Devotion (41 page)

"You'll work with His Grace until his speech is impeccable.
Until he can eat and drink as effortlessly as he did before his injuries.
You'll continually remind him of his obligations to this family, and to the future Duchess of Salterdon. If you care for Trey as much as I suspect you do, you'll concern yourself with his happiness and well-being. You'll not wish for him to be publicly humiliated or maligned in any way. Above all else, you'll consider his
future,
and the future of this family above your own happiness.

"Of course, I wouldn't demand such an undertaking with no promise of reward on your behalf. Once my grandson is married, I'll see that you're allocated a goodly sum of money—enough to purchase a cottage of your own . . . and enough allowance each month for the next ten years that you may comfortably care for yourself . . . and your mother which, as I recall, was your objective upon accepting this position in the first place."

What have I done—what sin have I committed other than loving your grandson to bring this bleak burden upon me?
she
had yearned to scream at the duchess.

But that question in itself had brought a reply from her conscience:

The mistake, the sin, has been falling in love with a man who is, and will be, forever forbidden to you.

Terrible moment! To leave now would mean the end of her dream of helping her mother. To stay would mean she would be forced to see her beloved every day, to touch
him . . .
to make him ready to marry another woman.

Angrily, she drew her cloak about her and left the stable. She wandered the grounds, looking neither left nor right, barely noticing when a steady chill rain began to fall.

At last, she came upon a row of cottages far removed from the house and barns. Meager light emanated though the solitary window of each abode. Moving closer, shielding her eyes with one hand, she gazed through a window and noted a number of lads clustered about a table talking among themselves. At their hands were a scattering of objects she could not make out because of the rain.

Then Thaddeus moved to the window and appeared to search the dark outside the cottage.

Maria stepped behind a
tree,
wearily lay her head against it until she finally managed to rally her strength. With rain running down her cheeks, she returned to the manse.

Once, during a foray of good health and passably good spirit, her mother had taken Maria for a walk in the countryside. Just budding into womanhood and feeling not unlike an ugly duckling, Maria had spent the last days in a sort of mope: she had fallen hopelessly in love with a local landowner's son; he, of course, was infatuated with a young beauty of his peer who, as rumor had it, had spent a great deal of time on the Continent—who was proficient in foreign languages, played the harp, and sang like an angel.

With her mother holding Maria's hand, they paused in a field of wheat. For a brief moment, with the sun kissing her face and the breeze teasing her wisps of pale hair, Mary Ashton, the vicar's wife, had looked young and beautiful again. She had taken Maria's face between her hands and smiled.

"Daughter, it is a lesson worth learning by those young creatures who seek to lure by their accomplishments or dazzle by their genius, that though the man of
their devotion may admire them, no true gentleman ever loves a woman for these things. He loves her for her woman's nature and her woman's heart."

The memory of her mother on that summer day stayed with Maria that night after the duchess's announcement. It was the first thought in her mind when she roused the next morning and prepared herself to see Salterdon. It bolstered her courage as she paused outside his room, her hand on the door, her heart beating in her throat.

He would marry another woman.

Because of her, he would marry another woman.

She would nurse him, teach him,
encourage
him so he could marry another woman.

At last, she entered.

He sat at a desk, his back to her, his head and shoulders bent over a farrago of papers. Around him on the floor were papers: crumpled, torn, shredded. For an eternal minute Maria regarded the back of his head, his long waving hair that spilled softly over the collar of his dark blue suit coat. How many times had she touched that hair? Stroked it? Learned the heavy silken feel of it? Allowed those luxurious curls to twist around her fingers, to
lay
like shadows upon her pale skin?

He had no idea, of course.

"Your Grace," she finally called.

His head came up sharply, but he did not turn.

Maria moved across the room, noting the wheeled chair remained in its place beside the bed. Upon retrieving a book from a table, she turned it over and over in her hands before crossing to Salterdon, who had
gone back to his scribbling on paper. Again and again he thrust the
quiil
tip into an ink bottle then proceeded to draft bold, black musical notes onto a scale.

Finally, he looked up. The light from the window showed every fine line in his weary face, every minute gray thread sprinkling his dark hair. It seemed he had aged overnight. The wildness that had once reflected upon his demeanor showed now in a sullen despondency.

Yet, his eyes looked mad.

A fine film of moisture beaded his brow, and his mouth was savage. He glared, first at the book in her hand, then at her eyes.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he demanded in a rough voice.

"'Tis time for your lesson, Your Grace."

"Go to hell."

He jabbed at the inkwell, splashing ink onto the tips of his fingers. Turning on her again, he declared, "You needn't remind me of what my responsibilities are, Miss Ashton. I'm well aware of my responsibilities. My grandmother slyly and adeptly reminded me of them yesterday. God forbid that I attain the upper hand with the dowager duchess."

"Why are you angry?" she asked. "If it's true that you were fond—"

"Fond?" He laughed sharply. "Yes, I was fond of Laura. Who wouldn't be? She's exquisite.
And wealthy.
And so fragile I could crush her in my fist."

He made fists of his stained hands; his knuckles shone white.

"The one and only time she came to Thorn Rose after I was hurt, she looked at me and sank to her knees in a puddle of French satin and velvet. She wept on her father's knee to spare her from marriage to
a monster."
He removed the book from Maria's hand and flung it against the wall.
"For better or worse.
In sickness and in health, Miss Ashton.
Common vows for common people.
Not
the aristocracy."

Slumping back against the chair, he fell silent while Maria went to collect the book. She felt his gaze follow her; it burned like embers into her back.

Finally, he said, "Tell me why you didn't return to
Huddersfield
with John Rees."

She brushed away nonexistent dust from the book before responding. "I don't love him."

"You care for him. Isn't that enough?"

"No."

He laughed. His words were keen, even fierce in sarcasm. They revealed the grinding sense of his anger and frustration that gave a sudden wild look to his countenance.
"Ah, the plebeian ideals of happily ever after.
Tell me, Miss Ashton—Maria—what is your idea of love?"

"Sacrifice.
Compassion.
Understanding.
Devotion, uncompromised. Wealth is what you build together. Fortune is amassed by participated dreams. It is a spark . . . here." She lightly touched her breast. "It is the yearning you feel to see him, or her, succeed at their life's aspirations. The spark never flickers, but burns hotter through the years."

For an instant, he lowered his eyes. His brow softened. His lips parted. Slowly, his hand came up and closed gently around her arm. "Naive child," he said tenderly. "You believe in fairy tales."

She pulled away. Emotion flushed her cheeks. "Don't touch me. Please. Don't ever touch me again. I should never have allowed you to touch me before. I don't know what I was thinking. My only excuse is that in my enthusiasm over your vast recovery I allowed myself to become overly infatuated.
'Twas not my intention.
'Twas not my reasons for coming to Thorn Rose."

"No? What were your reasons for coming here, Miss Ashton?"

"Employment, sir.
A way to earn money so that I might save enough to purchase a cottage for myself and my mother.
I would save her from spending the remainder of her life shackled to a man she no longer loves . . . perhaps never loved. You needn't look so smug,
Your
Grace. Mistakes of the heart are made even in our class.
'Tis easy for any innocent young girl to be seduced by good looks and power."

"And now that you've had sufficient time to dwell on your parents' mistakes you've decided not to make the same error in judgment. Look at me,
dammit
."

"I would remember my reasons for coming here, Your Grace. I would remember that you're betrothed to another, that you have an obligation to your family and to your heritage. I would remember that there is nothing so important to you than rising to your father's expectations. A multitude of generations have come down to you, after all. A relationship between us would hardly
signify . . .
or benefit."

With a sudden, terrifying roar of rage, he jumped from the chair, sending it crashing against the little desk, scattering loose papers over the carpet. Maria stumbled backward, crying out as he made a desperate grab for her, only to be brought up by a sudden spasm of such intense pain he threw back his head and clutched at his legs. His visage went white.

With a gasp of despair, she flung herself onto him. They staggered. He tilted and turned and fell against the wall, dragging her with him. The impact shook the furnishings. Glass rattled in the window. But he did not fall. And while his lower body quivered in pain and weakness, he gripped her arms fiercely and lowered his head over hers.

"You needn't remind me of my obligations. They have been driven into my brain like nails since
I
was born. Right now I don't give a damn about my obligations. Only one thing has driven me out of mind these last hours and that's been you. You and your goddamn blue eyes and sultry mouth. I lay in bed at night and I try to imagine myself seducing you.
Of robbing you of your innocence, of stealing your virginity.
Î
was once very good at that—of driving women out of their minds with desire.
I
knew exactly what to do with their bodies to make them beg me to take them. Now . . ."