Devotion (34 page)

He closed his tormented eyes briefly. His breathing became labored.

"It should have been me, Miss Ashton. Had he not taken my place that night he would be alive now, relishing his role as duke, living up to his ancestors' reputations and
expectations.
He was so damn good at it, too.
Always reasonable.
Always rational.
The most intelligent man I've ever known. In the blink of an eye, barely ten years old, I became the Duke of Salterdon. How the hell was I to live up to my father's reputation as a gentleman, as head of this family, as a hero who would sacrifice his life for his family . . . when all I wanted—all I had ever wanted—was the freedom to enjoy my childhood."

Silence ensued again. Only then did they realize they were alone. When had
Edgcumbe
departed, and Molly? While the coals continued to radiate heat and blink hot red eyes in the dwindling light of the room, the steamy vapor dispersed little by little, leaving in its wake a brittle coldness that settled into every fold of her clothes, to permeate her skin and grip her bones.

When had she last managed to breathe?

When had she sat on the edge of the bed, her body pressing almost indecently against his?

When had she reached for his hand, closing her own around it, offering the same comfort he had offered her that afternoon?

When had she become lost in those dark eyes, sucked like a vacuum into his tortured memories so her own heart pounded and her breath seemed to catch in her throat so long her lungs burned?

When had he ceased being simply her patient?

When had he become a flesh and blood man— overwhelming her judgment, vibrating her senses so acutely she could feel the heat of his naked flesh through her
dress.
It burned like a brand into her hip. His body was youthful yet, despite his thirty-five years, and she imagined that even in his youthful prime—a male at his peak of manhood—he would have looked no differently. The difference was in his eyes, lurking there, barely concealing a weariness and pain and anger that stabbed her fiercely in her heart—as did the sudden realization that the emotions she was experiencing at the moment had little to do with pity, or even the simple fondness and responsibility a companion might feel for her master.

Discomfiture assailed her. She tried to release his hand: he wouldn't allow it. His hot moist fingers, slick upon her flesh, held her in place though she tried with as much dignity as possible to escape.

"Let me go." She struggled again.
Let me go,
she pleaded in her mind, though her body—her traitorous body—seemed, on its own to draw to him, a weakened supplicant for his nearness.

He slid her hand over his belly, her palm skimming the last of the oil that made a tiny pool in his navel and glistened on the sprinkling of dark hair disappearing beneath the towel.

"Perhaps
I
should call Gertrude," she said faintly, her eyes following their locked hands over his well-defined chest, slowly circling his nipples that looked hard and the color of copper coins, then down again, over his ribs, to his belly, round and round, then lower, until the tips of her fingers brushed the towel, and slightly beneath.

"I don't want Gertrude," he replied.

"She's just as capable—"

"But not nearly so pretty."

Her body flushed as she glanced at his face—his eyes—his mouth that had mocked her, taunted her, cursed her. He looked on the point of saying something else that would further unnerve her. The air between them crackled almost tangibly, and she knew in that moment that she could not remain another second—not feeling as she did, swirling with all those confusing emotions: fear, nervousness, sympathy . . . and unaccustomed desire. Then—

His free hand came up and curled around the back of her head, twisted fiercely in her hair and dragged her down so the tips of her breasts grazed his chest; her face just above his, his lips near hers; her mind cried to her to struggle, but she did not. She should have reminded him that even though he was a duke and she was nothing more than a hired domestic he had no right to treat her as if she were some
dollymop
like Molly. Neither was she one of those females who were flattered by his indiscriminate attentions. But she didn't.

She tried to wet her lips, but her tongue, like the inside of her mouth, was dry as dust.

What is he doing?

Why?

Didn't he realize what she had come to feel for him?
Of course not.
How could he? She had only realized it herself that very moment—

He dragged her face to his, and kissed her.
Roughly.
Urgently.
Thrusting his tongue inside her mouth and swirling it round and round her own, robbing her of breath, of strength, while his other hand slid hers deep beneath the towel to that foreign and forbidden part of him—just a brush, a touch—

Gasping, tearing herself away, she stumbled back, away from the bed, and fled toward the door.

"Am I that monstrous, Miss Ashton?" he called in a loud angry and bitter voice that stopped her in her tracks. He laughed harshly. "You needn't worry, you know. I'm incapable of forcing my attentions on you. The bastard who bashed in my skull left me a eunuch, Miss Ashton. The rakehell of London society, seducer of virgins, and consummate wrecker of marriages has finally got his comeuppance."

She ran for her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Nights such as this, cold, blustery, black as pitch and achingly damp, he might have spent in the company of his cohorts: gentlemen such as he, with more money and idle time on their hands than intelligence. Slouched before a fire in some club or tavern back room, they would gamble away the monies in their purses; they would embalm themselves with ale or inferiorly distilled beverages; they would coerce bawdy serving wenches to a cot up the stairs where they would spend the next few hours pretending they actually meant something to one another.

Instead, here he lay, exactly where Miss Maria Ashton had left him hours before, naked but for the sheet wrapped around his hips, inebriated (thanks to his grandmother), shivering with cold.

Where the hell was she?

Just who the devil did she think she was, fleeing his company as she had those hours ago? Miss Maria Ashton. No more than a grossly overpaid domestic who
owned two plain and threadbare garments to her name . . .
who
did not even have the grace to be embarrassed about it.

Why the blazes should he
care
what she thought of him? Furthermore, what the blazes had come over him that he would have remotely entertained the thought of seducing her?

As if he could have done anything about it.

He drank again.

No doubt about it, his grandmother had incredibly good taste when it came to choosing liquor. Like her clothes, her homes, her jewelry, and her friends, it was the best her money could buy.

Turning the crystal glass in his hand, he stared into the amber liquid, watched how the light from the distant fire played amid the exquisite cut prisms of glass, then he quaffed the port and flung the glass to the floor.

He reached for the tester drape, twisted his fingers into it, and with teeth clenched, pulled himself upright. In the dim light his legs, motionless, as always, were wrapped like a mummy in the binding sheets.

He ripped the bedcovers away and flung them aside.

His body burned both hot and cold. It
sweat
and shivered. The room whirled around him, and he wondered if the cause was due to his grandmother's outrageously expensive port or this unaccustomed exertion. When had he last attempted to walk? Not since the night of the attack, when robbers had swooped down on him and the half-dozen young swains who had accompanied him to Epson Races, all as pompous and full of themselves as he, their purses bulging with their day's good fortune, their bodies glutted by spirits, their minds on the shapely slatterns who awaited them in London's notorious East End. For an hour he had lain in the mud, facedown, watching the steam rise from the seeping blood that formed a warm black puddle beneath his cheek. He had almost died, had experienced an odd moment when it seemed that he had actually left his body, hovered over the scattering of groaning young men and saw himself, the Duke of Salterdon, white- faced and covered in blood. It seemed a millennium had flashed before him in sequences of blinding light: his past, his present, his future: a child with his nose pressed against the windowpane, watching his brother play in the sunshine while he, himself, vaguely listened to the
dronings
of a stiff-lipped tutor who waxed on and on about the immense responsibilities of filling his father's shoes.

"Bastards," he said aloud, and as if in response, some minute crackling sound came from the dying fire, a shard of kindling collapsing, perhaps, or sap hissing amid the glowing embers.

His bedroom door opened. Light from the hallway spilled over his floor briefly,
then
a feminine figure moved into it, nothing more than a black silhouette as it paused, obviously taken aback to find him perched on the edge of his bed, naked but for the sheet twisted around his hip, sweating from exertion, breathing heavily.

"Maria?" he called out, his hands clenching as he acknowledged the escalation of his heartbeat, the relief that she had not, after all, packed up her pitiful belongings and hightailed it away from Thorn Rose— away from him and his idiotic and fruitless
tauntings
.

"Well now," came Molly's unexpected, curiously seductive greeting. "Wot have we here? I reckon
ol
'
Edgcumbe
was right, eh? Give a man a bit of tender loving care and he suddenly
find
himself
amazin'ly
recovered." With a swing of her hip, Molly closed the door behind her then moved toward him, balancing a tray of pastries in her hands. Slipping into the light beside the bed, she smiled down at him and winked. "I was thinkin' you might be feeling a mite lonely, trapped up here all by yerself. Thought you might enjoy a tart or
two . . .
or three." She giggled and put the tray down on the bedside table.

"Where is Miss Ashton?" he demanded.

"Miss Ashton, is it
? '
At's
right formal when just a minute ago you was
callin
' '
er
Maria."

"Where is she?" he repeated.

"Does it matter? There ain't aught she can do for
ya
that I can't."

He looked at her breasts, which, for a change, appeared extraordinarily full. She wore no chemise. Her nipples were hazy dark coins behind the translucent material of her blouse. What the blazes was she doing?

She broke off a piece of tart, slid her fingers into the warm cherry filling and scooped out a portion of fruit that was plump and as richly colored as a full-bodied wine. Syrup dripped down one side of her finger.

"What the devil are you doing?" he finally asked, his gaze locked on her fingers. "That was a perfectly good tart."

She offered the cherry up to his lips, allowing the sticky juice to dribble in a stream onto his naked thighs. Her lips parted in a half smile. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze to her offering.

Good God. She was seducing
him . . .
or attempting to. The flush of embarrassment rushed to his face, his neck,
his
shoulders, even as he opened his mouth and allowed her to slide the cherry and the tips of her fingers between his lips. The syrup was warm and slick and sweet, the fruit plump and firm. He sank his teeth into it, gently. His eyes drifted closed, even as his mind tumbled backward, to other women—lovers—whom he had caressed with his lips and tongue, savoring the rich taste and smell of them, cupping his tongue inside them and allowing the nectar of their desire to drive him mad with the need to bury his body into theirs with an urgency that made them scream with pleasure and gratitude.