Devotion (30 page)

"But—"

"Did he not vilify you?" asked
Edgcumbe
.

"Yes he did, however—"

"Did he not choke you?" asked the duchess.

"He did, but—"

"And practically wrenched your arms from your body?" asked
Edgcumbe
.

"He—"

"And did I not impress upon you that you, Miss Ashton, were my last hope of somehow saving my grandson from this last drastic but necessary decision?"

Her head swimming, Maria sank back in the chair. "Yes, Your Grace, you did. However . . ." She closed her eyes briefly, took a fortifying breath, waited for yet another interruption, then said so softly the duchess was forced to lean toward her to catch the words, "I'm happy to report, Your Grace, that his ability to verbally communicate has vastly improved. He feeds himself, and dresses himself, and reads to me aloud. I'm most happy to add, that he has again taken up the pianoforte!"

"You don't say!" expelled
Edgcumbe
.

"And his . . . disposition?" prodded the duchess.

"I can only relate that our meeting last evening and this morning was without its normal discord. He seemed, Your Grace, most agreeable."

"Which is not to say that his mood will not relapse if provoked,"
Edgcumbe
pointed out. Brow creasing in concern, he left his chair and took the duchess's hand. "My dear Isabella, you mustn't take such a turn too much to heart. He's rallied before only to suddenly, without warning, plummet to the depths of dementia again."

Her eyes bright and her chin quivering, the duchess said in a tremulous voice to Maria. "I must see him for myself immediately, of course."

''Gertrude is preparing him even now" Maria replied, and set her chocolate aside. "If it pleases Your Grace, I'll go up before you to make certain he's ready."

"Of course."

As Maria left her chair, the duchess caught her
arra
with fingers that were frail yet surprisingly strong. They gripped her with a fierceness that touched her gray eyes with a glint of hope and desperation.

With a confident smile, Maria pulled away and hurried from the room, pausing long enough to stare blankly, like one in shock, down the sprawling gallery.

Dear God in heaven, they had come to take His Grace away, to put him in a horrible place to be treated little better than some dangerous, mindless animal.

"But he's better now," she reminded herself aloud.
"Much better."
Glancing toward the ceiling, where gilded cherubs frolicked among the scrolled vines of olive branches carved into the plasterwork, she whispered to God, "'Tis nothing less than a miracle that His Grace should improve so dramatically now, the very eve before they would take him away. Mayhap
You
haven't given up on me after all."

With that, she bounded up the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt stop as she came face to face with a white of cheek, round-eyed Gertrude whose uniform was torn and drenched with water and soap.

"It's His Grace," the housekeeper finally managed to mutter. "I fear,
lass, that
he's taken a sudden turn for the worse."

Maria moved around hex
^-
. "That's not possible—"

"The instant
I
told him that Her Grace had arrived—"

"He was fine two hours ago, Gertrude
. .
He was feeding himself and chatting—"

"It
were
like hell opened up and Old Scratch himself appeared. He would
noi
have aught to do with me or anyone else or anything we tried to do with him. I fear Molly will be
sportili'
a black eye come tomorrow, and as far as my own bum is concerned-—"

There came a sudden crash and scream from down the corridor. A maid fled Salterdon's room, ducking as an object flew over her head and smashed against a wall.

Maria entered the room just as a china vase streaked by her head and exploded against the doorframe. Broken glassware lay strewn over the floor. Tables and chairs had been upturned. But it was the vision of her charge that made her heart and soul go numb.

Cautiously, she approached him where he sat in his chair, staring out at her from behind his disheveled hair, broad shoulders heaving from anger and exertion. The wolf was back . . . the dragon. His eyes were like fire. His teeth were showing. She thought she might faint.

"No." She shook her head. "Not now. You won't do this now. I won't let you,
You've
come too far. I've seen what you can do. What you can be again."

"Get—out," he growled.

"Nay, I won't. I won't let you do this to yourself, or me, or your grandmother." She approached him guardedly, disregarding her fear of him and allowing her anger to rouse her. "Remember who you are, sir. What you are—"

"I know what I am," he sneered. "I needn't have
someone like you to remind me. I'm the fucking Duke of Salterdon, my dear, and you
are . . .
a drudge employed by my grandmother to
conform
me into reasonable likeness of what I once was. Well, in case you haven't noticed"—spreading his arms, he finished with a mocking curl of his lips—"I am not the man I once was."

"So that's it." She dropped to her knees beside him and gripped his chair, searched his emotion-ravaged face, uncaring in that instant if he chose to strike out again in anger. "You're afraid."

He grabbed her head between his hands; his fingers twisted cruelly in her hair, forcing back her head as if he intended to snap her neck. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes and flowed down her temples, but she repeated through her teeth, "You're frightened of your own vulnerability, Your Grace. Frightened because you suspect the world will perceive you as less than a man because you're in this chair."

He dragged her closer, gripping her so fiercely she felt paralyzed with splintering pain. Still, she managed, "Takes more than legs to make a man, Your Grace."

"Agreed," he snarled, then released one hand from her hair and grabbed her wrist, thrust her palm up against the warm bulge of his crotch, held it there as she gasped and tried futilely to pull away. "It takes this to be a man, sweetheart, and I haven't got the use of that either. So tell me, Miss Ashton,
m'lady
companion who pleasures herself with virile young stable boys, what's left for a man who has neither the use of his legs or his cock?
Hm
?"

"He has his dignity," she whispered, her cheeks burning, her eyes continuing to overflow. "He has his spirit and soul; the immaterial essence which makes him worthy of heaven or hell."

"Is that so?" His face now only inches from hers, he wrapped his hand around her throat and slightly squeezed. "But what of us who have no souls, Miss Ashton?"

"There's goodness in you, sir
. 'Tis there if you will only acknowledge it.
I saw it in your eyes last night, shining brighter than any star in the universe."

"My, my.
Don't we wax poetic for a whore?"

"I am not a whore, sir."

His mouth curved cynically; his nostrils flared. He stroked the soft pulse in her neck with his thumb while he bored her with his slate eyes and wolf's regard.

At last, he released her. She slid away, relief draining the strength from her legs, forcing her to rest on her knees while her scalp throbbed and the imprint of his fingers on her neck felt like hot little punctures. Only then did anger rise up in her throat. Her sudden disappointment (had she really floated through the previous night contemplating that she had felt a spark of something other than obligation toward the ill-tempered aristocrat?) made her shake. Finally, she managed to climb to her feet and move toward the door without looking back
..

"Miss Ashton," he said behind her, and when she still did not stop he called more harshly, "Maria!"

She whirled, hands fisted at her sides, her hair at last spilling from its loose chignon arid across one shoulder, "I have not given you permission to call me that, Your
Grace. Nor do I intend to. I don't think I like you much, no, I'm certain of it. I've tried to keep an open mind these last weeks, to disregard the rumors and innuendos I've heard regarding your character, but, I'm sorry to say, I fear they are all true. No doubt you deserve the cruel fate that awaits you next.

"Oh yes," she added in higher voice that verged on cracking, "I forgot to inform you: The duchess has brought along a companion, a physician named
Edgcumbe
who firmly believes the only remedy for your situation is a home for howling maniacs and lost souls. I, of course, have attempted to convince them otherwise. However, I'm certain that after they see you, and the evidence of your foul temper, they'll make haste to carry out their plans and with any luck you shall be spirited away from all of us by nightfall, and I hope you
rot like a sewer rat in that despicable place because it's what you deserve!"

She ran from the room, straight into a half dozen servants who crowded together, necks craning, eyes wide as saucers as they apparently eavesdropped on her inexcusable tirade. They all gaped at her as if she were the grim reaper himself.

Gertrude wedged herself between two slack-jawed servants and stared, round-eyed, at Maria a full half minute before speaking. "What would
ya
have us do with him now, love?"

"I . . . don't care what you do with him."

A gasp and mutter went through the crowd.

"
Lud
," said Gertrude, wringing her hands. "I reckon that means His Grace will be
leavin
' us soon."

"Undoubtedly,"

"
Wot
a shame. And him
havin
" come so far since
ya
came. Why, he were only
sayin
' this morning afore breakfast that 'e 'as you to thank for it."

Maria frowned. "Gertrude, 'tis a sin to lie—"

"Oh,
I
wouldn't
lie
'bout
somethin
' like that, lass. He said, 'Miss Ashton whorled through my mental blackness like spring air and sunshine.'"

She frowned again. Her shoulders sagged.

"And he smiled when he said it," Gertrude added with a sniff.

A servant rounded a distant corner. Skirt hiked to her shins, she ran down the corridor with a flash of petticoats and a bounce of her big bosom. "Her Grace is on her way up!" she announced in an exaggerated whisper.