Ondine

by Heather Graham

  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 shrew-ishly. And wasn’t that why he had married her, a gallows’ bride, since no high-born noblewoman would have tolerated hi
s 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.

  Chapter 6

  Ondine awoke to discover Lottie tapping upon her door, offering Ondine a scented bath, and food in the salon when she should desire it.

  Ondine, quite delighted with the thought of the bath, flashed Lottie a smile and hurried for the dressing room, hastily shedding her gown.

  She sank her feet into the water, then more carefully her rump, for the water was hot indeed. Sweeping her hair about her head, she leaned back with a contented sigh, luxuriating in the swirling caress of the bath oil. After a moment she opened her eyes curiously, surprised to find Lottie still stationed before her, waiting with a massive length of towel. Catching her mistress’s eyes upon her, Lottie flushed again and bowed.

  “Lottie, whatever are you doing?” Ondine inquired gently.

  “Why, I—” She broke off, dropping her chin. “I don’t know, milady. I’ve never held such a position before.”

  Ondine chuckled softly, then sobered, for she had no wish to hurt the young girl’s feelings. She liked Lottie; her broad face, farm-fresh smile, and cherry-red cheeks.

  “Then, Lottie, I shall tell you a secret,” Ondine said, giving the girl an encouraging smile. “I’m a bit nervous myself, so we shall bluff our way through it together. If you would, I’d enjoy a cup of tea while I soak. Then, perhaps, you could lay out a gown for me.”

  Lottie nodded eagerly. Ondine closed her eyes again as she heard the girl scamper through the master’s chamber to the room beyond. Seconds later she was back, a cup of tea in her hands. “Perhaps you could draw that little stool near, and I could use it for a table,” Ondine suggested, and again Lottie nodded eagerly.

  It was as Lottie brought the small stool that Ondine noted how badly she shook. Curiously she set her cup upon the stool and asked, “What is it, Lottie? Surely you’re not afraid of me?”

  “I’m not afraid of you—you seem ever so kind! It’s—” She broke off quickly, alarmed at her own words.

  “It’s what, Lottie?” Ondine demanded with a sigh of exasperation.

  Lottie looked anxiously to the door of the master’s chamber, as if she were afraid someone might be hovering there. She knelt down by the tub and stared wide-eyed and frightened at Ondine.

  “I’m afraid for you, milady!”

  “Afraid for me!” Ondine repeated, astonished. “Why ever would you be?” Ondine felt a furious tremor shake her. Was there, then, something more about the handsome, tyrannical, and secretive rogue who had married her than she had dared to guess? Something of the demon that hinted only in his eyes? Was there an intrigue dark as his brooding perusal?

  Once more Lottie’s glance skittered to the door; then her timid gaze returned to Ondine. “Didn’t you hear them?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The wolves—blessed Jesus, did they howl last night!”

  Ondine started to laugh, relief flooding muscles she didn’t realize had gone so taut. “Lottie! Wolves are prone to prowl forest land, and to howl with the moon when they do so.”

  Lottie shook her head with frustration, saying, “Lady, I fear for your life! The first countess was sorely afraid—poor delicate thing!—and she did die, sweet lady!”

  “Lottie! She was afraid—of her husband?”

  “Oh, nay, lady, ‘twas never him, though others sometimes thought so! Genevieve had her own maid, a Yorkshire girl, but she did speak wkh me oft in the kitchen, and she was so afraid!”

  Ice suddenly seemed to sluice through Ondine’s veins, yet she fought to maintain control. She could not let the girl see how very ignorant she was of her husband’s affairs, else she might lose all she was gaining in truth.

  “Of what was she afraid?” Ondine tried to ask casually.

  “The ghosts.”

  Lottie spoke so solemnly that it was all Ondine could do to keep from laughing and submerging herself deeply into the water with pure relief.

  “Lottie, you must not fear for me, then, for I have no fear at all of ghosts.” She smiled brilliantly. “All great castles and manors have ghosts, Lottie. But my father, who was a dear and wise man, taught me that the dead were the safest men that one could meet; the only ones who could not—assuredly not!—harm you in any way.”

  Lottie did not appear at all soothed or appeased.

  “How did the countess die, Lottie? Childbirth? It is a cruel trick of fate, yet does occur—”

  “Nay, nay, my lady! They all said that she was unstable—all but the earl, that is—”

  “Unstable?”

  “Mad! But she was not! Just fragile and—frightened. She had been promised to the Church, but her father pleaded that the earl take her to wife on his deathbed, and”—Lottie quickly crossed herself—“such a request needs must be met. The two were wed—”

  “Lottie, how did she die?”

  “She heard voices, you see. The ghosts’ voices.”

  Ondine was growing impatient, yet she could see how deathly serious it was to Lottie. “Lottie, what ghosts?”

  “Why, of His Lordship’s grandmother, of course. Dead—fallen from the old wood staircase to the chapel. And of the old lord’s mistress, hastened to her own death. Genevieve died the same, poor, most noble lady! From a tower at court, she fell, and I knew she had heard the voices, calling to her again!”

  “Lottie!” The shocked and horrified gasp came from the doorway. Both girls—Ondine and Lottie—found their startled, guilty attention drawn there. Mathilda stood there quite white-faced, one hand to her heart, the other leaning against the doorframe.

  “Lottie, you wretched child! How dare you upset the countess with such wicked gossip!”

  Lottie, stricken, fell back on her heels beneath the tongue-lashing. Ondine, irritated at being so disturbed in the bathtub no less, attempted to assert her opinion.

  “I’m not upset! I questioned the girl, she but—”

  Mathilda had reached Lottie by then and was wrenching the girl’s arm angrily.

  “I meant no harm!” Lottie cried out.

  “Horrid child! You should have remained in the kitchen!”

  “Nay!” Ondine proclaimed, gripping the rim of the tub on either side, determined to outrule Mathilda. “I don’t wish—” she began, but her words were curtly cut by a masculine voice, thundering in upon them with aggravated authority.

  “By the rood—what in God’s earth goes on here?”

  Warwick now stood at the door, decked in riding coat and breeches, tall with hat and boots, dominating the scene. His eyes, searing points of gold, leveled upon Ondine, were alight with accusation, as if she were surely the cause of this uncustomary domestic upheaval.

  She met his gaze with a simmering fury. She was but the victim of them all, trapped within a tub of melting bubbles, naked and waterlogged, and sorely bereft of her privacy. She longed to scream, to throw things at them all! It seemed a horrible invasion, especially so with Warwick there, his eyes upon her, before the other women, and they all decently appareled.

  “What is the difficulty?” Warwick demanded of them all.

  Ondine bent her knees quickly to her body, alarmed at the crimson color staining her flesh from a vivi
d flow of humiliation, yet even as she wrapped her arms around them, she was retorting with the best restraint of manner that she could.

  “There is no difficulty here, milord. Mathilda was concerned with Lottie’s service; I am not. If you would all just leave—”

  “And what is your difficulty?” he asked his housekeeper, coldly interrupting Ondine.

  “I—milord—I was concerned with the child’s choice of rumor to convey to the countess.”

  “Oh!” Lottie’s head fell to the floor as she buried it in the crook of her arm. Her cry was muffled. “I meant no harm, truly! I—”

  “No harm is done!” Ondine snapped out, wishing for nothing more than it all to end, for Mathilda and more especially Warwick to depart so that she might rise from the tub and salvage a sense of dignity. “If I might be left in peace with my maid—”

  Warwick apparently hadn’t heard a word that she had spoken. He was striding into the dressing room and bending to the distraught Lottie. “Come, girl; ‘tis the end of it.” He brought her to her feet.

  “She should be punished!” Mathilda stated.

  “I’ll not have it!” Ondine commanded in a sudden fury. They were all standing right over her! “Must this go on while I bathe?”

  “Mathilda, Lottie, you are dismissed,” Warwick said smoothly. “There shall be no recourse, Mathilda, as the countess has requested.”

  Mathilda, with the still-trembling Lottie at her heels, began to depart. Ondine realized that she was about to lose her maid while retaining her husband.

  “Milord, I need Lottie’s services. Lottie, you will stay—”

  Lottie paused.

  “You will go,” Warwick said quietly. Lottie nodded mutely and fled, and Ondine learned quickly the lesson that her husband’s orders would always override her own, no matter how softly they were spoken.

  With their departure, Warwick closed the door behind them, then came forward, resting a booted foot upon the stool and leaning an elbow upon his knee to stare at her.