His Secret Duchess. Gayle Wilson

the door for her and pulled down the steps.

      “Thank you,” she said, taking the hand that he offered to help her in. The support of his callused palm was steady, its grasp far stronger than she would have expected, given his build. Her own fingers were still cold and trembling from the ordeal of the trial and from the shock of Nick’s unexpected rescue. The solid grip that closed around them was very welcome.

      “Don’t you worry now,” Vail’s valet said, tucking the lap robe securely around her after he had settled her into the carriage. “He’s not going to let anything else happen to you. You’re safe now, Your Grace. You let him worry about the rest.”

      The title was so unfamiliar that she wondered for a moment if he might have mistaken her for someone else. She met his eyes, which were dark brown and filled with compassion. Seeing her confusion, he squeezed the back of her hand as it rested in her lap, a quick gesture of comfort very much like one her father might have made. She supposed it was a familiarity she should not allow from a stranger, but she didn’t resent his touch. It was the first kindness anyone had shown her in a very long time.

      “Thank you…?” she said.

      “Pierce, Your Grace. My name is Pierce. He told me to look after you, and I’ve found through the years that it’s wise to do exactly what he says. It saves wear and tear on the ears and on the nerves.”

      The smile that accompanied those words was almost conspiratorial, leading her to believe that this man had little fear of displeasing his powerful employer. And there was no doubt, of course, to whom he had referred. In Pierce’s world there was apparently only one “he.” As there had once been in hers, she thought.

      “Is there anything I should arrange to be sent from the merchant’s house?” Pierce asked. “Anything there that belongs to you?”

      Only my son, she realized with despair, but that was not, of course, an issue that could be discussed with a servant, no matter how kind or trusted he might be.

      She had learned from the gaoler’s wife that Tray wick had had her few possessions burned—very publicly burned. Bob Smithers, the ex-soldier the merchant employed, had been instructed to carry out that destruction on the village green. Further humiliation, she supposed, for what she had done to Traywick.

      There had been little enough of value there. The only meaningful thing she had left behind at the merchant’s tall brick house could not be retrieved by this man. There was only one person who could rescue Richard, perhaps as easily as he had accomplished her own release, but still she heard in her mind the echo of Traywick’s almost insane laughter. “There’s nothing,” she said finally.

      Pierce nodded and closed the door of the carriage that would take her to the estate of the Duke of Vail.

      

      The house was enormous, its furnishings richer than any Mary had seen in her life. The sturdy brick dwelling where she had once been so grateful to have found sanctuary for herself and her child was, she now realized, a pauper’s cottage in comparison. It seemed there were miles of wide corridors, their walls hung with portraits in gilt frames and their scattered tables crowded with priceless objets d’art. She tried not to stare, tried to concentrate instead on the route to the bedchamber that she had been told would be hers. Despite her efforts, by the time Thompson, the duke’s majordomo, had personally conducted her to the suite of rooms, she knew she was hopelessly lost.

      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.