Page 105 of The Captive
“I have reason enough to wish Girard biding in hell, but with respect to Gilly’s troubles, the kitchen maid we suspect of poisoning the tea hailed from over near Greendale and had worked at the local posting inn there. Gilly has suggested the woman was one of Greendale’s castoffs. He was not at all faithful to his vows, and he let Gilly know it.”
St. Just took a tactful sip of his tea. “So you’re off to pay your condolences to Greendale’s heir?”
“My heir too,” Christian said. “At least for a time. Easterbrook has his hands full, what with the condition Greendale was left in.”
“The manse is falling down about his ears?”
“The house itself is in fine shape, but every outbuilding and tenant farm is in precarious condition. Gilly was willing to stay with Lucy and me initially because the Greendale dower house is in such poor repair.”
“Will Easterbr—Greendale set it to rights?”
“I doubt it, not for some time. And I’ll lock the woman in a tower before I let her leave my protection.”
“Make a captive of her, will you?” St. Just reached for his tea as Christian’s balled-up serviette flew across the table at him.
“Not subtle, St. Just.”
“Subtlety has never been my strong suit. Too many years soldiering. Too many younger siblings. Too many imbroglios with dear Papa, His Grace, the Duke of Stubbornness, and his bride, the Duchess of Now See Here, Young Man. How do you get the butter so light?”
“It’s a mystery. Cook is fifteen stone if she’s an ounce, but she has the best hand with the cream. Then too, she knows we’ve your company again. She’s likely smitten with you or your appetites.”
“Get you to your horse, Mercia, before I’m forced to improve your manners with a round of fisticuffs.”
“You aren’t riding out with him?” Gilly stood in the doorway, looking freshly scrubbed and braided, also tired. She’d had a restless night, seeming to need Christian’s arms around her to sleep at all.
“Good morning, Countess.” St. Just was on his feet before she’d taken a step.
“My lady.” Christian rose to hold her customary chair at his left. “Good morning. I’m off to pay a call, and St. Just has agreed to bear you company for the day.”
She visually assessed the colonel, not with any warmth. “Don’t feel you must stay with me. I can make do with George and John.”
Oh, delightful. They would start the day quarreling. Though her pugnacity was, in its way, reassuring—probably to them both.
“Would you like your usual fare, Countess?” Christian stood by the sideboard, an empty plate in his hand.
“Please, and I’d like to know where you’re off to if Colonel St. Just must be left with my care.”
“To Greendale. Marcus has been in residence for several weeks, we’ve traded the requisite correspondence, it’s time to pay a call, and St. Just’s presence means you need not come with me—unless you’d like to? We can have the coach brought around for you.”
He kept his tone casual and busied himself preparing her plate, but he wanted her to choose his company over another day at Severn, particularly a day in St. Just’s handsome and charming company.
Which was exactly how a man felt when he was badly, sorely, and completely smitten. Gilly would no more want to spend time at Greendale than Christian would enjoy a return visit to the Château.
“I’ll bide here,” she said, tucking her serviette on her lap. “Lucy will pine if we both leave, and Greendale has no positive associations for me. Colonel, what shall we find to do with ourselves?”
She ignored Christian as politely as company would allow, and he let her. Maybe she was peeved because he was leaving for the day, but the call really should not be put off when St. Just’s presence made leaving the property easier.
Maybe Gilly was cranky from a restless night or from being taken from her own bed when she had halfway asked to have a night to herself. Maybe she resented having to entertain company.
And maybe she would simply take her sweet time coming to terms with the fact that everybody needs an orange peeled for them, from time to time.
***
Gilly dabbed her toast with jam—the table boasted no butter—and ignored two large, worried men who likely did not know what to do with a grenade of female emotions lobbed into their midst, her fuse lit and burning down.
Tossing and turning in Christian’s arms—always in his arms—Gilly had come to the mortifying conclusion that Christian had been right: marriage to Greendale had left her ashamed of herself. Exactly as Christian had said—had accused—she blamed herself for her marriage and for not finding a way out of it.
Greendale had been depraved but not brilliant. Gilly could have absconded with the silver from her trousseau, taken a coach for Scotland, and made some sort of living with her needle.
