Devotion (44 page)

"My grandmother hasn't been
delicate
a day in her life. Sit down and shut up." He smiled at the duchess. "You have to admit you were fooled for a moment, Your Grace."

"Cruel boy.
What have I done to deserve this deplorable behavior?"

"Quite a bit, as I recall."

"Why are you here? When did you arrive?"

"Last evening.
As for
why . . . ?
We both know the answer to that. What affects Trey affects me. Have you ever known me to disregard that pull between us? I sensed he was in trouble—"

"He's resorted to murder."

Clayton glanced at
Edgcumbe
.
"Seems his aim could be better."

"I resent that,"
Edgcumbe
blustered.

"I resent your attempting to manipulate my grandmother. In fact, I resent your entire existence. I resent your association with the duchess, and—"

"Enough! Now get out of that chair and tell me what the blazes you think you're doing."

"About to save my brother from being humiliated."

"Meaning?"

"In your haste to get Trey married at last I fear you've forgotten a small
detail . . .
his dignity, which has already suffered much over the last year."

"Dignity," she huffed. "What about
my
dignity?"

"I don't give a damn about your dignity any longer, Grandmother."

Stiffly, she turned her back on him. Finally, she asked, "What will this guise accomplish?"

"Perhaps it'll buy us some time. Miss Ashton can continue in her attempts to draw him out again. In the meanwhile,
Dunsworthy
will be presented a future son-in-law who, if still unable to walk, is at least capable of coherent conversation, and who is not howling at the
moon . . .
as rumor in London has it."

Lord
Dunsworthy
was a statuesque man, a handsome man, some years younger than Maria's father—the typical Norman ruggedness of the ancient gentry of England stamped upon his fair complexion. His daughter, Lady Laura, was a tall, slender creature with skin the color of rich cream and eyes the color of emeralds. She floated into Thorn Rose on her father's arm, gaze downcast, kerchief gripped in her hand, or possibly it was
a vinaigrette
. From his place atop the stairs, situated behind a fall of velvet casings, Salterdon couldn't tell—but he suspected it was
a vinaigrette
. The girl chewed her lower lip and tried desperately not to noticeably sob.

"She's very beautiful,
Your
Grace," Maria said. "But then I suspected she would be. A man of your extreme good looks would hardly settle for less than perfection. I can see why you became so fond of her."

"I became fond of her money," he replied. "There are a great many beautiful women, Maria . . . but few with her father's fortune.
Besides . . .
the duchess approved. What the duchess
wants . . .
the duchess gets."

Maria continued watching the goings-on below, her small white hands resting lightly on the balustrade. He could read nothing on her face; her brow was smooth, her eyes clear of emotion. Her pink lips, as always, were turned up slightly in an unconscious smile.

"What are they doing now?" he asked.

"They are lost within an ocean of servants." She laughed lightly. "There is
Gertrude,
of course, directing them hither and yon, dashing about like a plump little bumblebee from flower to flower. There! She's speaking to
Dunsworthy
—"

"Doing her best to explain why the duchess won't be greeting them immediately
. '
Er
Grace is taken a bit peaked. She's '
avin
' a lie down and will see yer lordship and '
er
ladyship at tea. 'Is Grace will be
joinin
'
ya
then as well."

"Will you?" she asked without looking at him. "Be joining them?"

"His Grace will see them when he's good and damn ready. I'm not ready."

"You're being stubborn."

"Perhaps."

"You're simply delaying the inevitable, Your Grace."

"Good God, you're beginning to sound like her. Whose side are you on, Miss Ashton?"

Her eyes suddenly widened. "They're coming," she whispered.

Gritting his teeth, Trey turned on his heels, took a fortifying breath and moved stiffly down the corridor. Maria took hold of one arm and supported him with her slight weight.

"Quickly," she urged him, causing him to stumble slightly. "Í should never have allowed you to come this distance without your chair."

They hurried on, the sounds of chattering servants and conversing guests urging him to move faster. By the time they reached his room, his body was sweating; his legs were racked by pain. Still, he fell back against the wall as Maria slammed his door, and he began to laugh.

'"I don't see what's so funny," she decided, breathing hard. "You profess to want nothing to do with this arrangement until you're ready, yet you would run the risk of being found out by your grandmother. You're fully aware that should she discover your ability to walk you have no further excuse
to delay
your marriage to Lady Laura."

"Certainly I do. I'll just tell her that I've fallen in love with you and have every intention of running away and living the life of a farmer."

She turned on
him,
her blue eyes ablaze—a certain alteration of her previous unusual state of malaise.
"Despicable oaf.
How dare you tease about such a
thing.
"

"I didn't realize marriage to me was so offensive."

"And I didn't realize how truly cruel you could be."

She grabbed the door handle, attempting to flee.

He took hold of her arm, fiercely at first, then more gently. She would not look at him. Instead, she stood away, her hand frozen on the brass knob; she looked as if she might shatter, as if any word from him would bring tears to her eyes. Or perhaps they were already there, shimmering and swimming, threatening to spill like crystal beads down her cheek.

"Look at me," he said softly.

"Nay, I won't."

"You're upset. Tell me why."

Maria shook her head, pulled away and slowly, as if she were trying futilely to collect her pride, opened the door. Halfway out, she paused. Looking toward the hall, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other on the door's edge, she squared her shoulders and said matter of
factly
, "You never struck me as a stupid man, Your Grace."

Then she left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Laura
Dunsworthy
lay like some fallen swan upon her bed, her silk gown spilling over the mattress like silver water. A pale mouse of a woman hovered nearby, occasionally dipping
a fine
lace linen into a bowl of cool water and, after wringing it out, folded it neatly and placed it lightly upon Laura's forehead.

Maria waited patiently in a chair across the room, dreading the moment the young lady, barely older than herself, would rouse from her nap to acknowledge her . . . yet wishing to get her mission over with as soon as possible. She wasn't accustomed to subterfuge—that alone was bad enough. Sitting in the presence of Salterdon's future wife was agony. She would certainly find her deplorable.
Vain.
Selfish.

Maria wished desperately that she had some finer dress to wear—that she owned combs for her hair, and pearl earrings for her ears—that she
were
as beautiful as Laura. Maybe then she might win Salterdon's admiration and affection. But no . . . she had neither Laura's birthright nor her fortune.

At last, Laura stirred. Her companion hurried to her side, spoke to her softly, then gently, as if Laura were made of the most fragile china, helped her to sit up. She plumped the pillows at Laura's back, spread her skirts like a magnificent fan over the bed, then turned and nodded at Maria.

"
M'lady
will see you now."

Her knees shaking, Maria stood, self-consciously smoothed a loose tendril of hair back from her temple, ran her hand over the mended bodice of her dress—the memory of Salterdon's ripping it flashing before her mind's eye like a bolt of lightning—the memory of his kissing her and touching her burned like a brand on her cheeks. She moved across the room, her gaze riveted on Laura's face—her eyes were wide, green, and watchful. Maria wasn't certain she had ever seen skin so pale.

"My lady—" she began.

"Your hair is beautiful," Laura said, and smiled.

For a moment, Maria was taken aback.

"And so are your eyes."

"You're very kind,
m'lady
."

"Not at all.
Please, sit down, Maria. You look dreadfully nervous." She patted the bed beside her,
then
dismissed her companion with a nod. When the woman had left the room, Laura sighed. "It's nice to talk with a woman my own age. I've lived such a secluded life, you understand, since my mother died. What have you there?"

Maria
looked at the note in her hand. "From His Grace," she said.

"Oh." A look of trepidation crossed Lady Laura's face. She shrank into her pillows. "He's capable of writing, then? My father mentioned he was much improved, however, I had hoped . . ." Laura bit her lip and averted her eyes. "He speaks now as well? And knows his family?"

"He reads frequently, to himself and aloud."

"You've accomplished miracles, Maria."

"He's worked very hard,
m'lady
."

"And how does he look?"

Maria smiled, more to herself than to Laura.
"Distinguished and handsome."

Frowning, lowering her voice, Laura said, "And his behavior?"

She had marched into this room prepared to dislike the young woman, through no fault of Laura's, equally ready to go to any lengths to live up to her commitment to the duchess—but all the lies were there, burning in the back of her throat as bitter as bile. The truth could and would end any hopes of a marriage between Salterdon and Laura for
now . . .
it would also end any hope of bettering her mother's plight.
And what of her master?
With the duchess's last hope of a marriage between her grandson and a young woman of noble birth, would she not bend to
Edgcumbe's
notion to inter him at Royal Oaks?

Maria looked away, focused on a bust of Eros, and replied, "You can be certain that His Grace would never intentionally hurt you."