Page 69 of Ondine

She dared not wonder, even in the depths of her heart, what Warwick would feel.

Would he wish her back—should she live to discredit this pair here!

—for the sake of a legally born heir? He was ever so possessive a man; lord of his domain!

And worse still, perhaps more frightening than even her uncle’s treachery, was a haunting fear that he would be furious that she should have left him so, carrying what was rightfully his.

Having stolen gold coins would mean nothing to him; those she had earned.

But leaving with flesh and blood, his flesh and blood, an heir . . .

“Are you ill, Ondine?”

“What? No!” she gasped out, looking from her cousin to her uncle.

“You give no attention to your food,” William commented.

“My sleeplessness last night, I suppose,” she murmured, biting into her fowl. She smiled. “It is delicious, Uncle.”

William wrapped a hand over hers briefly, curiously. “How charming you can be when you so choose, my dear.”

“And I have so chosen, Uncle,” she said softly.

“Umm.” His syllable carried a tone of doubt, but she gazed at Raoul with a smile, and Raoul, it seemed, wanted no doubts.

“What do you think of the new smith?” William asked Raoul.

Raoul thought a moment, his fork delicately poised in midair. “He suffices. Big brute, though, isn’t he?”

“One couldn’t have a weakling for a smith,” William commented, turning to his food.

He shrugged. “He’s a surly fellow, it seems. The north country breeds arrogance.

He’s powerful, though, with shoulders that do well in a forge.

We shall see how he works out.” He gazed at Ondine then, but she did not notice, for this night the fowl was truly tender and delicious, and she was famished.

Her sickness had miraculously left her; it was almost like a trick of fate, coming to point out to her what recent circumstances had caused her to ignore.

“Will you play the spinet tonight, as you used to?” Raoul asked her.

“I—” She had thought to escape him early, but she needed to woo Raoul to her confidence, and playing the spinet did not call for much hardship. “If that is what you wish, Raoul,” she finished.

Dinner completed, they entered the ballroom at the left wing of the house, a wonderful vast room with good acoustics.

It was chilly here, though, even with a fire raging, for the ceilings were high and the place difficult to heat.

Ondine played tune after tune, humming at times, singing at others, finding a certain peace in the activity.

William sat in a great chair, sipping brandy, quite at home with this pastime that marked him a true gentleman.

Raoul held a glass of port, but did not drink. He stood, leaning slightly against the spinet, and watched her.

This is my home! My heritage! she longed to rage.

But it could only be hers if she could oust them from it, and that would take time and patience.

At last her uncle stopped her, saying that it had grown too cold for them to remain in the ballroom. He took her arm to lead her from the place. At the foot of the stairs he relinquished her to Raoul.

Raoul made a great display of kissing her hand.

She could not wait to wash it, but smiled and told him sweetly that she would see him on the morrow.

Ah, what glory it was to shut her door upon them! She leaned against it in relief, then started, for she could hear them speaking in low tones just outside in the hallway. She pressed her ear to the door, barely breathing so that she might hear them.

“I tell you, it must be done now!”

“Father! She just comes to trust me, to see my company! If you do such a thing now—”

“Do you want a whore for a wife?”

Raoul laughed bitterly. “If she’s a whore, Father, she might well please me at that. Lady or whore, she is the duchess! Sexual appetite does not change that fact.”

“Well, I would like to know!” William said stubbornly. “If she’s been off with other men—of what caliber we’ve no idea!—I’ll be damned if she’ll stride about this place with her cloak of virtue! I tell you, I intend to send for a physician now, to solve this thing one way or the other.”

“Father! I am the one to wed her!”

“Then discover something of her, or I shall see to it myself. I give you a few days time and that is all.”

Raoul replied, but Ondine could not hear him, for the two men walked away. Worried, she walked into her room, tapping her finger against her chin in vexation. What was she to do now?

Raoul . . . he was her only hope. Should she throw herself at his feet in some wild scheme, praying that he could stave off his father?

She started, certain that she had heard some sound from the balcony.

She moved there, brows knit, and saw that the doors were not fully shut.

She stared outside, then shivered, certain that she saw a tall and muscular man below, leaning against an oak.

She came nearer, but the figure turned and disappeared.

Wary, she closed the balcony doors against the cold of the night. Aye, would that be fate, ironic fate, if some petty thief should come and slay her in her sleep!

She turned about, ready to prepare for bed, aware that she badly needed rest. Tomorrow morning she planned to sneak into her uncle’s chambers while he attended to plaintiffs in his office. It would be dangerous, and she would need to take grave care. She must not be skittish and tired.

Yet even as she lay down in her bed with a heavy covering about her, she shivered.

She thought that she would rather some brute strangle her for her jewels, or William discover her searching his chambers, than that Warwick should find she had left him carrying his child!

Nay, he would not even want the baby.

He had announced that he would send her to the Colonies.

“Oh, dear Lord!” she whispered in a weak little prayer, then grew impatient with herself and tossed about.

She must worry about this dilemma later; she could not think on it now.

She had to get into her uncle’s chambers, she had to think of some story to tell Raoul, and, oh, dearest God, what on earth was that going to be?

Think, think, don’t worry. Warwick was miles and miles away, not here to chastise her, not here to hold her . . .

He was part of another life.

* * *

As several more days went by, Ondine decided that Berta was the least of her difficulties.

She would come in with tea in the morning, having learned that Ondine loved to read while she sipped it.

She would help her dress, Berta choosing the gown.

She would arrange her hair, which was not so terrible a displeasure, but rather an easy thing, then depart.

Ondine would wander down the stairs, breakfast with her uncle and Raoul, then wander off so that they might discuss business.

She had to pretend a great disinterest in the estate, lest they worry she should expect to manage her own domain!

But she was glad of that, for one morning when they retreated to the office, she pretended to return to her rooms after agreeing to bundle warmly and meet Raoul at the stables in an hour.

There was no one to disturb her when she sauntered past her own door and through her uncle’s.

Once there, she had to pause; these had been her father’s rooms, and once, long ago, her mother’s.

The desk was her father’s, the Van Dycks were her father’s, the great claw-footed Italian bed was her father’s.

Everything was her father’s, taken over by this horrid—pretender!

She couldn’t let the misery dwell in her. With a single deep breath she moved into the room, reminding herself that she must listen carefully.

She did, pausing every few minutes as she searched the desk, the shelving, the fireplace, the drawers, the trunks, the wardrobes. Nothing, nothing came to light, and once again she felt like weeping.

A clock chimed from below, and she realized that her time was up. Wearily she decided that she must go through everything again; she had been too hasty with the desk.

She opened the door a crack, checked the hallway for servants, and slipped out. She was one step away from the door when Berta, puffing, made an appearance at the top of the stairs.

“Where have you been, Duchess? I pounded upon your door for the last hour!”

Ondine made a great pretense of yawning. “Did you? Perhaps I slept. I’m surprised you didn’t just enter.”

Berta lowered her eyes. “I respect your privacy, madam!”

Ah, like hell you do! Ondine thought, yet she was filled with a certain elation, for she was certain Raoul had ordered that she was not to be disturbed at rest.

She smiled radiantly. “Berta, would you run for my cloak, please? The silver fox. I’m to meet Raoul, and that is so very warm against the cold.”

Sullenly, perhaps suspiciously, Berta went to obey her. Ondine waited, continued to smile as the woman slipped the cloak about her, then waved a hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Berta! Oh, do please keep my fire burning warmly. I’d not like a chill room for a bath!”

The stables were not far from the house, but still she felt the chill of the cold as she approached them. Snow crunched beneath her feet, and she pulled the silver fur tightly to her throat.

Raoul was outside, awaiting her impatiently. As she reached him he clutched both her hands and kissed them fervently, then frowned.

“You are not dressed to ride.”

“I thought it a little cold,” she told him. “Raoul, I need to speak with you.”

“We’ll go back to the house.”

“Alone.”

“’Tis chilly here,” he said, then mused aloud, “ah, there is a shelter behind the smith’s, a buffet from the wind. And the heat from the forge will warm us.”

“Lovely,” Ondine said.

Together they scampered past the stables to the next long building. Behind it they came to an overhang, and there was even a bench beneath it where the smiths could come—away from the heat—to rest a moment from vigorous toil. A door was open behind them, sending out blessed waves of heat.