Page 24 of Ondine

She lowered her head; slowly color returned to her cheeks, and with a rustle of silk and scent of flowers, she impetuously came toward him, kneeling to place elegant fingers tentatively upon his leg, her eyes now deep with a searching compassion.

“My lord, I understand that you loved her dearly. I am so very sorry, sir, that words do come to dig further into your heart. But, milord, if Genevieve was . . . mad, then—”

“Mad!” He shouted the word, riddled with fury again. Mad, nay—tormented, on some mysterious behest.

His hand shot out to the desk, sweeping charts and pens and ink from atop it to the floor; then he rose so hastily that she was cast back upon her heels. He stared down at her, but barely saw her.

“Genevieve was not mad!” he informed her curtly.

Ondine rose with such a dignified elegance and glare of fury that he realized the brutality of his movement.

He reached out to touch her, but she gasped and edged back, her eyes upon him as if he were half dragon, half wolf.

Emitting a furious oath, he strode across the room and leaned an arm against the window frame to stare into the night.

“Ondine,” he breathed at last. Then, curiously, he repeated her name again. “Ondine . . .”

Then he lifted his hands, a bit impatiently, a bit helplessly. He didn’t look at her. “Go to bed,” he told her softly. “Again, you’ve my apologies.”

She was still for a moment. Then he heard the rustle of the skirts once more and found himself turning in time to see her disappear, her chin held high, her movement a study in grace, as if she had, indeed, been born to her role, and not dragged into it upon fate’s cast of the die.

The door closed. A shaft of staggering longing, desire like the blade of molten steel, swept through him again. Swearing with a vengeance, he strode to his desk, halfway dislodging the bottom drawer as he ripped it open, intent upon the bottle of whiskey within it.

He didn’t bother seeking out a glass, but drank deeply, gasping at its solid trail of fire. He shuddered, then sank into his chair. Damn her to a thousand riots of thieves’ hells!

He had to learn to keep his distance from her.

He set the bottle upon his desk, then stared ruefully at the havoc he had created around it. He stood slowly and began to retrieve his papers and quills. Justin would be along soon. And Warwick would be damned if he’d have his brother wondering at his domestic tranquility.

* * *

Alone and furious upon her bed, Ondine suddenly started, hearing the sounds of horse’s hooves beneath her window again. She bolted to it and carefully edged open the drape.

It was Warwick, astride the great bay again. Both elegant and masculine in his plumed hat and black mantle, he rode the horse as though one with it.

He rode west once again, and she wondered painfully—jealously!—if he rode to another woman. Nay, she did not trust him, and he infuriated her.

He could drown, for all she cared! She swore silently. But the vow echoed with plaintive discord, and she grew irate with him—and with herself that such a maelstrom of emotions could exist within her.

At length she moved from the window, shed her finery, and donned the nightdress Lottie had left upon the bed. She doused the lamp and curled beneath the covers.

But she didn’t sleep. She thought of him, thought of his touch, felt a sweet, aching yearning to know that touch again.

Fool! She reprimanded herself in fury. He was indeed the master, the master of the art of seduction. How often had he played the rake with little thought and little care? She would not fall prey, she would not. And surely she had too much pride, too much fury to do so . . .

And still, the night passed as the one before it. She did not sleep until she heard the quiet closing of the apartment doors that assured her he had returned.

* * *

The days that followed brought an uneasy peace. Lottie and she fell into a morning schedule for bathing and dining, and Ondine moved about the estate, learning its domestic management.

Warwick seemed to avoid her.

Ondine met the entire staff of servants; Mathilda arranged that all of them be gathered at the landing to pay their respects to her, and Ondine greeted them cheerfully, drawing, she hoped, their respect.

Old Tim and Young Tim were the gardeners, and she spent many hours choosing flowers for her apartments, for the family dining hall, and for the chapel, which seemed far less a place of gloom when roses were set upon the altar.

There were scores of books to read, and the spinet and the harp to play. She saw Warwick only at dinner, where he was unerringly courteous, perpetually distant. Yet Justin was always charming, and so their trio surely appeared to be a happy and normal one.

Without fail, each night would end the same.

Warwick would silently walk to her chamber, she would stiffly wish him a good evening, and he would remind her to bolt her door.

Out of five nights, he rode away on three; the two nights that he did not leave, she heard him pace his chamber until she fell asleep.

On her fifth day in the manor she decided to implement her determination to change her immediate surroundings.

The servants obeyed her orders without question until Mathilda appeared upon the scene, dragging an irritable Warwick behind her.

Mathilda wanted nothing moved. But Warwick’s command came in Ondine’s favor.

“The lady Ondine is mistress here now, Mathilda. She must arrange things as she desires. It makes no difference to me.”

He left them. Ondine ached for Mathilda, yet she could not live with Genevieve’s things. Gently she reminded the housekeeper that Genevieve was dead. Mathilda started to cry, and Ondine tried to soothe her, and—ridiculously—they wound up hugging, at peace with each other.

* * *

That night, Warwick rode away again.

Restless and angry, Ondine left her bedchamber for the music room.

She sat before the harp, idly strumming tunes, and was heartily shocked to feel an unease rippling at her nape.

She turned quickly and discovered that Warwick was there, silent and straight, not three feet from her, and still decked in his hat and black mantle.

He smiled sardonically when she saw him. He closed the distance between them, catching in his hand her slender fingers, paralyzed upon a string.

He held her hand between his own, brought her fingers to his cheek, then studied them once again while she remained mute, her heart thudding in sudden alarm. At last he released her, smiling once again.

She did not like the keen interest in his eyes, nor the subtly mocking tone of his voice.

“You do play especially well, milady thief.”

“How—how did you get in? I locked the outer door—”

“I have keys to slip every bolt in these apartments, Countess.”

“Then—”

He chuckled. “Madam, if I wished to enter a chamber in my domain, I would do so, bolts and keys or no. I was saying that I enjoyed your performance upon the harp, and I’ve noted, too, your prowess at the spinet.”

“You have . . . heard?” she queried with a startled gasp, her heart seeming then to sink while her body flared to heat at his unnerving nearness. His scent was that of the night, fresh cool air, leather, and horses. Even when he touched her lightly, she felt the strength in his fingers.

And she remembered his more intimate touch, even while she feared his suspicions. She felt so defenseless, clad in nothing but one of “Madame’s” sheer gowns, and a cloak to match that was of no greater substance.

His grin curled more wickedly into his lips. He offered her a full and courtly bow. “Aye, milady, I’ve heard you . . . often. And I’ve come to wonder how you grew so proficient at these instruments while poaching in a London forest.”

Ondine lowered her lashes quickly over her eyes and set the harp forward carefully. “I’ve told you, milord Chatham,” she murmured. “My father was a poet. We moved from place to place, and there were always music masters about.”

“Ah, yes! I forget. The man was a poet. Perhaps, my love, you would be willing to entertain me with a brief recitation of his work?”

Dear God! Her thoughts went blank. She could not think of two words that rhymed or sounded remotely melodious to the ears. Her fingers knotted in her lap.

“Don’t mock me!” she finally cried to him, and her emotion then was real. “His death is too near, and he was too beloved a man, for me to bear such memory now!”

Her eyes were a tempest; her hair was a flame that spewed down her back. She thought to escape him, but had he reached out, he would have captured her.

He did not. He offered her only that enigmatic smile, and the gaze that told her clearly he was far more frighteningly aware of her every movement than she had ever guessed.

He moved aside, inclining his head toward her and saying softly, “Sleep well, milady.”

Ondine fled past him, reaching her chamber and closing the door quickly to lean against it with a trembling gasp. By habit she slipped the bolt, then wondered why.

She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its frantic thunder.

And then she began to wonder if her husband was not a mythical beast, or a manner of demon, he was so able to touch her with the golden flames of his eyes, casting a fire to blaze throughout her.

She raced for her bed, pulled the covers about her, and slowly, slowly, tormented herself to exhaustion and thence to sleep.