Devotion (32 page)

"That hasn't lowered Clayton in your esteem, as I recall."

"While that may be acceptable for Clayton, my second-born grandson, it is not acceptable for you. Dukes do not toil with tenants."

"Nor do they play the pianoforte," he said to himself, and took another drink.

Finally, the duchess sat down, back straight, chin set. His gaze locked on his diminishing port. Trey asked.

"Why have you come here? And why did you bring
Edgcumbe
?"

"Why do you think?"

Again, he glanced toward the door, watched it hard, as if he could will it open. Was she there still—Miss Ashton—waiting for some sign from him before she came charging in, casting orders like a soldier. Of course not; he had sent her away, had he not? Virtually ordered her to get the devil out of his life, and for what?

Simply because, in her innocence and enthusiasm, she had believed that she had saved him from an existence worse than death.

He almost laughed. Instead, he drank again.

Where was she?

Not that he needed
her . . .
he could hold his own against his grandmother, always had, only now . . .

Jesus, he felt tired suddenly. His head was beginning to ache, his mind to blur. He was having trouble thinking coherently—could not seem to come up with just the right words that would appease the duchess.

The port went down more smoothly this time. He barely noticed it burning his throat, was only vaguely aware that a servant appeared from nowhere to replenish his glass.

"Why do you think?" he repeated his grandmother's words aloud. "Why do you think? Let me think . . . because . . . you had every intention of putting me away. Of burying me in some chamber as if I were little more than some distasteful secret best hidden."

"Yes."

"Ah." Port sloshed on his knee. He watched the splotch creep like a shadow over his fawn-colored breeches. "Well, this may come as a surprise to you, Grandmother, but the secret has long since been out. In case you were unaware, my peers ceased dropping in long ago.
Couldn't seem to understand my inability to cope with my new role in life.
Not that I believed for a moment their interest in my welfare had anything at all to do with concern. Fallen aristocrats, especially dukes, make for incredible conversation at dinners and soirees."

Turning the glass round and round in his hand, he said through his teeth, "Shocking what you hear when people think you're an imbecile. As for you, Your Grace, you were always shockingly honest, but never mind. I forgive
you . . .
as always. I really haven't any other choice, have I?"

"Not as long as you wish to inherit my fortune."

"Ah," he repeated, and flashed
her a
smile.

"I'm not getting any younger, Trey. For the last fifteen years I've waited patiently for you to settle down, grow up, marry, and produce me some heirs.
Now this.
I can hardly bequeath my assets to a vegetable."

"And with me tucked away nicely in a hospital you can get down to the business of passing on your assets to my more deserving brother Clayton."

"Who doesn't want it or need it," she supplied somewhat wearily. "But all that is beside the point now. You're better, thank God—"

"Thank Miss Ashton," he intruded, and raised his glass a bit shakily toward the door.

The duchess raised one eyebrow and sank back in her chair.

Over the past weeks, Maria had not given much thought to the opulence of her surroundings, particularly her bedchamber, mostly because nearly every waking minute of the day had been spent with Salterdon . . . as had been her evenings. By the time she had fallen into bed, she had been too exhausted to appreciate the extreme beauty of the white paneling, rosy pink curtains, and pale
Aubusson
carpets—all reflections of the Louis XV period—all, certainly, fit to accommodate a princess.

Now, as she folded her last mended stocking and tucked it, along with a patched petticoat into her little valise, she regarded the cheery interior with a sense of disconsolateness.

She was leaving. Obviously the duchess would not have a companion for her grandson who maligned him to his face. He was the Duke of Salterdon, for heaven's sake, and she had likened him to a sewer rat. There was no one but herself to blame, of course. It was because of her rebelliousness that she had applied for this position in the first place. It was due to her frustration that she had resigned, and, last but not least, thanks to her burst of temper she had spoiled any chance of changing her mind about leaving.

She sat in a little straight-back chair with bowed arms before the fire, held her hands up to the heat, and waited.

The door opened. Gertrude filled the threshold. "Her Grace will be
seein
'
ya
now."

"Very well," she said stalwartly. With a lift of her chin, she swept up her threadbare cloak and declared, "I'm ready."

She walked down the long galleries, glancing right and left, mentally saying good-bye to the paintings on the walls and the statuaries cluttering the tabletops while she hurried to keep up with Gertrude, who walked ahead. However, instead of Gertrude escorting her to a salon, or even to the duchess's own private wing of the rambling house, she was led straight out the front door, onto the vast marble steps that declined to the sweep of curving drive. An open carriage was parked there, its two occupants swaddled in mufflers and fur-collared cloaks, their hats pulled low and tight over their brows as a soft, fresh snowfall danced silently around them. A moment passed before Maria realized they were the duchess and her grandson.

"Come along," called Her Grace. "
Quickly !
While I can tolerate the cold while moving, sitting dead as an iceberg tends to make my joints throb."

Good Lord. They were so eager to be rid of her they were whisking her away from Thorn Rose without so much as a meeting to dismiss her formally! But that was not what concerned her in that moment.

Swiftly as possible, considering the increasingly icy condition of the steps, she slid her way to the conveyance, her gaze locked on Salterdon, who sat in the plush leather seat opposite his grandmother, eyes downcast, his cheeks gray from cold, his lips tinged with blue.

Without boarding or taking her gaze from His Grace, she said, "Do you think it wise to bring him out on such a day, Your Grace? The cold is bitter, and—"

"
Edgcumbe
suggested it," the duchess snapped. "Felt the fresh air and briskness of temperature would help rouse the mind and fortify his resistance to illness. Now get in before we all freeze to death."

Maria scrambled aboard, sank into the seat beside Salterdon and dropped her valise to the floor. She reached for the duke's lap blanket and tucked it more securely under his knees. "You're trembling," she said to him softly, and wrapped her chilling fingers around his kid-gloved hands.

The carriage, pulled by four high-prancing white Arabian geldings, lurched under way, the driver whistling and popping a whip in the air.

"You shouldn't coddle him so," said the duchess. "He's not a child, Miss Ashton."

"Neither is he well enough to withstand this cold.
Your
Grace. He needs time to build his strength."

Nestled in layers of mink and fox fur, regarding Maria with eyes as gray as the countryside, the duchess sniffed and raised one eyebrow. "He's the Duke of Salterdon, young lady. He comes from hardy, irascible stock. For over eighty years I have not gone one day without a ride in the countryside, come rain or snow, nor did his grandfather, my husband, when he was alive."

"He died of pneumonia," Salterdon murmured without so much as a flick of an eyelash, catching Maria and the duchess by surprise. "And I would appreciate it if the two of you would stop talking about me as if I weren't here. I may be a trifle . . . slow in getting the words out, but I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself, thank you."

Flashing a glance at Maria, he lifted one heavy dark brow as if in challenge, or humor, she could not tell. She really could not think of anything at that moment but the stab of disquietude she experienced hearing the soft rumble of his voice and suddenly realizing that for the last long weeks she had prayed every night and morning to hear him utter a distinguishable sound and now that she had she was about to leave and never hear him again.

She sank back into the seat and pulled her cloak snugly around her. Her ears burned from the cold, as did her fingers. Her nose began to run and her eyes to blur. The toes on her right foot, thanks to the worn thin tip of her shoe, were swiftly going numb. That all seemed secondary to the sense of maudlin emotionalism that suddenly overwhelmed her, made her shiver and squeeze close her eyes.

Salterdon tugged loose one edge of his lap blanket and flung it over her knees,
then
he caught hold of her arm and tugged it. "Closer," he told her.
"Before you freeze to death."

"No." She shook her head and refused to budge. "I'm fine."

"You're also stubborn, a fault which, in retrospect, is good for me but not so good for you. Very well, I'll go at
this another
way: I'm freezing, Miss Ashton. Won't you share my blanket with me . . . because
your
body
heat will help keep
me
warm and therefore
I
won't die of
pneumonia.
"

"Well," she said, and chewed her lower lip. "If you put it that way . . ." Reluctantly, Maria slid herself closer to Salterdon, sat stiff as a poker as he tucked the blanket around her legs, hips, and waist, making certain her hands were buried beneath it.

"Better?" he asked with a thin smile.

She nodded.

The snow fell faster, thicker, danced in swirls and eddies along the meandering roadway.

He glanced askance at Maria. Her nose, chin, and cheeks were bright red, her eyes vibrantly blue and watering slightly.
And her mouth . . .

He looked away and frowned.

"So tell me, Miss Ashton," said the duchess, "What have you there in your bag?"

"My belongings, of course."

Salterdon exchanged glances with his grandmother.

They rode in silence for a while, watching the snow cover the undulating downs in a blanket of white. When they came to the crossroads, one leading to Haworth, the other deeper into the downs where a scattering of tenant houses cast yellow light through tiny square windows, the driver directed the horses down the winding lane away from Haworth.

Maria sat forward, gazed hard down the road to Haworth,
then
looked at Salterdon. Her long dark lashes were glistening with snowflakes. The icy crystals glinted like jewels upon her silver hair. Trey said nothing, just winked and closed one hand over hers
beneath the blanket and gave it a squeeze of reassurance. Her eyes widened; lips parted. Her small hand opened and clasped his, clung, trembled as her smile turned the cold air warm and the overcast sky blindingly bright.

The realization occurred to him in that instant that he had never squeezed a woman's hand in reassurance before. It also occurred to him, as the driver whistled and drove their carriage down into a tiny village where the staring white houses lining the banks of a freezing lake looked like rows of teeth in the gloomy daylight, that he continued to hold her hand . . . and she continued to hold his.