Devotion (17 page)

"My wife sends her love, as do your nephews. Peter turns five tomorrow. Keith began walking only last week. Grandmother, as always, prays for your complete recovery. I'm afraid she grows
more feeble
every day—her memory isn't what it once was. Her spirit is feisty as ever, of course."

Basingstoke leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Tell me, Miss Ashton, do you imagine that he can hear us?"

Maria put down her knitting, her gaze lifting slowly to Salterdon's face, then to Basingstoke's.

He turned his head. "Why do you stare at me so?" he asked gently.

" 'Tis
difficult to imagine . . ."

"That we're identical? Yes, I suppose it is. Tell me, Miss Ashton, are you frightened of my brother?"

"Occasionally."

"No doubt the help has enriched your imagination with tales of mania, etcetera."

She clasped her hands in her lap; blue yarn spilled through her fingers and over her knees. Her cheeks grew warm, her throat tight.
"'
Twasn't
only the help,
m'lord
."

"Ah. I assume you mean our less-than diplomatic guests, the Ladies Draymond." His lips thinned. One heavy eyebrow drew up. "Should matrimony to my brother be wagged before their noses even now, I wager they would pounce on the opportunity with as much enthusiasm as a starving dog on a rat carcass. I might add that the
viscountess
herself would be happy to entertain the idea of . . . entertaining the Duke of Salterdon, if given the
opportunity . . .
I see you're not convinced."

Lord Basingstoke left his chair and offered her his hand. "Come along, Miss Ashton. Come, come. I appreciate your dogged responsibilities, however, I hardly imagine he's up to getting into too much mischief should we step down the hallway for a few minutes."

Reluctantly, she put aside her knitting and joined His Lordship.

As they wandered down the immense gallery, Basingstoke pointed to portraits on the walls: images of ancestors forever forged with oil on cracking canvases. There were three-hundred-year-old vases and centuries- old furnishings whose fine grains were buried beneath hundreds of layers of darkened beeswax. Still, Maria only vaguely listened. Her gaze continue to stray to her host; his tall stature, his impeccably tailored clothes, which, she thought, looked more like a finely dressed country gentleman than those belonging to one of the most distinguished men in English aristocracy. And beyond that . . .

Oh, but he was incredibly handsome!

They entered a room, lit only by the dimmest daylight spilling through the row of massive windows along the distant wall.

"My lord," she breathed quietly, her gaze sweeping the incredible chamber of soaring paneled walls and plush carpeted floors. In the center of it all was a pianoforte. Its ebony case glistened beneath the crystal- tiered chandelier overhead.

Basingstoke walked to the instrument, lightly ran his hand over the polished surface. For a moment, his expression took on a pained look. His hand curled into a fist. When he spoke again, his voice sounded tight and rough.

"Once upon a time, Miss Ashton, there was a very talented young man who was born with a very special gift—an ability to hear music in his mind—incredible music that would rival the masters. From a very young age he burned with the desire to bring that music to
life . . .
to exorcise it, so to speak. Late at night, he would leave his bed and come here—when everyone else was sleeping—and for hours he would sit at this
instrument and allow each note to flow through his fingers onto the keys."

Basingstoke slid down onto the pianoforte
bench,
his long legs spread slightly, his fingers floating over the keys without really touching.

"Occasionally, I would sneak out onto the veranda, sit in the dark, close my eyes, and listen. I would jealously wonder why I had not been gifted with such a talent."

"Are you speaking of His Grace?" she asked.

"Difficult to believe, isn't it, Miss Ashton?
Difficult to imagine that the man, or what is left of him, was, as a child, a prodigy of music."

Basingstoke plinked on a key and the sound resonated through the room. When he looked up at Maria again, his eyes looked fierce and as maddened as his brother's. "You must understand, my dear, that such a frivolous pastime simply wasn't acceptable for the future Duke of Salterdon. There were business matters to bone up on—God forbid that a nine-year-old future duke not fully comprehend the workings of an estate that had been in the family since God created England. Can you imagine that once, I was envious of him— galled by the fact that while I was allowed to roam at will with whomever I chose—allowing they were my peers—he was holed up with my father, becoming a man before he was ever allowed to be a child. The title of duke, and his representation of it, was all that mattered. I shudder to imagine what the burden of that responsibility would do to anyone."

He left the bench and moved across the room, to a cluster of chairs near a window. Maria followed, tiptoeing so as not to disturb the weighty stillness and quiet pervading the austere chamber.

Basingstoke stopped at a shrouded object tucked back in a dim corner beyond the chairs. Carefully, he removed the linen drape, exposing the partially completed painting of a breathtakingly handsome Basingstoke poised by a chair occupied by the faceless portrayal of a feminine figure in a flowing red gown.

"My brother, Miss Ashton, or what once was the Duke of Salterdon."

She swallowed and shook her head in disbelief. "I don't believe it
. '
Tis yourself there—"

He moved up
beside
the painting, posed as the man was on the canvas, one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other leisurely tucked into a pocket on his breeches.

Her gaze locked on the realistic image on the canvas, Maria moved toward the painting, unable to look away from the eyes staring back at her—deep, intense, and as fiery cold as the blade of a saber.

Those were not the kind and gentle eyes belonging to Lord Basingstoke! Nor was the dangerous, stony virility of his sharply honed features. Yet . . . neither did these features belong to the man she had been employed to companion. Nay, the man depicted on the canvas was no savage, no beast at all, but a portrait of supreme sophistication.

"The woman," she said, forcing her attention on the unfinished figure in the chair. "Who is she?"

For an instant Basingstoke's eyes became hooded, his jaw stony, his mouth curling in a sort of smile that likened him to his notorious brother. "My dear Miss Ashton, this is the next Duchess of Salterdon—Trey's beautiful, prehensile future
wife . . .
the Lady Laura
Dunsworthy
Ronsaville
."

Maria tried one last time to pen words on the ivory stationary emblazoned with the duke's family crest— another letter to John and her mother she knew she would never send. John, of course, would be thrilled to receive any word from her; he would be encouraged by her note—believing there was still some hope for him—for them. He might even come to Thorn Rose and convince her to leave with him, to marry him . . . to spend the remainder of her life becoming a reflection of her mother . . .

She wadded up the paper and flung it to the floor. Why could she concentrate on nothing but the images portrayed on that canvas? That man had been no beast. No monster.
Only the epitome of power and sophistication—nay—outright arrogance.
A man of extreme self-confidence.
A man who exuded a certain virility that made her feel . . . how, exactly, did she feel?

Breathless hardly seemed sufficiently descriptive.

Yet . . . daft girl.
Demented child.
Obviously her father had been right about her all along.

From Salterdon's room came the sounds of Gertrude's hustle-bustle as she flitted from table to chair, dusting, rearranging pillows, collecting soiled laundry. By now, Thaddeus and his helper should have removed the duke from his bath and dressed him.

Maria joined the activity, pausing in the doorway, her eyes scanning the glowing room until locating His Grace, as usual, positioned at the window, his back to her as he stared off over the countryside. As usual, after Salterdon's bath, the scent of violets wafted in the air.

Gertrude looked up from her dusting and smiled. "Have
ya
done with yer letter, love?"

She nodded and moved into the room, hesitated at the dressing table long enough to rearrange the bouquet of yellow and purple flowers in a crystal vase, her gaze drifting reluctantly to her image in the mirror. The female peering back at her, with wide blue eyes, oval face framed by slender coils of silver-white hair, and pink slightly pouting mouth, was, indeed, little more than a child—no woman—no matter how adult-like she tried to behave.

""Tis no wonder Lord Basingstoke was shocked upon meeting me," she mused aloud
. "
I
am
a child. What was Her Grace thinking when she employed me?"

Gertrude hurried to her, her dust cloth flapping like a flag from one hand. "Yer a kindhearted soul, love, and that's what His Grace needs most.
Someone with compassion and
understandin
'."

Maria moved to the window, stood for a moment
with her gaze locked on the hills before facing her patient at last. The image in her mind was of chiseled, hard-as-granite features, of burning gray eyes. She knew fully now what His Grace had
once
been.

"
Gerti
, Basingstoke is a handsome man, wouldn't you agree?"

"No more handsome than Salterdon," the servant declared with appreciable pride and a flap of her dusting cloth.

"Basingstoke's features are so perfectly honed."

"As was . . . is . . . His Grace's."

"His lordship's smile is kindly and sincere."

Gertrude paused in her dusting, and looking somewhat bemused, replied, "I reckon kindly and sincere don't describe Salterdon's smile, exactly. Rakish and cheeky were more like it. A bit on the acerbic side, but then, while the two were as alike as two peas in a pod, their personalities were as different as night and day."

"So you've said," Maria replied absently and moved around the duke's chair, regarding his wild hair and face hidden beneath the unkempt beard. She brushed his shoulder lightly with her fingertips. "Judging by what I've been told, his present guise would suit him best, yet . . . can any man be so truly manipulative and cunningly hedonistic as those closest to His Grace have described him?"

She bent and searched his gray eyes, slightly mesmerized by the intensity with which they appeared to stare back at her. Unlike Basingstoke's, there was a madness there, a vacuity that would so easily impair his capacity to function normally in his society.