Devotion (25 page)

Fingers digging into her flesh, he said through his teeth, "N-no. N-none of your business—what I do just shut up and go away."

He released her, and she thought she might faint with relief. Arms throbbing, Maria swallowed back the lump of emotion at the base of her throat and watched as he turned his chair away from the pianoforte and wheeled it toward the door.

"I was thinking," she said in a strained, almost desperate voice, "that we might utilize the piano for therapy."

He stopped, hands still resting on the
spoked
wheels of his chair.

Moving up behind him, she took the chair and turned it back to the instrument. "Concentrate on gently stroking the keys one at a time, Your Grace. Mayhap it will help your dexterity and ability to focus. I'm certain your father wouldn't disapprove, considering the circumstances.
'Tis only for exercise, after all, and not for enjoyment.
I'll leave you alone, if you like . . . while you
refamiliarize
yourself with the instrument."

Maria backed toward the door, noting that he had not moved, but continued to sit with his hands buried in his lap and stare down at the keys. At last exiting the chamber, she walked steadily until reaching her room. Closing the door, she sank back against it, slid to the floor, and buried her face against her knees.

The shadows lengthened, and little by little, the room became quite dark.

He was a boy again, shivering in anticipation, counting the long minutes until he was certain his parents had settled in for the night—God forbid that his father find him here again; there was French to study, after all, and a dozen tomes of facts and figures that made his head hurt when he attempted to comprehend them all.

Oh, but it was then', swelling up inside him, the need,
the
music: he could hear it as distinctly as church bells. His palms grew wet; his fingers ached. He flexed them open and closed, held them poised over the keys
thai
shimmered dimly in the failing light.

Why would they not move—his hands, why would they not move
⁹
And the music . . . why, suddenly, did it warp into this nonsensical buzzing, cymbals crashing, violins screaming, and screaming discordant melees.

Oh God! He covered his ears with his hands and curled over, face driving sharply into the keys as his body shook. The abyss was opening again; he could see it, yawning there, black and inviting, luring him in to that place where reality could not intrude on his memories, on the music that spiraled sweet as birdsong round and round inside his head. That place was safe—so safe. No anger. No frustration. No regrets. No goddamn regrets.

So why was he so desperately fighting it?

Why, when he closed his eyes, did the image of blue eyes and moonlight hair fill up the blackness? How dare she unsettle him, haunt him, call out to some hidden self that he, until now, refused to acknowledge.

Damn her for forcing him to
care . . .
to hope . . . to
dream.
Damn her for slamming the door to his mental lethargy . . . that woman-child with her peculiar face alight with both seductiveness and innocence. If he retreated into that abyss again, she would leave.

Then where would he be? What would he have?

Who would believe in him at long last?

Through the predawn haze, Salterdon could see the wheelchair next to his bed. His clothes for the day were hanging on the door of his wardrobe, had been for the last week, and he had refused to use them, just as he had refused to allow the lot of sniveling domestics near him with their bloodthirsty-looking razors; they would like nothing more than to cut his throat. Soon they would come stringing through the door like a lot of army ants to attempt once again to dress him, feed him—then
she
would come—Miss Ashton—with her pugnacious chin that raised with the slightest provocation, and she would prod at his conscience, his willpower, his temper and dignity, and she would make him want to murder her.

Infuriating little chit, with the looks of a seductive
madonna
. Once he might have found her . . . stimulating—despite her penchant for obstinacy. Not that he had ever fancied the common wenches—he had made certain all his affairs had been with women of equal
class,
with an occasional fling with the lesser wife or daughter of a mere lord or baron or some such . . . although there had been one girl—oh, yes, he had almost forgotten—a lass he had happened across in a tavern in Sussex, with raven hair and lips full and red as cherries. He had felt . . . fascinated by her . . . slightly enraptured . . . and he had not even slept with her; he had liked her too damn much . . .

Lips pressed, Salterdon flung aside the sheets and counterpane and stared down at his legs wearing the same rumpled breeches he had worn the last five days. He had taken to sleeping in his clothes just to agitate his
companion,
receiving a perverse sense of pleasure in watching her mouth pucker like a keyhole each morning that he greeted her wearing the same clothes, not to mention the dark growth of stubble that had begun to shadow his lower face.

Dammit
, but the Ashton girl scraped at his nerves, always flitting about, talking to him as if he were a damned idiot mute . . . except she had not done much talking the last few days. She had kept to her room, taken her meals alone, intruded on his privacy only when she made some pitiful attempt to deal with his stubborn and infuriating antagonism.

Goddammit
, where was everyone? Since when did the staff sleep away half the day?

He glanced at the chair, just making out its bulky form in the half-light. He could easily touch it, and did so, tentatively, before gritting his teeth and, with his shoulders and arms quivering from the strain, dragging himself onto the wheeled contraption with a grunt and
groan
and a muttered curse as it began to creep away from him, inch by inch, his body beginning to sag between the chair seat and the bed.
Heart pounding in his ears, skin becoming damp with sweat, despite the coldness of the air, Salterdon clutched at the chair like a man scrambling for a
fingerhold
on the edge of an abyss.

His bedroom door opened.

Shit,
he thought.

Thaddeus moved on tiptoes to the hearth, his arms full of firewood and peat. Seeing Salterdon stretched between chair and bed, body shaking with the effort not to fall, he stopped and stared through the dawn shadows, his countenance obliterated by darkness.

"Well, well," Thaddeus said softly. "Wot
'ave
we got here
? '
Is Grace is
becomin
' quite venturous, by the looks of it.
Quite venturous indeed."

Shoulder pressing into the chair seat, head resting on the chair arm, Salterdon swore under his breath again.

Thaddeus dropped the wood into the hearth, swept dust and bark from his arms and hands, then he moved toward the chair, freckled hands clenched at his sides. He smelled a bit like horse dung and sour sweat.

Dropping to one knee beside the chair, Thaddeus said, "Looks like Yer Grace could use a bit of '
elp
. Eh?"

"D-do it myself."

"I don't think so . . . sir. I think yer just about to fall, and once
ya
do, yer
gonna
lie there like some beetle on its back." Thaddeus chuckled, then stood and slid his hands under Salterdon's arms and, with a grunt and a huff, dragged him from the bed and dropped him into the chair.

Thaddeus bent near his ear. "Once I would've given anything to be in yer shoes. Not anymore, no sir. I can't imagine wot it would be like to be forced to sit back and watch the world spin round
ya
, to be forced to watch other folk go about their lives normally. So tell me, Yer Grace, did
ya
enjoy
watchin
' me make love to Miss Ashton last week?"

"Lovely," he grunted and elbowed Thaddeus's hand away from his arm.

Thaddeus pushed the chair to the window. "I knew you
was
there,
o'course
. It's a bit ironic,
in't
it, that once upon a time it was me who stood back
watchin
' you make love to the beautiful ladies. Aye, there were some lovely wenches wot strolled through Thorn Rose and Park House and
Wyndthorst
. If
ya
don't mind me
confessin
', sir, I
offtime
imagined
meself
makin
' love to '
em
. But then, they wouldn't have aught to do with me . . . only
bein
' a stable hand and all.
Yer
shakin
', sir.
Let me fetch yer lap blanket.
Couldn't do with
ya
gettin
' a chill or aught."

He flung the blanket across Salterdon's legs, tucked it around his knees and thighs,
then
he grinned again and squeezed Salterdon's shoulder. "Just between you and me, Yer Grace, I quite fancy Miss Ashton. I could see me
settlin
' down with the likes of '
er
.
Lud
, but '
er
mouth is sweet—like ripe cherries, it is.
And '
er
tits . . . 'ere now, yer
feelin
' all tense, sir.
'
Ow
about a shoulder rub? Aye, she's got lovely tits, full enough to fill me hand and then some. The trouble is, Yer Grace . . . Gertrude tells me that she's
leavin
'.
Aye.
Seems after the tiff you two 'ad she wrote to the duchess and declared that she would rather swim in a cesspit with Satan '
imself
than to continue
takin
' yer abuse.
She's vowed to stay only until the duchess finds a replacement . . . preferably a male."

Thaddeus turned away, made busy with stacking wood in the grate while Salterdon focused on his own reflection in the windowpanes, wild hair spraying across his shoulders, his eyes looking somewhat mad.

So, the angel with moonlight hair and coral lips was leaving. She had had enough of him, just like all the others.
Only . . .

Maria Ashton was not like all the others. Was she?

At last, he turned back to find Thaddeus gazing down into the fire, face painted by yellow flames.

"Yer
wonderin
' if I've had '
er
," Thaddeus said, his mouth drawing to one side in a smile. "Admit it. Yer
wonderin
' wot it would be like to bury yer body into '
ers
. . . not that
y
a can anymore. Just imagine my
peelin
' '
er
dress off, little by little,
exposin
' '
er
white shoulders, then '
er
tits with their erect little nubs of nipples that taste as sweet as honey on the tip of me tongue. Imagine '
er
dress
slidin
' over '
er
hips and
tanglin
' 'round '
er
ankles. The 'air between '
er
legs is no doubt pale and curly, the skin beneath pink as blood. I reckon she's deep enough to take all of me; she'd be tight, and '
ot
, and liquid as quicksilver.
Now, 'cause of you, I might not ever get to know."