Page 83 of Ondine

Ondine never did discover what caused her uncle’s foul temper of the morning. After the king’s departure, William had come into the house only briefly, then departed again with only a few words mentioning that he would not return until late, and another of his condemning glares.

Raoul did not return to the house at all during the afternoon. Berault informed her that he was about business. Ondine thought that this “business” was most provident, for if she could but elude Berta’s ever prying eyes, she could search Raoul’s rooms.

She was thus involved—searching his wardrobe—when she was discovered by Raoul.

“What are you doing in here, Ondine? I cannot believe that a great concern for my hose brought you into my private quarters.”

She flushed quickly, then somehow managed to laugh. “Nay, Raoul! ’Twas not your hose that brought me here. I came to—”

“To what?” he snapped.

She panicked, then spoke. “I—well, I wanted to see your rooms.”

“Duchess,” he said tensely, dark eyes as menacing as the nervous constriction that tightened his body, “tell me what it is you’ve come to see!”

“Oh, Raoul! I was simply attempting to draw a comparison! We’re to be married in less than a month now and I was assuming, well, that we should choose a set of rooms, and I’ve always been exceptionally fond of mine.

Yet I thought it not entirely fair to think that mine was best. I meant to judge on size, and position, and comfort—for two.

And while I was here . . . well, I must admit to a woman’s curiosity.

I peeked into your things and found this horrid squalor! ”

It seemed an agonizing eternity before he slowly eased, before he accepted her sweetly spontaneous lie as truth.

He touched her hair at her forehead. “I’ve never had a wife to care for me before,” he told her.

He was too close! “Oh, ’tis dark already! I must hurry to bathe for dinner,” she cried. “Raoul! With your father out this evening, we’ll be alone.” And so saying, she fled his chamber.

She didn’t know that she still shook until she reached her own door, opened it, and once inside leaned heavily against it.

She gasped for air, sighed deeply, and closed her eyes, pleading that her blood should warm again, her limbs cease to quiver.

She realized then that she hadn’t said a word to Raoul about his father’s behavior of the morning, or asked about his disappearance.

Escape had seemed of the greatest importance then; at dinner she would need conversation so they could readily discuss William.

“Duchess, you do look pale!”

She opened her eyes, irrationally annoyed to find that Berta was already there, standing before her with her chubby hands on her squat hips and staring at Ondine in that smug way that was little more than a sneer.

“I thought you did not enter my room if I did not bid you to do so, Berta,” Ondine said dryly.

Berta lifted her hands innocently. “Milady! ’Tis late indeed. I brought your bath. You must hurry, for the water grows cold.”

Ondine smiled and contented herself with sweet vengeance toward Berta, stepping into her tub, but dropping the soap again and again and politely using the woman as a hunter might a golden retriever. She was doing it on purpose, of course, and Berta knew that, but what could she do?

Once dressed, she began to shiver again. Raoul had frightened her this afternoon when he had come upon her, and she wondered at the true workings of his mind—just as she wondered about his father’s.

She raised her chin for bravado and started down the stairs. Before entering the hall, she brought a soft smile to her lips, then swept in.

Raoul awaited her, standing before the fire, hands laced behind his back.

She floated nearer to him, drawing his attention.

Then she curtsied and swirled in a perfect pirouette so that he might admire the deepest mauve and lightest organdy gown that he had selected for her this evening, having certainly given Berta the order that brought the sour-faced battle-ax to produce it from Ondine’s wardrobe.

“Lovely,” Raoul approved, then Ondine decided not to be quite so charming, because she despised that look that came into his eyes.

It was not the same look that Warwick sometimes gave her, one that gleamed golden and insinuative but also appreciative, so heated that it brought fire to her blood and a sweet quivering inside her.

This, this was different. Perhaps the intent of it was the same, but the manner was different.

Raoul meant no harmony, no give-and-take, no sweet sharing.

His was a leer that hinted of something evil, and she felt tainted each time he looked at her so.

She hurried to her chair at the table, not even noting that the despised Berault was behind her, ready to adjust her seat. Stiffening, she felt him there and allowed him his task. Raoul came after her, choosing his father’s position at the head of the table, since William was not there.

She leaned toward him whispering softly, as Berault moved toward the sideboard to fetch the serving platters.

“Might we dismiss him as soon as the food is before us? I’ve questions of grave importance and privacy for you.”

Raoul looked at her curiously with his dark eyes, then nodded his assent.

Berault was back, at her side. Ondine helped herself to veal and stewed vegetables and watched Raoul do the same.

“That will be all,” Raoul told the man.

Berault hesitated, as if, Ondine thought dryly, he had been ordered to spy upon the two of them during the meal.

“I said, that will be all!” Raoul snapped.

Berault really had no choice. He left the hall, closing the double doors behind himself, reluctantly.

Neither Raoul nor Ondine cared about his reluctance. Raoul sipped his wine and watched Ondine. “What is it?” he asked her.

She pushed food around on her plate, then looked up at him.

“Why was your father in such form this morning? Quizzing me with such a vengeance, so determined! Then when the king came, he all but tore the hair from my head, threatening me! Raoul, the title still is mine—or mine to share! What is this thing with your father? Will you be the duke, the master here, or shall he?”

He answered her slowly, carefully, still watching her as a vulture might watch a thrashing prey.

“You have said you are the duchess; I shall be the duke.”

She sniffed irreverently and gave her attention to her plate once again. “I must wonder, Raoul,” she said softly, “for he did seek to tear me to ribbons today, and you came not to my defense, though you’ve sworn to protect me!”

“It’s difficult, my fair betrothed, to come to your defense when you give me lies and half-truths!”

She stared at him reproachfully. “What lie? I came to you with the truth! I told you I had married! Is this foolish mistake on my part the cause of your father’s fury?”

“Nay,” Raoul said, eyeing her still. He gave no attention to his meal, but leaned back crudely in the chair, planting his boots upon the table. “My father discovered nothing of any legal wedding, of a husband, living or dead.”

Raoul’s eyes seemed to burn very brightly; she knew before he spoke that he watched her for a reaction, and even before his words came, she tensed, taking care.

“It is the child you carry that has father so enraged.”

“Oh!”

No amount of preparedness had her ready for that blow. Her heart sank, that William might have guessed. How? She had gained no weight, given no sign as yet!

“Then it is true,” Raoul said with a heavy sigh. A sense of hopeless terror struck her; she thought if he desired he would think little of spilling her blood then and there—he had gotten away with murder once already.

“Aye,” she whispered numbly; denial would make no sense. She had, in stunned surprise, betrayed herself.

He moved his feet suddenly. His fingers curled around hers and he leaned close, his long sharp nose near touching hers.

“I believe that Father wishes to kill you,” he informed her tonelessly, drawing a chill to her very bones.

“Yet, you see, I am loyal indeed. I can forgive the child. It shall be no matter to me to claim it. I have told him so, and so it shall be. I will be the duke, and your master, and as you see, you will have strong occasion to be grateful for it!”

She couldn’t help but look into his eyes, to feel the fury and coldness that came from him. His father wanted to slay her, but despite his words, she knew that he was no better. He had spoken of claiming her child, but it was the child that he would slay!

Berta! she thought suddenly. It was that great hulking cow who had betrayed her, sniveling about, marking tender changes in her body she had barely begun to discover herself. Berta, that damnable, wretched woman!

Ondine pulled her fingers from Raoul’s, knotting her fingers in her lap. She lowered her head in a humble fashion, yet it was not humility she felt; now she needed the sweeping mass of her hair, a shield to hide the true loathing in her eyes.

“So you would marry anyway,” she said softly. “And claim my child, seed of a peasant, as your own! Truly, Cousin, I am stunned and amazed. And most gratified, too, of course.”

Her manner seemed to both please and amuse him. He sat back once again, stretching out his legs, able this night truly to imagine himself the lord of the manor.

“You, will have to bear Father’s insults.”

“Aye, I can see that.”

“He will be brutal.”

“Aye, I can imagine.”

“But I will be there. I would do anything to possess you.”

She raised her head at last, meeting his eyes, hers touched by the fire’s sizzle, a smile playing about her lips.

“Me . . . the title, and the lands.”

He shrugged. “They come as the same, do they not?”

“They do, I suppose, as long as I live.”