His Secret Duchess

The bedchamber itself was dominated by a vast canopied bed. Its hangings and the matching draperies were of ivoryand-coral silk, repeating the colors of the costly Oriental rug that covered the gleaming oak floor. A slipper-shaped copper tub stood before the blazing fire, whose warmth was welcome, despite the spring sunshine that flooded the room through tall mullioned windows. The scent of the rose petals that floated on the surface of the steaming water filled the room.

“This is your maid, Your Grace. Her name is Claire,” the butler informed her.

The red-haired girl, hardly more than a child, looked up shyly. Her sherry-colored eyes were almost as warm as Pierce’s had been, despite the quick blush that stained her cheeks. “Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

Mary smiled at her, wondering about the proper way to greet a maid. She had never before had a personal servant, of course. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Claire,” she said simply. It was what she would have said to any new acquaintance, and social status had never mattered to her before. Why should she now wonder how to treat people, simply because they were in the employ of the Duke of Vail?

“His Grace requests that you join him before dinner. He will await you in the grand salon at half past eight,” the butler said, bowing slightly in preparation of leaving. He seemed to take her agreement for granted. It was not a request, Mary realized, but an order, issued by a man who was accustomed to having his orders carried out. A man whose help she desperately needed.

“Of course,” Mary said, “but I’m afraid I’m not sure…”

“I shall send a footman,” Thompson said, as if he had read her mind, and, bowing again, he closed the doors of the chamber behind him.

“His Grace instructed that a bath be prepared,” the maid offered tentatively when they were alone.

Since Mary had, for the past three months, made do with a pitcher of tepid water and a cloth, always fearing the interruption of her privacy, it seemed suddenly there was nothing that could be more wonderful than a bath. She wondered how that exquisite stranger, the grand Duke of Vail, could possibly have known how much she longed for a real bath.

He seems to be omniscient, as well as omnipotent, she thought irreverently. The man who gave orders to the staff of this vast establishment and even to the justices of the king’s courts seemed very far removed from the young, recklessly courageous soldier who had once made love to her.

They were neither of them the people they had been then, she reminded herself. There was nothing left of the foolish lovers who had made those pledges so long ago. Only one thing bound them still. One thing and one alone. Richard was the only reason she had come to the Duke of Vail’s home, but there was no reason not to take advantage of the luxurious hospitality it offered until she had thought how to make her appeal. No reason at all, she decided, and she. walked toward the welcoming fire and the waiting bath.