Page 21 of Ondine
No, she didn’t, but she found herself shivering fiercely and longing again to know why this conversation, with Warwick so strangely intent, had to take place now.
“Nay,” she spat out. “But it would have been reasonable, Lord Chatham, to have given me an explanation!”
He shrugged, and it seemed that the touch of a rueful grin tugged at the corner of his lip.
“Perhaps I feared that you would quake at the thought of ghosts; of a manor where the halls are prone to echo with the howls of the neighboring wolves.”
“My lord,” Ondine replied dryly, making as great a mockery with the use of the words as he, “you consider my life to be yours; I doubt that you care about my feelings in the least.”
He smiled elusively. “You are wrong, Countess. I am quite interested in your feelings . . . and impressions. And if you do not fear ghosts, my love”—his voice fell low—“then why is it that you sit there shaking like an ash in wind?”
“Because of your horrendous lack of good manners, sir!” Ondine cried furiously. “You claim that I am to be mistress of this house, yet not only do servants spat before me in my bath, but you come along to further disrupt my peace and privacy!”
He tilted his head, his eyes glittering as laughter rumbled from his throat. “But, my lady, I am your husband! If I should not disturb your bath, then, pray tell, who should?”
“I should like to get out,” Ondine announced icily.
“Then, please do, Countess,” he said gallantly, offering her a full and courtly bow.
She didn’t move, nor could she think of a scathing retort, so unnerved was she by his taunting charm and laughter. A flush of pink rose instantly to her breasts and face, and she was furious that she could not control it. Instantly he commented upon it.
“You’ve seen many a horror in your day, lady, as you are so wont to remind me. Nothing disturbs you—do you recall those words?”
“Get out!” Ondine railed, shaking suddenly from a frightening savage heat that ripped along her spine.
He did not, but proceeded in long strides toward her again, planting his foot upon the stool, his arm upon his knee, and bending very low to her.
“Never think to order me about, madam. Or out of a chamber that is mine in any way. Where I will have access, I will take it without need of your blessing.” He spoke pleasantly, but with such an underlying note of arrogant assurance that her temper soared to new heights.
She swore out a score of oaths and forgot even herself as she brought her hand flying and spraying from the water with swift vehemence.
He caught her wrist, but not before her palm had caught his cheek.
Yet whatever triumphant satisfaction the action had brought her was quickly swept from her soul, for she had not taken time to wonder at his response.
And could she not now do more than gasp with sudden and searing panic, for that response was quick.
Mouth grim and eyes set, his jaw clamped, he secured her other wrist and pulled her upon her feet with an effortless but ruthless strength.
He brought her dripping into his arms as he lifted her from the tub to the floor.
Then he lifted her off her feet and locked her arms about his waist, bringing her naked length fully to his.
He smiled as her eyes stared up, wide with shock.
She knew that her limbs trembled fiercely, that he felt the mounds of her breasts through the fabric of shirt and jacket, that her slim legs were all but entangled with his hard muscled ones, and that surely he felt the rampant thunder of her heart.
And he smiled his rake’s smile, a flash of white teeth, a bemused glitter of his eyes.
“Lady! It seems I am forever reminding you how little is required of you! Yet it seems you insist upon goading my temper over trifling things, when, alas, you are allowed to escape so very much!”
Then quite suddenly it seemed that his fingers were gently raking into the damp wings of her hair, caressing her nape, arching her throat. She was not prone to seek forgiveness where none was due; and with him she would surely swear in her heart she would never do so.
But she was willing now. Ever so willing, for she was alive with both fear and excitement, and it was the excitement she loathed the most. She felt like liquid silver, and she abhorred him for holding her so negligently, for knowing her flesh and her vulnerability.
“I beg your pardon,” she rasped out desperately, but the plea came far too late, for already his head was lowered, his mouth laying claim to hers.
She gasped at that contact, and further abetted his intent, parting her lips to his.
Theirs was a subtle caress, but firm and yielding, a sweet wine that poured upon her with a potency she hadn’t the strength to fight.
She felt the searing touch of his tongue stroking into deep crevices of her mouth.
Each stroke had a shattering impact upon her trembling body, so much so that she held still, until some good sense showed her the absurdity of it all.
With a fervent twist of the head that surely cost her locks of hair, she turned her face from his, gasping out a new spate of oaths that described his behavior and himself in no uncertain terms.
He merely chuckled and slowly allowed her feet to touch the floor, forcing her to slide against him all the while.
He did not release her, but kept her pinned to him as he told her, “My love, I but remind you that the rights I claim are simple: your attention when I wish to speak. There are other rights, my lady, that a husband could demand he claim.” Smiling grimly, the heat of warning in his dulcet tones, he allowed his fingers to play down the length of her spine, tarry upon its base, then move leisurely over her buttocks.
“Damn you, villain, knave, jackass—” Ondine began.
“You’ve left out husband and lord,” he reminded her, his hand moving again as he held her, the knuckles stroking upward over her hip and waist, and then the length of his fingers closing around her breast in an intimate caress that sent flames racing through her anew.
Her eyes were locked with his. Her teeth were clenched, and still they chattered when she lashed out again.
“Tyrant, vandal, blackguard—beast!”
“Ah, and your heart beats like the hare’s when that beast is on the hunt, lady! Perhaps that is best; it is well that you learn some recall as to the master of this game.”
Abruptly he released her, striding across the room, plucking a towel, and tossing it to her. Ondine caught the towel and hurriedly wrapped it about her, expecting to find his mouth curled in a sardonic grin. It was not; his eyes were very intense, his features masking all emotion.
“Madam,” he said harshly, “I’ll not disturb you again.” He bowed elegantly, sweeping his plumed hat before him, then exited with long, even strides. The door clicked sharply.
Ondine stared after him, alternately shivering with cold fury, and then trembling .
. . with what strange searing heat she did not know.
At length she swirled about and returned to her own chamber, slamming the door and dressing hurriedly.
She thought of her husband and swore silently that she would pay him back one day, in more ways than one.
Then she discovered that she was staring about her room. Genevieve’s room? Surely it had to be so.
Poor Genevieve. Ondine realized that she wanted to know more about the girl. And at the same time, she trembled slightly. She didn’t want Genevieve’s “ghost” in her own life.
Suddenly she felt Genevieve, sweet, gentle Genevieve, in everything around her—in the soft blues and whites of the chamber, in the draperies, in the bedclothes . . . even in the water pitcher.
She turned about, tilted her chin, and left the chamber. Breakfast awaited her in the outer room, and she was quite determined that she would spend the day viewing her new domain.
* * *
Warwick had disappeared when she forced herself to walk through the connecting door to his chamber; nor was he about in the music room, as Lottie called it.
Breakfast awaited her, and she ate pleasurably alone, then determined to summon Mathilda.
The housekeeper came to her, and Ondine gave her a charming smile.
“I’d like a tour this morning, and I’m quite sure you know the place completely. ”
Mathilda’s eyes widened, apparently with relief, yet Ondine wondered if the woman wasn’t thinking it a very regretful thing that the master had returned with a new wife.
Ondine rose and preceded the housekeeper to the hall doorway, pausing there. “Mathilda, I meant what I said. Lottie is to bear no punishment for the unfortunate episode this morning.”
An anguished look appeared upon the woman’s features; she began to wring her hands, and her deep eyes carried a hint of tears restrained.
“Milady! I beg your pardon! I did not wish you to be upset. ’Tis difficult at best to leave one’s home and claim another; I could not bear to see you frightened here! ”
“I do not believe in ghosts.” She spoke gently, certain that Mathilda had dearly loved the countess Ondine had replaced—in name at least. “I am very sorry about the lady Genevieve,” she added softly.
Mathilda nodded her head distractedly, then suddenly seemed to brighten. “Would you like to see her?”
Ondine’s heart seemed to leap—was Mathilda mad herself?
“Her portrait, in the gallery, my lady.”
“Oh,” Ondine breathed, relieved. “I should love to see it.”
Mathilda swept by her. They followed the long gallery past numerous portraits of Chathams. Then toward the western wing of the manse Mathilda stopped before a recent portrait of a woman.