Devotion (48 page)

"To get shut of them?"
He shrugged. "I have. So has my brother. In her own perverse way, she's fond of them. Hell, the old lady's mind is sharp as a blade; she's aware of their occasional pilfering. Thinks it's harm
less. Besides, who the devil else would put up with her? Who would coddle her?
Fawn over her?
Make her feel more important than she really is?" He laughed to himself and added, "I used to be very good at that as well, not so long ago."

He slid one hand into his breeches pocket and pulled out a folded paper, turned it over and over in his hand before offering it to Maria.

She opened it, revealing a splash of musical notes. Scrawled across the top was:
Maria's Song.

"My masterpiece," he said and began a slow waltzing move around her. "Every morning before dawn I've ridden out to a lea beyond the hills. I sat with my face in the wind, watching the sun inch up over the horizon splashing velvety streaks of light across the downs. I saw your face in the crimson and silver bursts. I smelled your body in the wafting of sweet crocus. I imagined making love to you amid the pale green and brown grass. And the music came as if on angels' wings."

"
Your
Grace—I beseech you—"

"To what?
Make love to you? Here?
Now?
Come to the music room and I'll give you
Maria's Song,
then I'll lay you on the piano and make you scream."

She turned to leave. He moved
,
blocked her escape with his body which had become as familiar to her as the air she breathed.

"I can't . . . not any longer. I loathe the lies. I despise myself when I sit at Lady Laura's side and pretend to be someone I'm not. I'm weary of the foolish fantasies that occupy my every waking and sleeping minute. But most of all, I abhor myself for this wretched helplessness I feel when you're near." She backed away. "I detest what you are and represent. The absurdity of your way of life appalls me. This preoccupation of marriage without love and only for the sake of materialism is repugnant. I am infuriated by your cowardice."

His eyes narrowed; his jaw tightened. The wolf was back, there in the burning light of his steely eyes.

"Aye," she nodded. "You're a coward, Your Grace.
Running from the inevitable.
You profess to want nothing to do with this marriage, yet you hide away, too frightened of your grandmother's threats to disinherit you to defy her."

The
crème de la crème
of aristocracy converged like some hungry army on Thorn Rose in their shiny black coaches pulled by high-prancing horses. The sprawling house teemed with laughter and chatter—and conjecture.

Was His Grace truly cured?

Was Dunsworthy daft enough to sacrifice his daughter to a lunatic?

And what about the rumor that the duchess's health was declining rapidly?

Salterdon stood in the shadows, watching the throng of men and women below. Once, they had been his friends. He had danced with them.
Seduced them.
Drank with them.
Gambled with them.
They, in turn, had turned their backs on him and called him a lunatic.
A beast.
A monster.

His nostrils still full of Maria, her taste still lingering on his lips, he focused on Laura Dunsworthy, who stood at her father's side, congenially greeting the curious guests and no doubt making excuses for his absence.

Once, he had thought her incredibly attractive—for a child. She still was, but there was no spirit there, no fire,
no
rebelliousness. She was like a conservatory flower, beautiful to look at, but easily snapped with the gentlest wind of controversy.

She was certainly intelligent. She could recite a plethora of facts and figures from highly respected books, enough to occupy an evening with idle chitchat . . . but what about her ability to make intelligent choices on her own, to reach intelligent conclusions or decisions about her own future—without relying on his directives? After all, she would undoubtedly outlive him by a number of years . . . how would she hold up under the responsibilities of a duchess?

Once, he had felt a sort of desire for her—the same sort of desire any man would experience over a woman's beautiful body in bed. But that desire suddenly seemed so inadequate; like a solitary ember amidst the forest fire he felt for Maria.

Maria: The antithesis of everything he had ever considered necessary in a woman he would care to . . . marry.

Yet, he did consider it. Lately, the thought had replaced the music in his head. The ache to own her had obliterated the nagging hurt in his body.

A door opened down the corridor. He stepped behind a drape and watched Molly exit a room—
Edgcumbe's
room—a pair of muddy boots tucked under her arm.

About that time, Thaddeus rounded the corner. He spoke briefly to Molly,
then
tapped on
Edgcumbe's
door before entering.

Salterdon moved down the hall.

As always, he experienced a twinge of nervousness before stepping into the duchess's room. As grand as the salons in the palace, the ostentatiously magnificent chamber glittered with gilt and crystal. Rich tapestries splashed brightly colored images of warriors riding blowing steeds on the paneled walls. There were portraits of his grandfathers, and his father. Several of himself and his brother were scattered among them— likenesses of their youth, before they had become such sardonic and cynical bastards.

At the far end of the apartment, was the duchess's bed. She lay on it like a corpse.

Quietly, he moved to the bed, his gaze never leaving his grandmother's body. The silence in the room reverberated like drums in his ears. His body began to sweat—as it always did when in her presence.

A movement caught his eyes. Startled, he looked up.

Having left her chair, Gertrude hurried to his side, her eyes wide with concern.

"
Lud
, sir, wot are
ya
doin
' up and about? The place is crawling with people,
ya
know. If someone saw
ya
now—"

"Is she dead?" he demanded in a hoarse voice.

"O' course not," Gertrude whispered. "She's only
sleepin
'."

"Jesus. When did she become so old?"

"She's eighty-five, Yer Grace. She's been right old for a long time."

He shook his head. "Not like this. Is this what I've done to her,
Gerti
?"

Gertrude chewed her lip. "She's been right worried, sir."

Running one hand through his mussed hair, Salterdon shook his head. "I came here to tell her I have no intention of going through with this marriage. I came here to tell her that I'm in love with Maria, and if she cannot accept that then she can go to hell. I fully intend to stand up to her for the first time in my life . . . but how can I when she looks like this?"

The duchess moved.

Gertrude grabbed his arm. "She's
wakin
', Yer Grace. If she finds
ya
here the jig is up
fer
sure. If she discovers yer up and
walkin
' there'll be no
turnin
' back. Remember, she thinks
ye've
hold up in yer room, legless and
threatenin
' to shoot yerself and
ever'body
else if they disturb
ya
."

"Not an altogether intolerable idea."

"But I ain't right sure she could stand the shock of
seein
'
ya
like this, and besides . . ." Gertrude lowered her voice even further. "Think about the sort of humiliation she'd experience if
ya
marched down them stairs right now,
lookin
' as
ya
do, and announce to them hundred or so folk that
ya
have no intention of
marryin
' the Lady Laura."

The duchess stirred again. Her eyelids fluttered. Her hands weakly clasped, causing the diamonds on her fingers to sparkle.

Salterdon
backed away, the old frustration and anger centering in his belly like a gnawing dog. With a muttered curse, he spun on his boot heels and quit the room, stalked back to his own chamber and slammed the door so hard the windows shook.

With her bare feet tucked beneath her skirt, Maria laid her head against the back of the chair and listened to the last strands of
Maria's Song
float through the midnight air. Each note resounded in a series of heartrending echoes. They vibrated the stillness. They made her cry.

Thank God for the inadequate illumination from the solitary candle on the pianoforte. Thank God that the curious guests had long since found their way to their rooms and beds. If she could only hold back her emotions until she had kissed Salterdon good night one last time, but that was impossible. As she watched her master wring each melodious tone from the piano, watched the tumult of feelings wash like pure light over his features, she knew to the core of her being that he had made his decision.

He would marry Laura Dunsworthy.

He would do so out of duty.
Out of respect for his heritage.
Out of love and concern for his grandmother.

Oh, God.

Leaving the chair, she moved to the open French doors, catching her breath as the cold wind tumbled in. The room fell silent. Turning, she watched Salterdon continue to stare down at his hands that yet lay spread and in position on the white and black keys. Slowly, he raised his head, and his eyes met hers.

Then Basingstoke appeared at the door, his form a black silhouette with broad shoulders and an angry stance. "There you are," he declared to his brother; then, noticing Maria, he stayed his step briefly, hesitantly, until she allowed him a smile.

"You're just in time,
m'lord
. His Grace was just about to inform me of his decision regarding Lady Dunsworthy."

"You don't say," he replied sharply, his attention again focused on Salterdon. "Wonderful. I would say it's about time, wouldn't you, Trey? Especially in light of the fact that I've just spent the last hours coaxing Grandmother back from death's door, and do you know why, Your Grace? Because she vows she awoke from a nap to find you standing at her bedside. Standing is the key phrase here.
Moving at will around her room.
I managed at last to pacify her by convincing her it was only a dream."

"Why did you bother?" Salterdon said, and gently closed the cover over the keys.

"I've asked myself that repeatedly the last hours. I cannot guess why I continue to protect you. My only excuse is I care more for her state of mind and health than I do for your own twisted reputation. The humiliation she would experience over being found out passing off one grandson for the other—to her peers, I might stress—would prove to be a wee bit more than she can endure right now. Not to mention the wallop she would get upon discovering you're not an invalid after all—much less a
lunatic . . .
or perhaps I'm wrong on that count."

Turning away, Maria stepped from the room, out on the balcony where the wind howled over the cement balustrade and cut like little knives into her exposed flesh. Occasionally, she heard their angry voices— spurts of heated accusations and confessions.