Page 107 of The Captive
In her heart,Don’t gowarred withTakemewithyou. She blew him a kiss and tried to smile. He touched his hat brim with his riding crop and still didn’t nudge Chessie off down the drive.
“Gilly?”
She shaded her eyes to meet his gaze.
“Keep this for me—or destroy it.” He tossed her the crop, and she caught it, the first time she’d touched such a thing willingly in years.
“Until this evening,” he said, and then he and Chessie were clattering over the cobblestones and cantering down the curving driveway until they were out of sight.
Gilly held the riding crop without looking at it and waited for the familiar pounding to begin in her chest.
And waited, while the puppies gamboled, the morning breeze rippled the surface of the lake, and Gilly’s heart…went about its job, as if she held a stick to throw for the puppies, or a flower.
Christian had entrusted her with a simple riding crop, a wooden handle covered in cowhide, the braided leather ending in a short lash. She’d seen hundreds in her lifetime, held a few dozen, and swatted the occasional lazy horse with one, though never in anger.
She was still drying her tears a few minutes later when St. Just ambled over, passed her a plain cream silk handkerchief that smelled slightly of horse, and proposed she give him a tour of the gardens.
Eighteen
Of all the inconveniences plaguing Marcus Easterbrook, Christian Severn, eighth Duke of Mercia—and ironically, heir to the Greendale ancestral pile—figured as the most prominent. Even the damned weather cooperated in His Grace’s bloody social whims, for it was a perfect summer day. Sunny, dry, and pleasant without being hot, and the duke’s note had said he’d join his cousin for a midday meal.
Bad enough the man was unbreakable, and unkillable, but he was also likely to be punctual, so Marcus put the kitchen on notice that a proper feast had best be forthcoming at the one o’clock hour.
The staff would not disappoint. One result of inheriting from old Greendale was a staff who knew how to take orders from their betters.
And if Marcus were lucky, his dear former-step-aunt-the-countess would accompany Mercia on this call between relatives. Her ladyship had to be getting restless, what with being in mourning, and Mercia observing half mourning for the fair Helene.
Marcus wandered down to the stable, seeking a distraction from thoughts of Helene. Of the many bothersome results of Mercia’s return to the living, losing the use of Aragon—Chesterton, to the duke—was one of the worst. The beast had been handsome, faultlessly trained, and possessed of beautiful gaits.
The sound of hooves in the stable yard signaled Mercia’s arrival. Marcus put on his best charming smile, squared his shoulders, and prepared to greet a man who lacked the common decency to die when the opportunity presented itself, or even to lose his reason so a trustee—in the person of a devoted cousin—might have been appointed to oversee the ducal assets.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Marcus extended a hand to Mercia. “A beautiful day for a ride. Hullo, horse. He looks to be thriving in your care.”
“As he did in yours.” The duke slapped Marcus hard on the back then looked around as a groom led the beast away. “The stables are not falling down. You exaggerated shamelessly.”
Mercia’s handshake was firm, his voice hearty, his dismount lithe. Marcus wanted to punch His Grace in his smiling face.
“Compared to Severn, this place is a disgrace. And I wish I could say I’ve found a great stash of the King’s coin hoarded up during all the years of neglect, but Greendale spent it on his entertainments and keeping the house up.”
Mercia’s smile turned disgustingly sympathetic. “You can always marry an heiress. In the alternative, rent out the house to some rich cit, fix yourself up a bachelor’s paradise in the gatehouse for a few years, diversify your incomes, and come visit me often. I promise to break out the best the cellars have to offer, and listen to all your woes.”
Goddamnedhail-fellow-well-met.
“Sounds like good advice, particularly if I want to look in on my uncle’s widow from time to time.”
“She offered to take Lucy in hand.” The words put shadows in the renowned Severn blue eyes, and this was a relief, because Marcus had lost his only spy in the ranks of Severn servants.
“The poor girl still hasn’t found her tongue?”
“No, and I lose hope she ever will. If seeing one’s dear papa rise from the dead, and commanding the daily care and company of the countess hasn’t wrought a miracle for Lucy, I’m not sure what will.”
ThankGod.“She doesn’t lack wits,” Marcus said, leading his guest through the extravagance of the Greendale gardens. “Perhaps you might send her north to one of those establishments that deal specifically with hysterical females.”
Marcus, having done some research, could name a few that would treat the girl with admirable attention to discipline.
“The physicians offer their tuppence worth of guesses, but that’s all they are, guesses. You’re good to ask after her.”
“The best cousin you’ll ever have, and I’ve promised decent food and drink, because God knows Greendale took care of his cellars. Come, and we’ll wash the dust of the road from your throat. How is the countess, by the way?”
