Devotion (9 page)

"The duchess has left explicit directives that yer one and only concern is to be His Grace. And that we're to treat ya as if you were a member of Her Grace's family."

"But I'm unaccustomed to such idleness," she explained.

"
Ye'll
not be idle for long," Gertrude declared with a lingering look at the apparently unconscious man in the bed. "He'll come 'round eventually, and then . . . well, miss,
ye'll
see for yerself soon enough."

Little by little, the cleaning crew dwindled, until only Betty remained, frantically polishing the fire grate and casting terrified glances toward the shadowed bed. Any attempt on Maria's behalf to console her only managed to agitate the skittish servant more. At last, with a groan of relief, the mousy little maid tossed kindling onto the coal, lit the beeswax candles in the girandoles scattered over the walls, and made a hasty retreat from the room, slamming the door behind her with a finality that shook the windowpanes.

Alone at last, her hands clasped together at her bosom, her toes slightly turned in and peeking from beneath the hem of her black skirt, Maria glanced about the sprawling masculine-appointed apartment and listened to the murmur of a tall case clock on the adjacent wall.

"'Tis silly to feel so frightened," she said aloud. "He couldn't possibly be any more menacing than Father.
Or more cruel.
Could he?"

Forcing her feet to move, she crossed through the gloaming shadows to stand at the foot of Salterdon's bed. Through the pale sheers she could barely make out his form. The servants had done a respectable job of tidying his bedclothes, which lay neatly molded to his
body. They had even managed to contain his wild mane of hair so it no longer spread out over his pillow. Still, there was little they could do to soften his feral mien. He looked as terrifying as before, and she shuddered all the way to her shoes.

From the tall case clock came a click and groan. The felt-covered hammer struck a muted seven times. With each strike Maria attempted to force herself nearer the bed; her duty, after all, was to see to her master's comfort as well as his welfare. She could hardly accomplish that while standing here, at the foot of his bed, her only thoughts on the awful stories about Salterdon the servants had divulged during the long, exhaustive afternoon.

Cautiously, she eased to the side of the bed, nudging open the sheer with one slightly shaking fingertip, if he made a grab for her she would scream; Gertrude assured her that ail she need do, if the circumstances arose, was to cry loudly or give a good yank on the bell- pull. Someone would
eventually
hear her.

Unable to see him clearly, she reached for the lit candle on the nightstand and concentrated on keeping it steady as she lowered it near his face. As always, his dark, vacant eyes were open and staring. The reflection of the flickering candle flame gave the only life to those maniacal orbs; she suspected that when they were aware, they would be full of fire and condemnation . . . like her father's—no, not like her father's. There would be no threat of hellfire in these eyes . . . but something far different . . . but just as frighten
ing—mayhap more dangerous. When, she wondered, would the dragon rouse?

"Your Grace," she called softly, tentatively. "Can you hear me? My name is Maria Ashton, Your Grace. I've come here to help you. Blink if you comprehend me."

Nothing.

Lowering the candle near his face, she leaned more closely over him, noting the strong bridge of his nose and how deeply set were his eyes. He had a fine brow, she realized, now that the servants had brushed the hair back from his temples, and his mouth, though mostly hidden behind the untended facial hair, looked not unbecoming. His lips, she thought, looked as if they would be quick to smile, to quip, to slash to the heart with one murmured indignity.

Frowning, she drew away, put aside the candle, and retreated to her room.

She wrote a letter to John
Rees,
and another to her mother detailing every minute of her time since arriving at Thorn Rose. Terms like Goliath, fierce, and horrifying continued to pepper her dialogue, along with palatial, sumptuous, and opulently awe-inspiring until, frustrated, she crushed the stationery and tossed it to the floor.

How did she convey to the two people she loved most in the world that her very welfare might well be in question? And would it not seem inelegant to wax on about her pampered and sumptuous manner of living? John Rees would fear for her decadent soul. Her
mother . . .
if her mother would only realize that

Maria was doing this for her with hopes of someday providing her with a haven safe from the Vicar Ashton's influence and not because her childhood fantasies had, at last, corrupted her priorities as her father had always vowed they would.

She was not Satan's Angel using her body to
mani
pulate
men's souls to sin. How could she, bound up like some medieval maiden so that her woman's frame was as flat and shapeless as a boy's?

"'Tis no wonder that John Rees showed so little in the way of manly appetites," she mused aloud, her wide blue eyes looking on her image in an oval looking glass. The prim collar of her dress fit snugly around her throat. Her lips forming a slight pout, she flipped open the trail of tiny buttons until her throat was exposed to her collarbone. Another two, then another, until she could just discern the shadowy line of the cotton bindings beneath her simple, coarsely spun linen shift.

There came a sudden rap on the door. Grabbing closed her collar, jumping from the
chair,
she spun toward the entry as Gertrude poked her head in and smiled.

"Yer up yet.
Good. I thought
y'd
be
likin
'
a bath. The lads have brought yer water."

Her face flushed, her fingers clumsily stumbling with her blouse buttons, Maria mutely nodded,
her
jaw dropping as Gertrude flung back the door, allowing the entrance of several strapping lads hefting steaming water in great buckets hanging from yokes over their shoulders.

Gertrude hurried to the sprawling Japanese-lacquered
room divider taking up one corner of the chamber, and with a grunt and groan, wheeled out an immense ornate object
whose
curving sides reached as high as Maria's waist. A highly detailed lid fit snugly over the top. Gertrude placed it before the fire.

"What is it?" Maria eyed it suspiciously.

"A
bathin
' tub, o' course."
Gertrude flipped back a notched section of the cover and nodded at the water- boys. They filed by one by one, depositing water into the tub, enough to make the nearby windowpanes turn blurry with condensation.

"Gracious," Maria declared.
"'Tis deep enough to drown in."

"Aye.
Ya
wouldn't know it now, but His Grace believed in cleanliness if nothin' else. He designed these tubs himself, even this contraption." She pointed to the cover. "It keeps the heat and steam in longer. If
ya
ask me I'd feel like a
bleedin
' lobster in a pot, but then, who can figure the aristocracy, eh? Me dear
ol
' mum used to say that
more'n
one bath a month was sorely
puttin
' yer health in jeopardy." Lowering her voice, she added, "His Grace won't bath in aught but rain caught in the water butts. Says its purities cleanse the pores and softens the skin better than water fetched from wells or becks. Has his horses bathed in rainwater as well."

"Horses?"

As the
last
of
the
Waterboys
left the room,
Gertrude
closed the door and hurried
back to Maria. She began
fussing with the remaining
closed buttons on Maria's
dress.
"Horses," Gertrude
stated.
"Dozens of '
em
.
Arabians."

"Arabians?"

"Incredible, they are.
Elegant as any graceful woman, and beautiful to boot.
They became a passion of His Grace's the last few years—ever since his brother- married
a lass
who had a devotion to '
em
. Always had an eye for
horseflesh,
did Salterdon."

"Horses," Maria mused a bit dreamily. "I've always dreamt of owning my own."

"He were unlucky at the
gamblin
' table, but never failed to leave the track with a purse full of
winnin's
." She clucked her tongue. "It were Epson Races that were his
undoin
'.
Gorm
thieves wot jumped him and his friends as they left Epson that night."

If Gertrude found Maria's bindings uniquely strange, she didn't show it. Instead, the portly maid walked to a chiffonier and pulled open a drawer. "Feel free to use any of these salts, love. A dash or two of these and
ye'll
be
smellin
'
sweet as a flower. I'll be
givin
'
ya
yer privacy now. One of the gels will see to yer dinner."

Without another word, Gertrude quit the chamber.

After a moment's hesitation.
Maria allowed the shift to slide from her shoulders, then the bindings, which pooled around her ankles and feet.

Ah.
sweet
freedom! Cupping her breasts in her hands, she
nibbed
away their numbness, enjoyed their feeling of heaviness, the idea occurring to her that this could well be the first night in years that she would sleep without the confinement of bindings. At last there would be nothing to fear. Her father was far away—no more terrifying nights of waking, startled, to discover him standing over her, his hands on her bound breasts . . . making certain, he'd said, that her licentious femininity was sufficiently suppressed.

After dumping the entirety of a bottle of violet- scented salts into the steaming water, Maria carefully climbed in, holding her breath and sinking slowly into the hot water; her flesh tingled with heat, and the scents rising with the steam cocooned her in wild fragrance so she began to feel heady.

Oh, but this was decadence! She really shouldn't indulge herself so; she might become accustomed to such superfluity, and then what? She would become exactly what her father had predicted, and besides, who could say whether she would remain at Thorn Rose for long? Should
the beast
—His Grace—prove to be as difficult to handle as the servants vowed, she might do well to survive their eventual meeting!

Still, what harm could come from enjoying such a bath this once?