Devotion (24 page)

"You mucky minded, ill-humored sod," she blurted, and turned to leave.

He caught her wrist, and with a yank, toppled her across his lap, facedown, her head near the floor and her derriere in the air. "Oh!" she cried, then he grabbed and squeezed her buttock through her dress, and she screamed, squirmed, then screamed again as he slid one hand beneath her and planted his fingers around one breast.

Flailing and kicking, she spilled to the floor. Salterdon laughed.

Throwing back her head, scrambling to her hands and knees, she glared at him through her tumbling hair, her eyes filled with hot tears.
"You crude, despicable beast of a man!"
Her voice cracked and trembled. The tears spilled down her cheeks in torrents. "And to think I had almost come to like you; to believe you were simply misunderstood and a rather likable fellow."

Little by little, the smirk on Salterdon's face faded.

"They all warned me you were an animal," she said through her teeth. "But I didn't believe them, not totally. I didn't believe any one man could be so completely decadent and lacking in moral fiber." She choked, covered her mouth with one hand, and did her best to swallow back her rising outrage. Body shaking, she tried vainly to climb gracefully to her feet, keeping a good distance from Salterdon, whose features had become as expressionless as a statue's as he continued to stare at her eyes.

At last standing, leaning momentarily against the windowsill until she was certain her legs were sound enough to hold her, she did her best to breathe evenly, to count away her anger, to recite a proverb under her breath: "Your own soul is nourished when you are kind; it is destroyed when you are cruel," which did not seem to fortify her much, if any, when she thought again of his hand squeezing her breast.

Grabbing the basket, which had spilled to the floor, and clutching it in her arms, she ran from the room, collapsed against the corridor wall and closed her eyes.

Dear God, how much more of this could she tolerate?

As a child, such an angry outburst would have brought a thorough washing out of her mouth with soap. The consequences of this, no doubt, would result in her termination—as if she cared. If she never set eyes on the malfeasant again it would be too soon. How dare he toss her about like some
gunnysack.
And how dare he fondle her so brazenly? The very idea of it made her . . . tremble and shake. Even now the imprint of his fingers on her breast felt like tiny hot brands searing her flesh . . . making her think of Molly and Thaddeus again . . . Molly's features contorted in some blissful but mysterious agony . . .

Closing her eyes, she swallowed and clutched the yarn basket to her bosom. Her knees suddenly felt liquid. Her breast began to throb.

She moved again to the door.

Salterdon continued to gaze out the window, his back to her, the cooling breeze riffling his long dark hair occasionally. He looked in the evening light like a boy, and suddenly she was chilled by the awful words she had flung at him, the hateful acerbities that no decent woman or man in their right mind would or should cast at another human being.

With an inward cry of self-disgust, she returned to her room, flung the basket of balls to the floor and grabbed
an
ewer of water, splashed a goodly amount into the washbasin and took a handful of soap.

She proceeded to wash her tongue with it: her teeth, her lips, scrubbing them wickedly (as her father had so often done) until her self-contempt drained from her, leaving her to lean upon the bedpost limply, to feel abashed, both at her behavior toward her master and toward herself.

"What have I done?" she said aloud, and, as if in response to her question, a considerable wind roused and billowed the curtains over her open window, causing pale daylight to tiptoe over the ferocious image of St. Peter on the ceiling. He appeared to shake his finger at her, and she thought,
Aye, I'll apologize.

She eased to his doorway. Still, he sat, brooding and remote. Drawing back her shoulders she moved to his side and gazed out on the dimming garden. Her master neither moved nor spoke, and occasionally she glanced at him askance, hoping he would, eventually, offer her some avenue of approach. His brow looked stern, his mouth set grimly. Obviously, he had no intentions of making this easy for her.

Then, suddenly, the idea came to her . . .

Grabbing the back of his chair with no warning, she spun Salterdon around and pushed him toward the door, out of the room, down the corridor, first one way, then another, eyes searching frantically for familiar objects, until . . .

At last, they came to the music room.

In the daylight the music room gave her pause. Skylights and sprawling windows spilled failing sunlight over the portraits and still
lifes
hung from gilded mountings between burgundy damask wall coverings. Settees and benches, as well as gilded chairs placed comfortably apart to accommodate the ladies' billowing gowns, were clustered near the center of the room, so that those in attendance could not only enjoy the music of the pianoforte, but also have unhampered viewing of the breathtaking masterpieces.

Looking down at Salterdon, she noted his shoulders had become very rigid. His hands gripped the chair arms in a stranglehold.

"Occasionally, Your Grace, a change of scenery will
accommodate a mood, as will a change of routine. Mayhap exercising with yarn
balls has
grown too tedious for a man of your temperament and intellect."

He made a move—an attempt to turn the chair away—to escape the room . . . and her.

"I think not," she said. "Lord Basingstoke told me this was once one of your favorite rooms. He said that as
a
iad
he would hide here and listen to you play."

His head turned, albeit slightly.

"Didn't you
know.
Your
Grace? It seems that Lord Basingstoke greatly envied you and your talent. He said that you might well have been one of the finest virtuosos of your time."

He made an angry sound in his throat and tried again to wrench control of the chair from her.

"He also mentioned that your father considered music was for women and parlors. Said no son of his would spend time partaking in such feminine frivolities. That it wasn't manly and becoming of the future Duke of Salterdon. Men were supposed to be financiers, rascals,
hunters
. I'm told that after your parents died, you would spend hour after hour playing the pianoforte, sometimes with tears running down your young face.

"How very sad," Maria mused softly, her gaze still locked on the back of Salterdon's head, "that one with your incredible talent should bury it. There is too little music in the world, I think. Such a gift could only bring joy to those in need of comforting—"

"No . . . more!" he suddenly exploded, and crashed his fists down on the chair arms.

She jumped, then forcing her suddenly trembling
hands around the push bars of the
chair,
she wheeled him toward the pianoforte.

"No." He growled it.

"There really isn't any need to deprive
yourself
—"

"Get . . . me . . . out!"

She positioned him at the instrument and backed away.

Salterdon stared down at the keyboard, his fingers gripping the chair arms fiercely, his jaw working,
then
he raised one fist, and brought it down with a crash.

The discordant clash reverberated through the room. Again and again, he pounded, until, unable to stand the tremendous noise any longer, Maria captured his fists with her hands and gripped them to her breasts, feeling them shake almost uncontrollably.

"Stop it," she implored him. "You'll hurt yourself again. Nay, I will not release you until you promise to calm down."

"No!" he shouted with a fury that terrified her, then with a shove he sent her backward, crashing into the piano with an unharmonious
twang
of notes. "Let . . . me . . . the hell . . . alone," he hissed through his teeth.

"I'd like nothing better, Your Grace. However—" She made another grab for his hands. "I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed you to continue this abhorrent, self-destructive behavior—quit fighting me; I'll tie you again with ropes if I must—"

"Bitch!"

"The duchess is depending on me—"

"Slut!"

He shoved again, flinging her backward and sending the chair rolling from beneath him and him flying forward, toppling onto Maria, as she sprawled with a squeal over the pianoforte.

Keys digging into her buttocks, the fallboard gouging into her spine . . . His Grace's weight crushing the breath from her, she glared up into his face, only inches from hers, and tried to swallow. Her heart beat erratically. Her breathing quickened. She thought of his hand on her breast moments before, and the image of two bodies entwined before the kitchen fire roused before her mind's eye—a woman's breasts exposed and a man's lips and tongue gently, hungrily, caressing them. Only, it wasn't Molly and Thaddeus, but Salterdon and—

She gasped and cried, "I am
not
a slut!"

The terrible anger that had burned in Salterdon's eyes only seconds before, gradually extinguished, becoming something smoky and smoldering. He stared at her mouth with a heavy
liddedness
that seemed almost drowsy, that made her feel odd, as if her nerve endings were exposed.

"You're the most infuriating man I've ever known," she said against his mouth, then added as his weight began to slide, "I should let you fall, right here. I should leave you lying right here—'
twould
serve you right."

He flashed
her a
smile that was as disarming and staggering as his invidious behavior, then he grabbed the piano with both hands to better leverage himself. The muscles of his shoulders and arms became rock solid; the cords on his neck momentarily stood out.

With as much effort as she could muster, Maria wrapped her arms around his waist, stretched for the floor with her feet, and pushed herself and Salterdon off the piano.

For a moment, they tottered, his arms clutching her small shoulders, hers wrapped securely around his waist. Balance shifted, from her, to him, to her again— back to him. She swung him around and allowed him to drop into the chair.

"Perhaps after this—" She struggled for a breath. "Your Grace will reconsider before allowing your temper to get the better of you."

Drenched with perspiration, he wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve and blotted his cheeks.

"Mayhap I'll try harder to control my temper as well," she added more softly, and managed a smile. "I understand Your Grace enjoys playing the pianoforte. Would you care to try?"

He shook his head and his countenance became belligerent again.

Maria dragged the piano bench from beneath the ebony instrument and positioned it by his chair before the keys. She sat,
then
reached for his hands, which were fisted in his lap. Opening his fingers, she placed them on the keys.

A strained moment passed.

He shook his head angrily and jerked back his hands. "Have you forgotten how to play?" she asked nonchalantly, and replaced his hands on the keys. "Or are you simply denying yourself because of your father?"

He grabbed her forearms before she could move away and squeezed so fiercely she thought her bones might shatter. Pain shot up her arms and robbed her of breath.