Page 109 of The Captive
My goodness, no wonder Christian considered this man a friend. “Moreland has more than one?”
“I have a half sister similarly situated, and in many ways, her lot is more difficult than mine.”
Gilly did not ask what could be more difficult than war; she didn’t need to.
And St. Just wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t prose off into a description of his siblings again. Though it might have been the easier course for them both, Gilly didn’t want him to.
“I’ve heard rumors,” St. Just said, crumpling the lavender in his fist. “Rumors the Corsican is trying to escape from his island, rumors the French would march with him again if he did. The poor devils have forgotten how to go on in peacetime, and Napoleon left them little enough to go on with.”
The scent of lavender wafted on the summer air when St. Just opened his fist.
“And you’re ready to fight him again if he does.” Gilly didn’t make it a question. St. Just looked so unhappy, so bewildered, she realized she’d hit the mark. “Why?”
He tossed the mangled lavender aside and was quiet for a moment, gazing out over the back gardens, then one corner of his mouth kicked up.
“Damned if I know. Pardon the language.”
Gilly remained beside him in the fading afternoon light and realized if Christian were there, he might have an answer. He might have the wisdom and the courage to understand why a man, a good man, was choosing war and death over a life of peace and plenty.
“Your brother is ill, isn’t he?” Gilly asked.
“I will have to admonish your duke that unpleasant confidences spilled over the brandy aren’t for a pretty lady’s ears.”
She led him to a bench, the topic being a sitting-down sort of subject.
“I keep you in my prayers, Colonel, and Christian considers you a friend. You needn’t worry I’ll spread gossip.” To the vicar? Who was concerned only about his leaky roof and launching four daughters?
“I would never accuse you of gossiping. Victor puts a brave face on his illness for the sake of my parents. We all know he’s consumptive, but my father acts as if Victor malingers, and we must drag him to the sea and the quacks and the countryside all in aid of denying his approaching death.”
“Once death becomes a friend, much becomes easier. Easier for the one dying, but perhaps harder for those left to grieve.”
St. Just sat beside her, a man comfortable in his skin if not entirely comfortable with peacetime. “You’ve recently buried a spouse. I am remiss to bring up such a dolorous topic when you’re in mourning.”
Gilly had been the one to bring it up, not the colonel.
“I am in mourning,” Gilly said, “but not, I think, for my late husband. Shall we walk farther, Colonel? The sun will soon set, and the light is so pretty.”
He winged his arm at her, and Gilly tried to enjoy his silent company. He was charming enough and all that was considerate, like Christian. He bore a pleasant scent and was of a height with Christian too.
But it wasn’t the right scent; it wasn’t ginger and lemon with an undercurrent of rose. St. Just was a hair too tall, a tad too thickly muscled, his eyes green not blue.
He was a good man; he wasn’t the right man. He sought a return to war, for which Gilly did not blame him, but part of why she was in love with Christian was that despite his past, he’d turned his sights to peace and to a future free of violence and destruction.
As Gilly could.
As she had, and this notion, too, was a wonderfully happy thought.
***
The duke’s appetite was in good repair, and to Marcus, that was depressing enough. His Grace laughed heartily at some joke Marcus’s ancient steward told, flirted with the tenants’ daughters, and generally comported himself with more bloody charm than a regiment of officers on leave. This Mercia had been easy to forget, the hearty, healthy man in great good spirits.
When Mercia had left London, he’d still been swilling hot water instead of tea, downing oranges to address inchoate scurvy, jumping at shadows, and barely capable of riding on his own through the park. He’d received not one caller, though dozens of calling cards from the best families had been left at his door.
Marcus’s spies might have been lying, but chambermaids were usually too stupid to know when they were being pumped for information, particularly if they were being swived silly at the same time.
“What emerges as your first priority as you put Greendale back on solid footing?” His Grace asked. They were walking their horses to the stables after spending much of the afternoon ambling around the Greendale property. They’d toured only the tenant farms in the best repair, Marcus being unwilling to reveal the full depth of the estate’s problems to anybody save his man of business.
“I cringe to say it, but probably liquidating what isn’t entailed, though that has become complicated.”
