had the whipping marks to prove it, that his son would never do well at anything worthwhile.
    His father had expected much of him, and Trevor had failed. His mother had not expected anything at all, and he had failed her as well. After both of them had gone on to their final reward, Trevor had painstakingly rid his life of anyone who would need him in any way.
    And for that reason, he would not be kissing the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston again. In fact, he very much wanted to run out the door of Rawlston Hall and never look back.
    Trevor curled his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep them from trembling. The work piled on the desk seemed to mock him as he closed his eyes against it. The answer to his dilemma was not quite as simple as keeping his lips to himself, though. Rawlston, if the amount of paperwork was any indication, expected much of him as well.
    One problem at a time, though. Trevor pushed his chair back and stood. He had just endured a very long journey on horseback. And he had just realized that he had been played the fool. He definitely did not want to sit puzzling over stacks of confounding correspondence.
    He shoved through the heavy double doors once again and went to seek out some thoughtful soul who would perhaps show him to his room and bring him a bath. A scullery maid bustled by, rags and bucket in hand.
    “I say,” Trevor stopped her.
    She looked up, startled.
    Trevor ran his fingers through his hair. What did he say now? “Hello, I’m the Duke, take me to a bedroom?” Trevor blinked—sounded good, actually. “I’m the Duke,” he began.
    The girl’s eyes rounded and she dropped her bucket. He stooped to help her, and she started gasping as if she might suffer an apoplectic fit right there in the hall.