Malia Martin Read Online Free PDF

crossed his arms over his chest. “It was easier to picture you a raging lunatic with thinning white hair, wrinkled skin, and perhaps a wart or two.” He shrugged. “Still, women of any age can . . . well . . . have unsettled sensibilities . . .”
    “I am not insane!” Sara shrieked.
    They stared at each other. Sara took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “I am sorry,” she said as she let the breath out. “I am just a bit upset at the moment.”
    “Hmm.” The Duke shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.
    “You must understand my anger in this matter, your grace. If you haven’t read my letters, at least you have seen the amount of correspondence I have sent you. And you have not returned any of it.”
    “How persistent of you.”
    “Not persistent enough, obviously.”
    “I don’t write letters,” the man said abruptly, pushing away from the table. He moved to the fallen bowl, bent, and picked it up. Sara watched, her anger dissipating into confusion as she watched the Duke reach for the dirty spoon lying in a pool of pungent soup on the floor.
    “I’m sure, sir, you can leave that for the servants. I have urgent business to speak of!”
    Dropping the dirty dishes in a tin bucket, the Duke grabbed a rag. “No servants, actually. Just me . . . and the rats if I leave this mess lying about.”
    Sara blinked as the man dropped to his knees and swabbed the floor with the rag. The scene before her did not fit at all with the picture she had made for herself of the Duke of Rawlston. Since her husband had died ten months before and his third cousin had inherited, Sara had made a point of discovering all she could of the new Duke. It hadn’t been terribly difficult, as the man had an infamous reputation of being a gambler and a rake and not much else.
    In fact, before inheriting the lofty title of duke, the man had not even had a title.
    “Did you not bring any servants from France?”
    The Duke stood and dumped the sodden rag into the bucket with the dishes. “I don’t have servants, actually.”
    Sara let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, of course you do not. Your absolute lack of concern for anyone beside yourself is incredible!”
    The Duke blinked. “My lawyer is right, you are insane.”
    “As a duke, especially one with money, you owe it to people to give them jobs! There are people starving, and yet you live in this huge house with no one to cook or clean, which would in turn provide for another family.”
    His grace stared at the tin bucket for a moment, then looked at her. “A good point . . . er, what is your name, by the way?”
    Startled, Sara took a second to answer. “I am Sara, Sara Whitney.”
    “Well, Sara, I do hope it is all right if I call you Sara.” The Duke continued without waiting for her consent. “I do not live in this grand house. I live in rather small apartments in Paris, where I employ a once-a-week housekeeper and pay her monstrously well.”
    Sara huffed a disgusted laugh. “Unfortunately, you also employ servants at Rawlston Hall who have not been paid in over four months!”
    “Four months?” The Duke looked at her suspiciously. “You don’t say? I shall have to speak with Andrew before leaving for Paris.”
    “Leaving?” Sara rushed forward without thought and grabbed the Duke’s arm. He clenched his fist, and she felt his muscles move beneath her fingers. It jangled her nerves terribly, and she let go quickly. “I . . . that is to say, we really had hoped you would visit Rawlston!”
    “Since I have been in London for all of twenty-four hours, with no announcement of my arrival, I must wonder when you hoped this outcome?”
    Sara cleared her throat. “Well, of course, we hoped you would come when . . .” Sara suddenly wondered if the Duke believed she had headed a revolt against him. She certainly would not want to get anyone else in trouble if he did. “I mean, your grace, I thought, and it was my idea completely, that