Free The Duke In His Castle by Vera Nazarian Page B

hand rests upon his arm with the faintest pressure of contact through velvet sleeve, as though she fears to hurt him. He has become a delicate bubble that can be broken with the point of a hair.
    But he is himself again. He jerks away from her as though her fingers burn. “Don’t—” he says weakly, but with the same obstinate dignity, and turns his full attention to the female lying before them, beautiful, nude, and alive.
    Only, Nairis—whoever she once was, let her now be called thus—is obviously in shock. Her peculiar child-eyes stare in an infantile look of incomprehension; now that the Duke peers closer, leaning over her, they are blue as cornflowers. She is, he assumes, not an idiot, but apparently whatever she experiences now is so far from the usual manner of “birth” that it is impossible for her mind to grasp. He hopes the effect is temporary, or at best, if ancient memories do not come to her, she can learn quickly in order to assume a life in the here and now.
    What has been done?
    “I think you should call your servants, my Lord,” the Duchess of White says softly. There is a weird expression in her eyes and she never looks at the newborn woman-child. “And get something to cover her with. Unless, that is—” And again, some perverse demon in her waxes profane—“Unless you are so bewitched by the display of new female flesh that you are unable to part from her.”
    Rossian, leaning close over Nairis, is indeed bewitched. His thoughts are different, his outlook modified, his senses scream. . . . Yet he is not about to reveal the difference. His voice is cold and profoundly normal, as he calls Harmion and gives instructions to the servants.
    “She must be treated as a new-born child,” he says gently, regarding Nairis, to Izelle. “It’s as if I’ve engendered her. Although a woman in body, she is so innocent, her consciousness a blank. Strange how young she was when she died. Though, such youthful death could have been caused by childbirth or a simple pestilence. Her age holds no more than two decades, I would say—for I’m certain she is returned to us at the exact age of her death, as though time has been paused for her, and then, in a skip of centuries, it now resumes. What mysteries surround this death, I wonder? For that matter, what kind of antique time did she experience in her brief life, ages ago? But—whatever her past, it is no longer. One day I might question her when she is deemed to be strong enough. Meanwhile she must be looked after carefully. Too quickly exposed to life, her mind might come unbalanced. And then—”
    “And then you would have one insane but beautiful Nairis on your hands,” Izelle snaps. She is getting more and more irritated for a reason known only to herself. “Such a relationship just might promise pleasures, isn’t it true, my Duke? Idyllic sensual pleasures for a man— are you the man I am supposing you to be?”
    He straightens abruptly, his form still and inscrutable. “What? What in Heaven? You, my Lady, suggest things that are offensive.”
    But then, it’s as if he is deflated, wrung out, and the cold energy of anger leaves his eyes, leaves him with the hollow place just below his lungs, and apathy. Now he deliberately ignores the Duchess, that little gadfly with a foul sting, and stands leaning over his creature Nairis—for yes, she has become his, hasn’t she?
    There is a never-before-seen kindness in his eyes. Inside, he feels a warm slow blooming of joy, a strange after-effect of creation. This is what the Deity must feel when the Deity creates the Universe; the scale is different yet the parallel remains.
    The Duke then reaches out gently (his hands are trembling) to help the “new-born” one to sit up. His strong, expert fingers have lost their ruthless aplomb and are suddenly hesitating, for he is unsure where it is appropriate to touch her. And so he places them lightly underneath her shoulders, fingertips to skin which is