Devotion (19 page)

At last, she garnered her courage and returned to Salterdon's room.

He sat quietly in his chair before the fire, his wrists bound to the chair arms. Thaddeus hovered nearby, hands tucked into the waistband of his loose trousers, his red hair spilling over his forehead. Upon seeing her, he stopped and stared.

Only then did she notice Basingstoke, poised near the bedroom window, long arms crossed over his chest. At some point he had removed his jacket, exposing his well-made shirt. He regarded her with one raised eyebrow and his mouth in a grim line.

Maria self-consciously touched her neck, her gaze shifting from him to Salterdon, who continued to gaze into the flames. Had he reverted again, back into his own private hell?

God help her, but she hoped so.

"Miss Ashton," Basingstoke said softly, kindly, concernedly.

"Don't," she replied a bit hoarsely. "I fear I'll only get emotional again. I'm not at my best when I'm emotional."

Basingstoke joined her, lightly placed one finger beneath her chin and tipped her head slightly to one side. "Bastard," he murmured under his breath, then did his best to relieve his anger with a less than believable smile. "I'm certain it's little consolation, but I assure you, were His Grace in his rational mind he never would have treated you in such a manner. While he's always been somewhat cavalier about matters of the heart, I've never known him to physically harm a woman. You may cry.
of
course. I won't think any less of you if you do."

She shook her head in refusal even as her eyes filled up with tears. She did not dare blink or they would surely spill. Still, few people had ever treated her so kindly and with such genuine concern. That alone threatened to make her crumble.

Basingstoke moved away, circled his brother—the duke—who continued to glare into the fire, his bound hands in fists. His Grace looked, Maria thought, like one on the verge of shattering.

Placing one brotherly hand on Salterdon's shoulder, Basingstoke rewarded his brother with an emotionless smile.
"During your absence.
Miss Ashton, I spoke with Trey at length. I assume he listened. I can only assume he comprehended. I reminded him that you, like the others before you, were employed by the duchess to help him. However, the duchess has grown overly weary of the reports of verbal and physical abuse, which have found their way back to her over the last year." His tone becoming gruffer, he added, "If His Grace doesn't wish to find
himself
interned to an asylum for the remainder of his life, he might do well to curtail his bouts of temper and intimidation. He might also consider rousing himself out of this
pity me
attitude. Personally, I find it repugnantly tiresome."

The duke shifted, unclenched and clenched his hands.

Lowering his mouth to his brother's ear, Basingstoke whispered, "Then again, Trey and I have always disagreed on what is an acceptable manner with which to deal with the world in general. Haven't we, dear brother? And haven't I often mentioned that were the duchess's vast holdings passed along to me I would see that they would be invested cautiously, if not prudently?

By cautiously, I mean meagerly—such as allowances to recalcitrant prodigy, etcetera. Miss Ashton?"

"Y-yes, your lordship?"

"I believe you desire to clean him up?"

She nodded.

"Bring the razor and lather."

She joined Basingstoke as he rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing very brown wrists and forearms. His hands, she thought with some surprise, looked hard and rough as a farmer's.

When she offered Basingstoke the razor and cup of lather, he shook his head. "I'm only here for support, Miss Ashton. I'll remind him, however, that should he behave unnaturally, as he did earlier, I'll take charge of the cutter myself." He winked at his brother, who continued to ignore him.

Only then did Maria allow herself to look at Salterdon, at those eyes that had glittered with such anger and hatred moments before. Slowly, slowly, they turned up to hers. No fury now. No desperation. Those gray orbs reflected a sort of confusion and fear that left her suddenly as shaken as his previous bout of bad temper.

"We don't intend to hurt you," she assured him in as steady a voice as she could manage. In truth, the very effort of speaking made her throat throb; each purple bruise felt like sharp stones pressed into her flesh.

As she cautiously touched the lathered brush to the side of Salterdon's face, Maria felt the penetration of those eyes into hers, watched the fine sheen of sweat materialize across his brow and bead at his temples.

"He's frightened," she said softly to Basingstoke.

"Because he knows I'll cut his throat if he thinks to harm you again," he replied with a taunting smile. "Or better yet, I'll invite the Ladies Draymond up to have a peek at what's become of His Grace. I've discovered them snooping about Thorn Rose's corridors half a dozen times the last few days, hoping for some glimpse of the
howling monster.
No doubt London will be abuzz with the graphic descriptions of our belligerent duke before the week's end."

Had the occasion been less serious, Maria might have laughed, for no doubt his lordship's threat had touched a sore nerve. Salterdon's wolfish eyes narrowed. He made a sound,
so
guttural in his throat as to be menacing, had the circumstances been more in his favor.

Her heart beat furiously in her chest and throat and ears.
Again, the lather, across his jaw, beneath his nose, over his chin.
The air became charged.

"In case you don't recall, Your Grace, my name is Maria Ashton," she told him in a dry voice, focusing on his cheek and not on his eyes that continued to rivet her. Oh, if her hand would only stop shaking. There was nothing to be frightened over, his wrists were bound, and Thaddeus hovered somewhere in the background. Basingstoke stood at her side, solid as a sentinel, his very demeanor a blatant threat to his brother should he try anything terrible. "Her Grace has employed me to companion you. I suspect you become quite lonely here, alone as you are."

With a sudden angry grunt, he turned his head away sharply.

The razor nicked his cheek.

Maria
gasped,
her frustration mounting as blood seeped from the cut and
pinkened
the surrounding white lather. "Now see what you've done," she cried, then bit her lip, closed her eyes and prayed for patience and calm. "I beseech you, Your Grace, to remain still unless you wish to be restrained."

A moment passed. When he made no further move or sound of rebellion, she continued the task, carefully, so carefully, anticipating another bout of temper, for surely he looked ready to shatter with the slightest provocation.

Yet, he made no further protest, just fixed his stare on some distant object in the room, and gritting his teeth and clutching his fists allowed her to finish the terrifying chore of peeling away the thick thatch of beard, until it lay on the floor and in the washbasin, clotted by blood-tinged lather.

At last, Maria stepped back, took an unsteady breath of relief, and with razor still in hand, regarded her handiwork.

"Oh," she whispered, with a lightening of her spirit— for those mesmerizing features that had fascinated her since Basingstoke's arrival were revealed to her eyes, which searched each detail and found them as utterly marvelous—if not a great deal sharper and harsher than his brother's, or even those portrayed on Salterdon's wedding portrait.

Forgetting Thaddeus, who had stopped his pacing near the door, forgetting even Lord Basingstoke, who stood near her shoulder, with his hands in his pockets, she swept up a mirror and held it before Salterdon.

"Look and see," she implored him. "Is it not an improvement, Your Grace? Is this not the image of a most dignified aristocrat worthy of his title?"

Cautiously, reluctantly, Salterdon's eyes moved to the mirror.

Her smile growing, her eyes becoming misty with pleasure, she went to her knees beside Salterdon's chair and peered with him into the looking glass at his— their—images. Pleasure kissed bright color on her cheeks. Excitement torched her eyes. "Is he not a handsome duke after all?" she said softly. "No beast, sir. No dragon. No wolf. A man blessed with extraordinary beauty."

He regarded his image without blinking, as if studying a stranger distrustfully. A myriad of emotions came and went over his features: confusion, frustration, despair.

Closing his eyes, he turned his head away. The anger returned, flooding his features, turning his jaw to granite, furrowing his brow. Cords stood out on his neck as he strained to escape both the mirror and the bonds anchoring him to the wheeled chair.

Dropping the mirror to the floor, jumping to her feet, Maria hesitated, uncertain for an instant,
then
took his face in her hands, even as he rolled it from side to side in denial.

"Stop!" she pleaded. "I beg you, Your Grace
. '
Tis nothing frightening there, I swear it.
'Tis not the face of a stranger, but your own.
Why would you deny it? Why would you run from it?"

He made a sound, more pain than anger, and twisted from her again, forcing her to grip his hair with her fingers so that she might look him squarely in the face. His features appeared ravaged by emotion.

"Want me to get more rope?" Thaddeus shouted.

"Nay, no rope," she snapped. "He wants compassion not cruelty."

"He wants to snap yer
bleedin
' neck," Thaddeus argued and shuffled nervously, ready to spring at the first hint of trouble but obviously kept at bay by Lord Basingstoke's presence.

"Please," she implored softly. "I only meant to help, Your Grace. There's nothing to fear.
Nothing to shame.
You are most . . . remarkably handsome."

Her words seemed to soothe him. Or, perhaps, he simply wearied of his internal battle. Little by little, his body relaxed, and though he continued to hold his face away from her, his expression of pain and anger became, once again, a mask of blankness.

It was a soft February morning, with a warm mist going up from the brown grass, and breaking at last into sunshine so bright that the air felt just like summer. It seemed that spring had come remarkably early, and though the second calendar month was yet within a day or two of its closing, the birds and the budding leaves seemed bent on putting all almanacs to shame, and making those residing at Thorn Rose
believe
that winter was surely behind them.

Often, a blithe bright morning—a mere gleam of sunshine—will make one feel, if not happy, at least eager to receive happiness. Although Maria had spent a long night of tossing and turning, and had risen from her tangled bedclothes to discover the image in the mirror belonging to that of a haggard and sleepless waif, she had revived at the first instant she had thrown wide her window and allowed the influence of the spring-like day to surround her with soft fresh air.

It was obvious that she had overslept, and she made
haste to finish her toilette, first her hair, which she brushed until it shone then fixed into a bun on the back of her head—very proper, surely. Her master was aware now. Her hours and days of daydreaming girlish fantasies were behind her. No more musings of frolicking across the moor with butterflies, or playing games of tag with chattering squirrels.

Besides, Basingstoke had announced at dinner the previous evening that he would take his leave of Thorn Rose this morning and had warmly insisted to the Ladies Draymond that they accompany him back to London; he would make certain their driver, Clyde, found his way home as soon as he was capable, though Maria suspected he would be hard pressed to bid adieu to Gertrude anytime soon.

Maria fixed her lace cap to her head and tied it under her chin. Swiftly, she donned one of her two black dresses and kid slippers, hopping on one foot toward the door of Salterdon's bedroom, pausing at the threshold while her mind ascertained the mood of the room, which was bustling with late-morning activity. Molly bent over Salterdon's bed, stripping away sheets, the backs of her ankles and calves peeking from beneath her starched skirt. Gertrude was busily slapping away a cobweb from a lamp shade, and yet another servant was on her knees plucking lint from the carpet.