Devotion (22 page)

Salterdon stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the friendly, and quite handsome, young man.

"Ignore him," said Basingstoke. "He's being an ass."

"I'm glad to see some things don't change," the man replied, and winked in a most shocking manner at Maria.

Her cheeks flushed; she almost giggled.

"Who's the lovely lass?" the man asked with a lopsided grin that made Maria flush even more.

"My brother's companion.
Miss Ashton, you have the extreme honor of meeting Lord Lansdowne, my brother's best friend—cohort in deviltry, equestrian extraordinaire. There isn't another rider in all of England who can sit a mount as exceptionally as he. He drops by occasionally to make certain Trey's horses are moving properly. Between you and I," Basingstoke added behind his hand, "it's just his way of enjoying the bounce without buying the flesh."

A grin inching up one side of his face, Lansdowne took Maria's hand and slightly bent over it. Flashing a look at Salterdon, he said, "Your grandmother's taste in companions is improving, which, perhaps, explains what the duke is doing here at the stables. His Grace's moods were always roused by a pretty face." He winked at Maria again.

Withdrawing her hand, intent on stifling the humor bubbling like spring water in her throat, she retorted, "You,
m'lord
, are too fresh to be healthy."

"Only
fresh?
Good gosh, I must be slipping. The pretty ladies once called me wicked."

"I don't know you well enough to call you wicked."

"No?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Would you care to?"

Slapping a hand on Lansdowne's shoulder, Basingstoke shook his head. "She's far too innocent for the likes of you. Besides, I had heard that you'd turned over a new leaf; something about vowing off cheap gin and becoming celibate . . . ?"

He coughed and clutched his chest in an exaggerated manner, staggered slightly backward, causing Maria to laugh into her hanky.

"Swear off cheap gin?" He coughed.
"Never!"

The watchful stable hands chuckled among themselves and returned to their chores; some hefted buckets of warm mash that steamed in the chill air of the stable. Others meandered from stall to stall, shoving dung- crusted wheelbarrows and carrying pitchforks.

Finally, a solemnity replaced the men's lighthearted banter. Lord Lansdowne went to one knee beside Salterdon, who continued to stare straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge his friend, as well as the horse who continued to stand patiently, his muzzle lowered practically into the duke's lap.

"Your Grace," said Lansdowne in a soft, fond voice. "You see Noble still remembers you. He was wondering only this morning, before I rode, just when you intended to mount him again. Seems I don't have near the touch that you do. The
ol
' boy won't give me half the trot." He withdrew a small apple from his pocket and placed it carefully, gently, into Salterdon's hand,
then
he looked up at Maria. "You see, Miss Ashton, my devotion toward His Grace runs deeper than mere friendship. I owe Trey my life. It should have been me in this
chair . . .
or, more likely, in a grave. I was one of the four bucks with the duke that fateful night. We'd spent the day at the races, and when returning home we were jumped by thieves. I was a bit of a wiseacre then, too cocky for my own good. When I thought to confront one of the robbers the lot of bastards jumped me and pro
ceeded to thrash me with the butts of their guns. Salterdon, my friend . . . threw himself among them . . . they turned their energies on him instead."

With color creeping into his face, his voice becoming tight, Lord Lansdowne covered Salterdon's free hand with his own, and squeezed. "You'll hear a great many tales about Salterdon, Miss Ashton. Some, perhaps most, are true. He is—was—cavalier, and a bit too fond of the highborn ladies and their potential dowries. Alas, it was his burden in life to fulfill certain ancestral obligations—that included marrying comfortably. But I've never known him to let down a friend if the need arose. I'm alive today because of him. My only goal in life is to somehow repay him."

Focusing again on Salterdon, he said softly, "Trey, if you can understand me, please
know
that all the fellows send their best. Their thoughts and prayers are with you. My God, Trey, you aren't alone no matter what you think or feel. If you'll only allow us to help you . . ."

Lansdowne looked back at Maria in dismay, like one about to be swallowed by an emotional landslide that he was helpless to stop. Swiftly, he leapt to his feet and strode from the barn, paused momentarily in the bright sunlight, then continued on his way.

Basingstoke muttered something under his breath,
then
followed. Both men disappeared beyond a hawthorn hedge in the distance.

Maria tugged at her cap string that felt, suddenly, much too tight against her throat. With a sigh of exasperation, she untied the thin cord and slid the frilly object from her head. It dangled lifelessly from her
fingers while she studied the back of her master's head.

"Occasionally," she said softly, "I think you use this unnatural silence as a sort of punishment
. 'Tis no one's fault that this has happened other than the culprits who beat you."

Going to her knees beside him, she regarded the apple in his hand, which lay in his lap. The stallion's reins made a leathery coil on one of his knees. The horse pricked his ears forward and offered his black muzzle to Maria to stroke. Guardedly, she raised her hand, felt the animal's hot breath upon her flesh, and experienced a tingle of thrill rush over her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Salterdon move—just barely; his head turned slightly toward her. His fingers closed more firmly around the apple. Should she acknowledge him, would he, like some creature who had, little by little, come to trust her, flee back into the dark forest of his mind?

Without speaking, she took the hand gripping the apple and gently lifted it toward the stallion. Noblesse nickered and, in a most gentlemanly fashion, sank his teeth into the fruit.

Clear, sweet juice flowed in a stream over their entwined hands.

Maria laughed, and laughed again as the hungry horse took the remaining apple and tossed his head in appreciation. Her chest tightened as, glancing at His Grace, she acknowledged the easing of his jaw, the flickering light of pleasure in his gray eyes.

Standing, she took charge of the chair and rolled it down the swept brick aisle. "Gertrude and Lord
Bas
ingstoke
were right.
Your
Grace. These are the most incredible animals I've ever seen.
'Tis understandable that you should feel such pride; I've never known such an intelligent eye in a horse, nor have I ever seen such loyalty and devotion from a horse for his master."

A lanky lad stepped from a stall, whistling to himself. Upon looking up, he stopped, grinned, and swung the stall door open further, revealing the
heartstopping
image of a heavenly white mare, a gangly newborn chestnut filly at her side. Only it wasn't the
heartstopping
picture the mare and filly made that caused her eyes to fill with tears, but the expression of pure pleasure on Salterdon's features. The hardness melted from his brow. His shoulders relaxed. It seemed in that instant that his entire body became fluid as air.

He leaned forward, outstretched his hand. He whispered, "Nap . . . Perl," and the mare nickered, and nudged the clumsy little filly as if saying,
Look what I have given you, my friend.

"Aye," the stable boy said quietly.
"'Tis yer own
NapPerl
, Yer Grace.
She's given
ya
a lovely filly, as precious as all the sands of Arabia.
Ye'll
be the one who names '
er
,
o'course
."

On delicate spindly legs, the foal, only days old, wobbled toward the door, regarding the intruding humans with huge brown doe eyes. Like her dam's, the filly's head was dished, tapering to a muzzle tiny enough to fit in a tea cup. A bold white blaze streaked down her forehead between her eyes. Her front left foot boasted a white sock.

"Oh," Maria breathed. "Your Grace, is she not beautiful?" She cautiously stepped into the stall, her hand extended. As the foal raised its whiskered muzzle to her, Maria eased down into the thick straw, her skirt forming a soft black pool around her legs.

Propped up on his pitchfork, the stable boy grinned and informed her with some authority, "She'll be gray,
ya
know. Aye, His Grace taught me that a gray is born either black or chestnut."

As the filly nuzzled her chin, Maria laughed and looked at her charge. Salterdon regarded her with one eyebrow lifted. "She deserves a name as beautiful as she is, Your Grace. I trust you'll give some thought to it."

Salterdon shifted in his chair, his only response.

Strange that he should find himself so mesmerized by such an image that in a few hurdling moments felt as if it were branding itself into his mind's eye: the lass upon her knees amid the clean, fragrant straw, the little filly nestling her muzzle into the cup of the woman-child's hand . . . ah, God—those wide blue eyes as innocent and vulnerable as the precious filly's—those gently curving lips the color of ripe plums. Hers was not the sort of smile a man, even a man as jaded and furious as he, could stiffen or disapprove of; her sort of gaiety could only be responded to with a smile. A younger, more naive knave might foolishly respond with a passionate reciprocity of emotion, perhaps fling himself into the straw beside her and whisper sweet, nonsensical murmurings into the ivory shell of her ear—but he, the Duke of Salterdon, had never been nonsensical . . . or
neuve.

Still, he found himself smiling—not with his mouth but with his eyes . . . smiling, nevertheless.

She pondered dreamily, mistily, with the warming sun on her face and the buds of the trees rattling overhead. With her back against the elm trunk, Maria sleepily searched for the proper encouraging phraseology with which to inform Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Salterdon that her beloved grandson had roused from his ennui at last. But how did one pen such soul-shaking news? How
could one
put into proper words the expounding sense of accomplishment and encouragement she, alone, had experienced the last hours as she had managed, finally, to form a sort of tenuous bond with her master?

Had she imagined it?

"Ah, me."
She sighed, and allowed her lids to grow drowsy as she gazed out on the gentle slope of garden, the tender blades of grass appearing upon their gray shoulders like some
glaucous
mantle. Had she and Salterdon finally managed to form some fragile truce? Would he, at last, cease this penchant to wreak havoc over the entire household? Could the Duke of Salterdon go from being the
most crude
, cruel, and terrifying human being she had ever had the misfortune of encountering to one so docile and gentle that he had come very close to weeping at the very sight of a newborn filly? How very ironic that just hours ago she had determined that she would rather spend the rest of her life under her father's thumb and wicked lash than to walk back into Salterdon's presence again with no means to protect herself against further physical outbursts.

"I wouldn't be so quick to write that,"
came
the intruding voice behind her, and she sat up straight so suddenly the quill pen and paper tumbled from her lap.

Thaddeus leaned against the twisted old elm and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his breeches. "He might seem better now but 'e could go back to the way 'e was just like that." He snapped his fingers. "'E's done it before,
ya
know. Wouldn't take much to send '
im
back in 'ere." He tapped his forehead.
" '
Er
Grace is too bloody old for many more disappointments."