Devotion (13 page)

"A small bite, sir," she coaxed him softly. Egg and fork poised at his closed lips, Maria gazed anxiously into his vacant eyes, seeing only the reflection of the windowpanes in their gray irises. "Then mayhap you prefer the porridge, sir
. 'Tis rich in cream and butter and brown sugar.
'Tis certain to warm you.
Your hands are very cold, you see." Tentatively wrapping her own hand over the back of his, she held it until the chill of his flesh became as warm as her own, and then a while longer . . . because it felt so large against her own, much like Paul's had been—an anchor on which to hold when the waves of despondency would rise up to swallow her. Only Paul's hand had opened to accept hers, to grip hers, to offer strength and encouragement even as he lay dying.

"Even now I'm ashamed that it was he who comforted me," she thought aloud, and squeezed the duke's hand more fiercely. "I shall endeavor to remain strong this time, to offer you the consolation and strength I was too weak and frightened to give Paul."

With that, she once again attempted to feed him. His Grace only stared out the window, while the day grew dull enough to lay dark gray shadows on the hills that stood grand and cold around the fell.

The food having long since grown cold, the room having been scrubbed spotless, each table covered in cheery flowers whose aromas swirled in a perfumed cloud around her, Maria sat at her charge's side, silent, her blue eyes regarding him now and again while her mind wandered and a weariness crept over her, causing her lids to grow heavy, her mind dull as the distant hills.

She dozed and dreamt of Paul lying in his bed, a smile on his face even as his body wasted away. She dreamt that he left his bed and informed her that he was cured, and to prove it he danced across the floor on legs that were as sound and strong as tree trunks. Suddenly, they were children again, flying across the downs as fast as their legs would carry them, chasing butterflies and newborn lambs—oh! How the innocent children and animals had loved him, so pure of mind and spirit was Paul, collecting wayward and wounded souls with a smile and a
laying
on of his hand that seemed to Maria to burn with a divine, healing light.

"Have faith and look to me for hope and courage. I'll never leave you, sweet sister
;" he had promised as a child. And so too he had promised as, with his final breath, he'd slipped gently over the threshold of eternal life, and into God's welcoming arms.

A noise awoke her. Her heart racing, Maria opened her eyes, only to discover that the sound had been nothing more than her own sobbing. Leaving her chair, she moved to the window, pressed her feverish brow upon the frosting pane, watched as her breaths fogged the glass, her own image becoming blurred by the condensation.

Righting her shoulders and raising her chin, she turned back to her charge, hurriedly brushed the tears from her cheeks as she regarded His Grace, who continued to sit so still and
stare . . .
at her.

Not, not at her, certainly. Those glassy orbs reflected a
bemusingly
sad and thoughtful look. Perhaps he gazed at yon hills that had fast become dim with swirling snow. Mayhap his mind was lost in the memories of his riding swift as the moor wind on his
horses . . . or
perhaps he dreamt of some beautiful lady whom he had once seduced there.

But he was
not
staring at her.

Were
she to believe that, she would be forced to acknowledge that the . . . beast was rousing; that her well-being, and even her employment at Thorn Rose might surely be in jeopardy very soon.

Maria backed away, then scolded herself for allowing herself to become so selfishly mired in her own problems. "Ashamed I am," she declared aloud, and forced
herself
to adjust the woolen throw over Salter- don's lap, tucking it under his knees as swiftly as possible before moving away.

"Paul would kindly remind me that no matter how burdensome our own lives occasionally become, there are those who are far worse off.
That we should continually count our blessings and thank God if we have a roof over our heads, plenty to eat, good, or at least passably good health, and friends.
My father, on the other hand, would lift the strop of God's vengeance and . . ."

She shuddered.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "We shan't go into that, Your Grace. Suffice it to say that the good vicar believes that God's way of dealing with the corrupted soul is to hail upon the sinner a goodly amount of painful retribution—fierce as firebrands. I, on the other hand, believe Him to be patient and kind and all forgiving—no matter what the sin, or sins. His hand is always outstretched. Ail one needs, Your Grace, is faith and courage, and a repentant heart."

She sat in a chair before him, elbows rested on her knees.

His hands lay on his lap and the temptation was
strong to touch them.
"Do
you hear me?" she asked softly, studying his bearded features, the realization occurring to her that she had never ventured so gravely close to this man. Her breathing quickened at the thought; her heart raced. As her nervousness and fear threatened to overwhelm her, she briefly closed her eyes and swallowed it back. "There are some faces to whom hard lines come naturally," she stated with forced lightness. "Faces born to grow sharp and dark; how unnatural it seems on you, whose eyes look as if they once flashed with wit and mischievousness. Whose lips look as if they were once quick to smile, to impart a playful barb to a close friend, an outrageous flirtation to a pretty young
lady.
'Tis a pitiful thing to see these features plowed into unnatural harshness. If you
are
there, sir, rise up and allow me to help you. Take courage in the knowledge that I shall be here to assist you and encourage you, not only for your grandmother's sake, whose existence is dependent upon her seeing you well once again, but for your own sake as well."

A movement at the door; Maria looked up. Gertrude walked on tiptoes to the tray of forgotten food placed beside His Grace's chair. "No progress?" the servant asked in her sympathetic tone.

"None," Maria replied, and sat back.

Clucking her tongue and shaking her head, Gertrude regarded the plate of uneaten eggs and ham. "I'll be
havin
' the cook prepare
somethin
' special for
ya
tonight. A wisp of a girl like you shouldn't miss too many meals."

"Point taken, dear Gertrude.
I'll try to eat more tonight, I promise."

"
Ye'll
rest better this
evenin
', lass. I'll have the cook brew up some of his special rum tea.
Ye'll
sleep as sound as a
bairn
, I'll guarantee."

Maria followed Gertrude to the door, watched the pleasant servant hurry down the corridor, open a panel in the wall, and disappear into it, her footsteps descending the servants' hidden staircase swiftly muted as the door closed behind her.

True to Gertrude's word, dinner was a veritable feast of watercress soup, roasted fowl with a cream sauce, rosemary potatoes, and, finally, syllabub to finish her off. She ate only after attempting to serve His Grace, who now, having been repositioned into a chair near the fire, stared into the flames, his features illuminated by red and gold firelight.

Nestled deeply into her soft chair, grown drowsy with repletion, Maria regarded her charge's strong profile. "Had I a book," she mused softly, "I would read to you. Paul always enjoyed that. He said, 'Words drawn with such beauty of tongue will paint vivid rainbows upon the imagination.' You look like a man who would enjoy books. Your brow is broad and noble, a certain sign of intelligence. No doubt you're a man of great passions, who exalts in extremes, who challenges mediocrity, and embraces diversity. Yet, you continue to hide there, somewhere deep within yourself. Why, I wonder? What, sir, are you frightened of? Because you fear the world may not respect the man you are now? A man is what he makes of himself, I think."

Leaving the chair, she strode around him, her fingers trailing along but not quite touching his shoulder (how bold she was becoming!), skimming over his disheveled hair, lightly, teasingly brushing his beard. Was it not a part of her responsibilities to treat him kindly and respectfully, to encourage his dignity and well-being?

"Only a fool would imagine that you're less of a man because of this." She paused with her back to the fire, her gaze falling to his long legs, and the black leather boots hugging them to the knees. Gertrude had spent a quarter hour polishing the expensive Hessians until they shone.

"They're very nice boots," she mused aloud, her gaze following the well-cut and fitted leather up the curve of his calf, to his knee. "They suit you," she added, slowly lifting her gaze back to his eyes that seemed to be looking directly into her own.

Maria eased to the floor, took hold of one heavy leg, and with a little effort, slid the boot off his foot, then the other, placed the pair to one side of the fire before taking his stocking foot into her lap and rubbing it, her fingers making their way in a constant, circular fashion up calves that felt cold and hard, up to his knee, then back down again, as she had done Paul's those many months he had lain on his back, unable to move. Paul had made a performance of enjoyment, sighing in contentment, though Maria had known that her brother had really felt nothing. The pleasure had only been in his mind.

"I'm told this helps the circulation," she explained, and massaged a bit harder, hands molding to the shape of Salterdon's muscles, to the curve of his ankle, squeezing and releasing, until it seemed as if the flesh warmed in her fingers. Occasionally, she looked up, to his face.

"The firelight reflects kindly from you," she told him. "It flushes your skin and ignites your eyes." Gently, she slid her hands over his knee, gripped his thigh firmly, noted the hard length of muscle even there, and how his breeches clung to the leg like a velvety skin. The firelight reflected from the nankeen in prisms of color.

Like a thin stream of pale light, the memory of Thaddeus and Molly took shape in her memory, rousing like two ghosts, stirring not fright, but that barely recognizable restlessness and discomfort she had experienced only briefly in John's company—when she'd allowed her curiosity and imagination to take hold—an ache that was as deep and low and disturbingly bestial as the man sitting before her now. Her eyelids growing drowsy, her gaze softly dropping to Salterdon's lips, then to her hand resting lightly on his hard thigh, her mind teased with the image of her standing in that kitchen door, watching two people writhe and twist on the table, sweating flesh glistening with firelight . . . only it was the duke's eyes that flashed up at her . . . and the woman beneath him groaning and gasping with such delicious fervor was—

"Miss Ashton?"

She jumped, gasping softly.

Thaddeus emerged
from the shadows near the door.

Her heart racing, Maria pressed one hand to her bosom and averted her eyes. "You frightened me— coming out of the dark and silence like that. For an instant I thought . . ."