Devotion (18 page)

"Obviously you've lived too sheltered a life with yer saintly father if
ya
don't know the answer to that one," Gertrude replied. "Not
meanin
' to impugn the honor of His Grace's name, but hedonistic don't come close to describing Salterdon's lifestyle. If his position in society didn't reward him with what, or who he wanted, his good looks usually did."

"Understandable," she said thoughtfully, recalling the manner in which Basingstoke's good looks had held her (not to mention the irritating Ladies Draymond) fixated throughout the last days.

"Yet His Grace has come to this," she.
said
softly to herself. Straightening, she turned to Gertrude. "Bring me hot water, shaving lather, and a razor."

"Beggin' yer pardon, lass?"

"I intend to shave him."

"But—"

"I've seen now what he's supposed to look like, and it isn't this. Now do as I say, quickly before reason takes hold and I change my mind."

Within ten minutes, Gertrude was back, required objects stacked on a tray and placed at Maria's side. The servant hovered like a bothered hen.

"That will be all," Maria told her.

"But, miss, when we've attempted to groom him before—"

"Please! I'm nervous enough as it is, dear Gertrude."

With a grunt of reluctance, Gertrude quit the room, muttering to herself and wringing her hands

Her hands trembled as Maria dabbed the warm lather onto his bearded face, across his cheeks, beneath his
nose, over his jaw and chin. The first time she had shaved Paul, she had nicked him—not much, but enough to make him
ouch!
and
stare at her with so grieved a look she had almost cried.

Carefully, carefully.
God, make her hand stop trembling. "There's nothing to be nervous about," she whispered aloud. "'Tis only anxiousness making my fingers quiver . . ." And the ridiculous desire to see his face, the same face which had entranced her since the moment she met his brother—since the instant Salterdon's visage was revealed to her on that wedding portrait.

One swipe.

Breathe deeply.

Not too fast.

Gently.
Lightly.

Just
skim, as Paul had instructed, and keep
the razor clean.

"A dull razor will tear the flesh as opposed to slice
, "
Paul had proclaimed, just before she had nicked him a second time.

Closing her eyes, Maria swallowed and tried to calm herself.

The hand closed around her throat so suddenly and fiercely her world went momentarily black. She tried to scream. Impossible! She couldn't breathe. The world was a red haze of pain and suffocation. Her arms flailed. She kicked the washstand and sent the china basin of steaming water to the floor with a crash.

"
Lud
!
He's at it again! Help! Somebody help! He's got Miss Ashton!" shrieked Gertrude from the doorway.

Maria
clawed at the hand—the vise—cutting off her air, crushing her neck.

"Let '
er
go! Stop it.
Yer
killin
' '
er
!"

"
Bleedin
',
murderin
' bastard!"
Thaddeus yelled and attempted to wedge the fingers from her throat.

"PI-please," Maria finally managed in a strained whisper, forcing her eyes to his—Salterdon's—which were no longer vacant and staring, but wild with fury and more horrible than anything she had ever witnessed. "
Your
. . . Grace . . . please . . ."

For an instant, the eyes widened,
then
narrowed. He hissed something through his teeth that sounded like
Ishellickufikenfler
!
and
his fingers clutched at her throat more tightly and shook her as she were a Christmas goose destined for the roaster.

"I . . . don't . . . understand . . ." she tried to cry before he shook her again—so hard this time her feet left the floor and her world became a fiery pinpoint of his eyes that were murderous.

"Bastard!"
Thaddeus yelled again and dashed for the
firepoker
, causing Gertrude to shriek in alarm and fly at him with flailing arms, only to hit him with such impact both tumbled to the floor, smack amid the strewn soapy water and shattered china dish.

Her hands clutching Salterdon's, Maria, as calmly as possible, focused on his enraged face and tried to reason.
Impossible!
Dear God she was going to die; he was killing her, the very man whom she had tried so devotedly these last days to help and had actually harbored an amorous thought over (daft, moronic, imbecilic, and naive child!) had every intention of murdering her, even as his lips clumsily formed words that to her own ears sounded little more than the incoherent ravings of a maniac.

"I . . .
shel
. . .
licki
. . .
fickin
. . .
fier!"
he shouted again.

She did her best to focus on his mouth that was fast becoming a blur.

Dragging her closer—so close she felt his breath on the burning flesh of her face, he growled painfully slowly:

"I . . . smell . . . like . . . a . . . fucking . . .
flower!"
Then, with a roar, more animal than human, Salterdon sent her flying, spilling over Gertrude, who had managed to scramble to her hands and knees, and sprawled onto the floor.

Maria gasped for air that, for a terrifying moment, would not come, then it swept like a burning flood into her deprived lungs, scraping the inside of her throat like the razor she had flung to the far side of the room.

A melee of sound bombarded her, intensified by the raging ringing in her head: Women shrieking, glass breaking, Thaddeus cursing.

Someone called her name. "Miss Ashton? Miss Ashton! Wot should we do with '
im
now?"

Maria struggled to sit up, hand clamped to her mouth because she feared she might scream-—a delayed reaction, no doubt—or she might cry—which she always did when she was frightened or angry. Blood buzzed like bees behind her nose and in her ears.

"Wot would
ya
have us do with '
im
now?"
came
the voice again. This time she recognized it as Gertrude's, but still she could not seem to focus her eyes. The room was a haze of blurry forms moving back and forth, and there was that other noise, that hideous growl, like a wounded wolf. "Miss Ashton?"

Shaking, she managed to climb as far as her hands and knees, swayed back and forth while the world careened into a solitary figure lying procumbent on the floor, arms and legs outstretched and pinned to the carpel by Thaddeus and several
manservants
.

"The chair," she managed before coughing furiously into her hand.

With a heave of strength, the duke was put back in the chair. His riot of hair falling over his as-yet unshaven face, his teeth showing in a feral sneer, her master centered her with his glowing eyes and growled,
"Who . . .
the
hell
. . . are . . . you?"

Thaddeus helped her to stand. Fortified by his arm around her waist, she continued to press one hand to her throat, to draw in deep, burning breaths until, little by little, her brain began to function and anger replaced her shock.

"Her Grace, the duchess, has employed me to—"

"Get . . .
out!"
he snarled and looked around for something, anything to break.

Flinging soapsuds and her shoes squeaking with water, Gertrude lumbered toward her.
"Best to leave '
im
, lass.
He'll calm down eventually—"

"Nay, I shan't leave him!" she replied hotly, shoving Thaddeus away and advancing on her patient where he sat in his chair, hands like claws clasping the chair arms. "It seems His Grace has seen fit to break his basin of water, Gertrude. Will you be kind enough to fetch me another?"

The servant gasped. "
Ya
can't be thinkin' to try again."

Maria began collecting the shattered china scattered over the floor in puddles of soapy water. When reaching the razor, she rolled it in her fingers before turning back to Salterdon, who regarded her with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"He didn't mean to hurt me, I think," she declared in as firm a voice as possible, considering.
Neck throbbing
and throat feeling as if she had swallowed a burning coal, she cautiously approached the duke.

"I think he awakened from his . . . nap . . . and became frightened."

Salterdon followed her with his wolf eyes, his upper lip slightly twitching.

"When fear clashes with our will to survive, I suspect our reactions, although human, can be, occasionally, beyond our abilities to control them. Take me, for instance. There were moments, when His Grace was attempting to murder me, when I would have done anything to stop him, even hurt him, if I must."

"
Lud
," Thaddeus groaned.
"Yer daft as he is."

"Not totally, Thaddeus. Even an animal can be reasoned with, if shown sufficient patience and kindness. Of course, His Grace is
not
an animal, but a human.
A man.
A reasoning, intelligent person capable of acting with the dignity with which he was born."

Salterdon took a swipe at her with his fist.

She jumped away, slid on a ball of soap, before sitting down so hard on her backside she felt momentarily stunned. "On the other hand, fetch me the ropes we tied him with before. Occasionally even animals must be taught to respect the hand that feeds them!"

The bruises were wickedly vivid against her pale skin. There were five of them shaped like little purple discs, four on one side of her neck, one on the other.

There had been not a solitary utterance from His Grace's room in the last quarter hour. Thank God. The show of strength she had managed to muster for Gertrude's and Thaddeus's benefit had left her depleted enough to excuse herself from the room on the pretense of changing her damp clothes.

For the last half hour, she had rocked back and forth in her little chair before the dressing table mirror and watched her neck swell. She had rehearsed a hundred excuses of why she must suddenly leave Thorn Rose and return to her father's home, but the mere thought of doing so had thrust a cold spear of dread through her heart.

No doubt she would spend the next year of her life on her knees pleading for God's absolution for dishonoring her father.

What, she wondered, would be the greater hell? Remaining at Thorn
Rose . . .
or returning to her father's house?