Page 19 of Ondine

Justin went on to mention that several farmers were seeking audiences to settle petitions, then apologized to Ondine for boring her with such matters.

She replied that she was certainly not bored, since she was new to it all.

She felt her husband’s pensive eyes upon her, yet when she caught them with her own, she could not tell if he was pleased with her performance before his brother or not.

But she realized then the depth of his deception; only Jake knew the truth of their marriage, as Warwick was not willing to share that information even with his brother.

There was a rap upon the door, and at Warwick’s command, a man entered.

He was dressed in plain brown breeches and the leather jacket of a groom, but he was clean, neat, and young, near to Warwick in age.

His hair was so black as to be jet, he was tanned, and his face was leathered with exposure to constant wind and sun.

Warwick rose at his entrance, his lips curled in a smile. “Clinton.”

“Warwick,” Clinton said, approaching the head of the table to clasp the other man’s hand.

Ondine watched the exchange curiously; Clinton was obviously in Warwick’s employ, yet they met with no formality.

Indeed, it was a very odd greeting. She had always seen her husband courteous to those beneath his station, but that station had also been apparent.

“Ondine, Clinton is master of the stables,” Warwick informed her. “Clinton, the lady Ondine.”

Clinton turned to her. She noted that his eyes were a dark forest green, that there was something very familiar about him, but that she could not determine what. It frightened her somewhat, yet his words and manner soothed her fear, for she became quite certain that he did not know her.

He bowed low before her. “My lady, your servant.”

“Shall you have some wine?” Justin asked him, and Ondine again wondered at the familiar relationship between the earl, his brother, and the stable master.

“If I’m not interrupting.”

“Nay—I wish to hear more of the horses!” Warwick said and grinned, a flash of youthful excitement sparkling in his eyes, which gave him again the look of the devilish rake.

Ondine did not wonder that were he to give a woman such a gaze, she could easily fall prey to that promise of wicked passion and dark excitement, even knowing that it was the devil’s own danger.

Even as he replied to Clinton, he suddenly rose. “If you’ll excuse me first, I’ll see my wife to our apartments.”

“But—” Ondine began. Warwick was already behind her chair, pulling it so that she might rise.

“You’ve had a long day,” he reminded her in such a tone that she chose not to argue. Justin and Clinton were on their feet, bowing, bidding her both welcome and good night.

Warwick’s fingers were firm about her arm, giving her little chance for response.

Minutes later they were traversing the portrait gallery.

It seemed dark here now; night had quite completely fallen, and few candles gleamed along the deserted hall.

Ondine shivered slightly, hurrying to keep pace with Warwick’s sudden determination to be rid of her.

“Milord!” she protested, but by then they had reached a second set of doors, and he threw them open.

They entered a room similar to that which they had just left, but differently arrayed.

Shelves of books lined the eastern wall; a massive desk and a small, more elegant secretary sat opposite each other to the left.

To the right were a spinet and a harp, facing each other upon a woven rug.

Candlelight blazed here, as if in ready welcome for them.

“Our private quarters,” Warwick stated simply, but he did not stop to allow her a decent surveyance.

He continued through a smaller door at the rear of the room.

It opened upon a massive and very masculine bedchamber, one with a huge canopied bed set high upon a step, another desk, a dresser, and a washstand.

Cloth embossed with small green dragons adorned the walls, and rich draperies cloaked the windows.

But they did not stop in that room. Warwick opened a second door to a room as large as the bedchamber itself.

Toward the rear was a white enameled bathtub, quite huge, with a pipe leading through the floor.

There was a stand there with a shaving mirror, a dresser with a washbasin, and row upon row of latticed doors that were surely wardrobes.

Even this Ondine was scarce able to see. Warwick pushed open the third door, and there, at last, they stopped.

“Your chamber, madam, and”—his brow rose to her as he released her—“quite private, I do assure you.”

Ondine attempted to ignore him, moving more deeply into the room.

It was beautiful, and as elegantly feminine as the chamber before had been fascinating.

The bed was as large, but delicate gauze hung from the finely carved canopy, and the color of the bedclothes and window draperies was a misty silver blue.

The dresser was finely polished cherry wood.

The pitcher and bowl upon it were white enameled and covered with blue daisies.

There was a dressing table with a framed mirror, and a stool to set before it.

In the far rear was a built-in alcove, draped, too, in the silver blue that covered the windows.

“The latrine,” Warwick informed her.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“You should find your undergarments in the dresser; your gowns, I’m sure, have been hung in the dressing room. The pitcher is always filled, should you desire water in the night. Is there anything you lack?”

“No,” Ondine murmured.

“There is no lady’s maid at present, though Lottie—”

“I don’t require anyone.”

“Well, you must,” Warwick said impatiently.

“Then Lottie will be fine.”

He nodded. “Then if there is nothing else you require this evening—”

“There is!” She flared suddenly, facing the blazing gold sparks in his eyes.

“And what is that, madam?”

“An explanation!”

“For what?” he demanded, arms folded over his chest, his voice deepening, as it was prone to do, with anger.

“This charade!”

“Would you prefer, my lady, that I return you to the gallows?”

Her eyes lowered. He rumbled out an oath of impatience and queried with a sudden passion, “What is it that does not appeal to you? You are fed and clothed, and not by a pittance. The manor is yours, girl. Gardens, leisure, pleasance. And—as seems a matter of grave import to you—you have total privacy. All that is asked of you in return is that you rise to greet the station, which you know you do remarkably well, with a flair—and a vengeance.” He strode the few steps to her, gripping her shoulders so suddenly that she could not avoid him, but was forced to tilt her head back and to meet the fire in his eyes that so belied the chill that could rule his manner. “Where is your difficulty with this?”

His mouth was too close to hers, curled with a sensual flash of contempt.

She could feel his breath, sweet with the scent of wine, brush against her flesh, and the finely honed pulsing of his muscled form.

Heat suffused her with a trembling, and she wanted nothing more than to elude his disturbing presence.

“Nothing!” she cried out, seeking to jerk away from him, yet he held her still and seemed further angered that he did so, his eyes locked so strangely upon her.

A strangled oath escaped him, and he suddenly tore from her, striding quickly to the door. “There is one more thing—Countess,” he mocked. “This is the bolt. Use it. Once I have gone through this door, you will bolt it—immediately. And you will open it only upon my command. Am I clear?”

“Aye!”

He threw the door open, then paused, but spoke to her next with the breadth of his back to her. “Your performance, as surely you are aware, was quite incredible. Pray, do not beguile my brother so that he forgets you are mine.”

The door slammed shut. Ondine stood still, dazed and confused by the miserable rush of emotions within her.

“The bolt!” The command came from outside. Swearing like a fishwife, Ondine flew to the door. “I’ll be most happy to bolt my door!” she muttered and slid the heavy iron bolt into place.

Only then did she hear his footsteps striding away.

She was shaking as she strained to reach the hooks and shed her clothing; shaking still when she dug through the dresser to find one of the wonderfully clean and elegantly laced new nightdresses.

Still she shook when she crawled into the gloriously comfortable bed. God in Heaven, what was it about the man that did this to her?

She lay awake a long while, so puzzled by her husband that she could think of nothing else, nor could she sleep. She tossed about, agonized by the restless heat that remained within her body; she flushed and burned, she remembered his features so clearly, his touch . . .

She must have lain so, furious, bewildered, and shivering miserably, for about an hour.

Then a sound of horse’s hooves upon stone below her window brought her curiously out of her bed and to the drapes, which she carefully pulled back to look out upon the courtyard below.

It was Warwick. She did not see his face, but she recognized his stance as he led a huge shining bay from an archway beneath her.

He wore his hat with the single red plume, high riding boots, and a flowing black mantle—with the “beast” embroidered in golden thread.

She heard him chuckle affectionately at the horse, then swing upon it, lithe and agile.

The animal pranced and reared with excess energy, and then the two were racing away, westward, merging with the night.

Where are you going? she longed to shout. Yet she did not. She stamped her foot with a sudden irrational fury, then scampered back to the warmth of her bed, her heart racing.

He was off to see a mistress, no doubt, she determined shrewishly. And wasn’t that why he had married her, a gallows’ bride, since no high-born noblewoman would have tolerated his desire to leave her side each night for the life of heedless passion he wished to live?

Ondine slammed a fist into her pillow. What did she care, as long as he let her be. But she did care. She fought her fury, and her ridiculous pain, for what seemed to be forever.

For the life of her, she could not get the sensation of heat to leave her body.

“Damn you to a thousand hells, Lord Warwick Chatham!” she whispered vehemently, so tired that she was near to tears.

And then she froze, for there was a light rap upon her door, and she heard his voice.

“Girl—are you well?”

He had returned . . . she hadn’t heard him!

“Aye . . . aye!” she sputtered. “I’m . . . fine.”

He said nothing else. Ondine released the breath she had not known she held.

And curiously, in moments, she slept