Free Malia Martin by The Duke's Return Page B

middle.
    “Holy Mother of God,” he said, staring at the tub. It was the largest he had ever seen. Truly big enough for two people, perhaps three.
    The servants each splashed their buckets of water into the deep porcelain tub, filling it nearly half-full. The last boy handed over a bar of milled soap.
    Trevor stood staring at the white lump in his hand, then looked up, suddenly remembering the horse he had left in the driveway. “Could you bring in my bag/boy?” Trevor asked. “It’s out with the horse in front of the house.”
    “Ellie took care of it, your grace. Got really mad at the groom, she did. Your bag’s in your room.” The boy cocked his head toward the chamber, then smiled, gave a jaunty salute, and left.
    Trevor peeled out of his travel-worn clothes and stepped with a bone-deep sigh into the hot water. He dropped down, the water rising up the sides of the tub, then leaned his head back and promptly laughed. Above him was the most titillating portrait of all. “Oh,” Trevor said to the ceiling. “The Dukes of Rawlston must enjoy their bathtime.” He chuckled again, then sat up and splashed water on his face. As he washed his hair, he wondered what Sara would think of the paintings on his ceiling. Suddenly Trevor stopped, realizing that she had surely seen them. She had, most probably, lain with her husband in the chamber next door.
    Trevor remembered the large bed that dominated the middle of his room. Like everything else, it was huge and draped with heavy velvet curtains the color of ripe plums. Truth be told, he would actually like to see Sara sans clothing within the confines of such a bed. But the thought of her there for an aging husband made Trevor wrinkle his nose.
    He dunked his head quickly and rinsed the soap from his hair. Then he stood and quit the tub, grabbing a large drying sheet that hung over the back of a chair. As he dried off, though, he had to contemplate the reason for his sudden disquiet. Jealousy was no longer a common emotion for him. He had experienced it as a young man in school, often. Not for women, though. Rather, he had coveted his chums’ academic abilities. Now, however, Trevor was experiencing almost the same uneasy pang of want at the center of his chest.
    Could he be jealous?
    That would make him jealous of a dead man—not a good thing. And strange, very strange.
    Wrapping the towel low about his hips,Trevor tucked the end in to anchor it. He padded into his chamber and rifled through his bag. He found a shirt and shook it out, then took out a pair of breeches and laid them on the bed next to his shirt. But, of course, his disquiet was not jealousy. It must stem from his realization of Sara’s great expectations for him. As a result he should not be thinking of her in any way other than as a tyrannical taskmaster. Most definitely she would need to stay dressed in his thoughts, if that were the case.
    Actually, the most intriguing picture was materializing in his mind of Sara as a naked tyrannical taskmaster . . .
    A knock at the door interrupted his shortlived fantasy, and Trevor blinked. He really must keep the chit layered in clothing within his thoughts from here on out. Distracted by his mind’s wanderings, Trevor yelled for the person at his door to enter.
    Or, better yet, he rationalized, turning back to his musings, he must not think of her at all . . .
    “Sara.” It took a moment to register that the subject of his thoughts did, in fact, stand before him in the flesh—quite properly clad flesh, at that.
    It was then that he noticed she had stopped just inside the door, her eyes large and her mouth open.
    Trevor’s hand went automatically to the towel hanging about his hips. He felt a waterdroplet splash against his shoulder from his hair and travel down his chest.
    Her eyes followed its path, and Trevor swallowed thickly.
    “I . . . I came to apologize,” she said finally, her head snapping up and her gaze boring into his face as if she were