Devotion (21 page)

Where was she now?

Planning his midday meal, no doubt, with the intention of spoon-feeding him again.
Next time he would choke her with
both
hands. Perhaps that would get rid of her—send her flying out the door like the others, never to return.

Good riddance.

If that were not enough, he now had his goody-goody- brother to contend with. His grandmother's favorite.

The one Hawthorne who could repeatedly fall into a cesspit and come out smelling like a rose.
Let Clayton Hawthorne, Lord Basingstoke, walk into a drawing room and all of bloody England would fall to its knees.

So where the blazes
was
the girl?

No doubt she would turn out to be like his third companion—what was his name?—Dirk or Dick—a sniveling little upstart with one goal in mind, and that was to pocket the duchess's wages with the least amount of expended effort possible. He'd eaten. He'd napped. He'd pilfered the silver. He'd crawled into the duke's bed one night and proceeded to nuzzle. Trey had broken five of his fingers and three ribs before the pervert had managed to fling
himself
out of the window and flee the house in his nightclothes.

Oh, yes. He could so easily send—what was her name? God, why could he never remember? Miss . . .
Aynesworth
?
Afsley
?
. . .
Ashton!—the way of all the others.

A bustle beside him—she was back (at last); he refused to look at her, but continued to watch his stallion while she made a grand show of dragging chairs and setting tables with a straw bowl of yarn balls and pegs and cups and saucers.

Her face flush with energy and exercise, appearing as she always did when she at last managed to worm her way into his reluctant consciousness—butterfly-like, flitting hither and thither, looking as if she would soon fold her gossamer wings and transform into a new existence, she finally sat herself down in a chair beside him so her small shoulder was barely touching his.

My, but wasn't she becoming quite courageous?

"The idea has occurred to me, Your
Grace, that
much of your dispiritedness may stem from exasperation and frustration. You desire to accomplish certain tasks, but are unable to do so, due to, and I beg Your Grace's pardon for seeming indelicate and no doubt bruising to your manly pride, but
your lack of coordination brought about by your injury
," she finished in a tone so hushed he could scarcely hear her, then she plucked a blue ball out of the bowl and sat it down on the table. "If it pleases Your Grace, pick it up."

He slowly turned his head and stared at her eyes, which were wide and more brilliantly blue than the vast cerulean sky behind her.

She beamed him a smile; her teeth looked white as pearls, her cheeks like peaches.
"The ball, sir.
Pick it up, if you please."

What the blazes was she up to? And where in God's name did she find that medieval-looking cap that had slid somewhat lopsidedly to one side of her brow?

Patiently, she picked up the ball herself, lifted it up into the air in a great show,
then
put it down again. "Now you," she declared and smiled again.

He narrowed his eyes. She treated him like a goddamn idiot—just like all the others.

"Mayhap you need a bit of help.
Very well."
Again, she removed the ball from the table, and balancing it on her small white hand, presented it to him like a treasure.

"Take . . . the . . . ball . . . Your . . . Grace," she enunciated as if she were speaking to the deaf.

He glared at her, then at the ball. He smacked it from her hand so suddenly she jumped in her chair and cried, "Oh!" as it sailed off the veranda and plopped into a clump of marjoram.

Hot color suffused her face. Her blue eyes became dark as midnight, her breathing ragged. She looked like a bird on the verge of flight—an
agitated
bird on the verge of flight.

He made no further move, and, gradually, she relaxed, collected herself, and took a deep breath. "Allow me to explain," she said patiently. "Concentration is the key to success in any of life's endeavors. Focusing upon one's goals, no matter how tedious and tiresome, will, ultimately, accomplish the most grueling feat. Shall we try again? Mayhap you like the red ball better?"

Up came the red ball from the bowl, and balanced on her fingertips. "Your Grace may take the ball . . . please."

His Grace knocked it the way of the first, then he slammed his fist on the table, sending pegs scattering and china bouncing.

As the fairy girl leapt from her chair, he snatched her skirt; its crude stitches popped from the fitted bodice and sprang open exposing a flash of ivory skin and undergarment beneath her arm, and the swell of her breast.

Stumbling away, she cried, "Oh! Were I not a Christian woman, sir,
I . . . I . . .
no, I shan't even contemplate such an act or thought. Understanding and forgiveness will right the occasion. Patience is the ultimate virtue, and . . ." She gulped for air, blinked away her shock long enough to collect her nerves, then, with as much
virtuous patience
as she could muster, excused herself and exited the balcony with the gracefulness of a ballet dancer. No doubt she would stalk toward his brother, who stood just outside one of the stables, running his hand down
NapPoleone's
arched neck. Clay would return and mutter some threat in his ear—vow to tell their grandmother what an ass he had become—all that
muddlycock
that he had long since grown deaf to. What difference did it make? She wasn't going to leave her inheritance to an imbecile anyway.

Salterdon sank back in his chair, white-knuckled fists clenched atop the chair arms. Pegs and yarn and china lay scattered over the table beside him. Again and again, his gaze drifted there, and each time he experienced the rise of anger, the moistening of his brow with sweat that even the bracing morning breeze could not extinguish.

Again and again, he saw the flash of white skin beneath the Ashton girl's arm, the flush of anger and frustration over her face—a flush as deep and hot as passion itself.

Teeth clenched, he tried to open his hand—ah, God! The effort! Didn't she understand it was so much easier to strike? Fury was without restraint, without control. He raised his arm, which felt heavy as an anvil, which wavered uncontrollably; he reached toward the china cup
laying
on its side.
Concentrate you bloody idiot; an imbecile can pick up a goddamn cup; you don't need her to teach you how to drink a bloody cup of tea—you were sipping tea at George's court when
she
was nothing but some commoner's daughter scrubbing floors on her hands and knees.

He closed his fingers around the cup—or tried to. They wavered over the delicate white and gold china, knocking the cup to one side, then the other, never quite managing to grasp the gilded scrolled handle that sparkled in the sunlight as if taunting him.

Again, and yet again! Until his brow grew damp with sweat that ran into his eyes and made his vision blurry, until his body felt like a tightly wound coil that would unravel at any moment.

With a roar of frustration, he slammed his flattened hand upon the cup, shattered it, sending jagged pieces flying off the table, and burying into his palm.

Clay cupped his hand above his eyes and looked his way.

Miss Ashton appeared from nowhere—had she been watching his pitiful attempt to prove her and all the others wrong?
Damn her; damn her to hell.
Grabbing up his hand, which was severely cut and bleeding, she wrapped it with a lacy kerchief, never uttering a word or looking at him with those childish heavenly eyes, but going about her task with the efficiency of a nurse, her cheeks pale as
milkwash
, her lips tight with emotion.

When she had finished, she stepped back. Still clutching her bodice closed, she regarded him fixedly a long silent moment before slowly reaching for the last ball of yarn on the table. Her voice became a monotone, and with the tenderness of a tolerant and loving parent, she put the ball into his unharmed hand and closed his fingers around it.

"In my exuberance, I fear I've expected too much too soon. Of course the logical first step will be to bring coordination and dexterity to the hands and fingers. Squeeze and release the ball, Your Grace.
Nothing more.
Squeeze and release. Can you manage?"

He stared down at the yellow ball, at her fingers wrapped around his, gently inducing him to squeeze.

He squeezed.

"Very good."
Her breath smelled sweet and fresh, and felt warm on the side of his chilled face. When she backed away, he felt, suddenly, very odd—cold and desperately vulnerable—more vulnerable than he had allowed himself to feel in a very long time.

Squeeze, release.
Squeeze, release.
Yes, he could do that.
Squeeze, release.
A little harder, a bit more gently—not so rough—softly, softly, as if it were a woman's breast. Yes, yes. He could close his eyes and imagine . . . and remember—remember the way her breast swelled heavily beneath the worn simple lace of her chemise.

Raising his head, he looked around for his companion; she was gone.

The smell of sweet hay and grain swirled in the air around Maria as she, having dashed back to the house to change her dress and inform Gertrude that Basingstoke (and the Ladies Draymond) would be leaving for London within the hour, entered the stable at Basingstoke's side. His lordship carefully maneuvered his brother's wheeled chair along the bricked
aisleway
between the rows of clean stalls while Salterdon looked neither right nor left, refusing to speak.

The stable boys solemnly stopped their mucking and grooming and removed their caps as Salterdon approached.

"It's a right pleasure to have
ya
back," a lad with yellow hair offered meekly.

"Aye," another joined in. "The place ain't been the same without
ya
."

In that moment the far double doors were flung open. The rider and horse Maria had earlier watched trot so impressively in the arena filled the entry. Steam from

the
stallion's body made a vaporous cloud in the chill air. The bay's glossy hide shimmered with froth. Its massive neck arched and its polished hooves struck the bricks with a flash of sparks as it trotted, barely restrained by the rider, toward Salterdon and his brother.

Maria forgot to breathe, while around her horses stirred in their stalls, threw up their heads, and trumpeted a greeting to the advancing stallion.
Aye
, she thought,
they are exotic, heavenly creatures, with dished faces and liquid brown eyes that reflect an intelligence that seems almost human.

The rider astride Noblesse stopped the stallion mere feet before Salterdon, and he flashed the duke a smile that seemed far too cheeky for a mere groom. Sweeping the hat from his head, giving his shaggy sun-streaked blond hair a shake, he said:

"You've damn well taken your sweet time about joining us, Your Grace. I was beginning to wonder if you had lost all interest in your horses.
Ol
' Noble here asks about you every day. Don't you big guy," he added fondly and scratched the stallion's sweaty neck. With a lithe leap, he jumped to the ground and offered his hand to Salterdon.