Page 115 of The Captive
“I used to hate the stench of sulfur,” he said, sounding a bit puzzled.
Ah, another quagmire, which Gilly understood well. “Just as you hated cats and the sound of the French language on a man’s lips and sudden noises and loud noises… What?”
“We’re to be disturbed,” he said, purposely setting the gun aside so a footman could approach them. “What is it, George?”
“Beg pardon, Your Grace, a letter came from Town by messenger.”
Christian held out his hand, and Gilly felt a sense of foreboding. Perhaps St. Just was planning another visit, except the man knew he need not send warning, and certainly not by courier. Christian tore the missive open and scanned its contents, his expression betraying nothing.
“I will be nipping up to Town after all.”
Feathers.Damned, perishing feathers. “St. Just summons you?”
“Something like that. Shall we see if all this racket has disturbed Lucy’s lessons?”
She let him get away with that, let him dangle the obvious distraction before her, and let him saunter along beside her through the gardens. All the while, Gilly felt a growing silent tumult.
Christian was still settling in, still recovering. He wasn’t supposed to hare off on business—he was a duke, for pity’s sake, his business came to him with a snap of his elegant fingers.
“I’ll send a note over to Marcus,” Christian was saying. “He’ll be more than happy to have a respite from the challenges at Greendale.”
“I don’t want him here,” Gilly retorted, knowing her reply was irrational, knowing her voice held a note of panic.
“Gilly…” He paused at the French doors leading to the library. “He’s family, and he’s agreed to do this for me. I’m hopeful if I ask a favor of him, he’ll let me provide some assistance with Greendale in return. It’s a sop to masculine pride, I know…”
She stomped off a few paces and turned her back to him.
“Gillian?” He walked up behind her and stood near enough that she could catch a hint of lemon and ginger, but he didn’t touch her. “Talk to me.”
Nowhe wanted to talk, while Gilly wanted to weep and wasn’t exactly sure why. “He smokes horrid cigars.”
A patient, considering silence greeted that pronouncement, then, “Make sense to me, Gilly. You are a wonderfully sensible woman. Explain to me your reservations, because Imustgo, and I must know you are safe when I do. Am I being unreasonable?”
No, but neither was Gilly.
She whirled on him, prepared to beg. “Marcus knew, Christian. Heknewexactly what Greendale was about, and he did nothing. Kissed my hand and went on his way to call on Helene or scamper back to Spain or up to Town, there to drink the winter away with his fellow officers on leave.”
Christian’s arms came around her, promising security and more of his patient reason. “Did Greendale raise his hand to you before others?”
“His voice, occasionally, before the servants, not his hand.”
“Then Marcus likely suspected you suffered nothing worse than a tongue lashing.”
“That is balderdash,” she said. “I have uncles. I know how men are. You gather around the port or the brandy and you talk of women, and you have no privacy from one another regarding your bodily pleasures.”
“Some men,” he said. “But Greendale was arrogant. He would not boast of having trouble consummating his vows.”
“He would boast of bringing his rebellious wife to heel, like some hound prone to running riot.”
“You are so very angry,” he said quietly. He held her tighter, and Gilly wanted to rage and break things and cry, not because he didn’t understand—but because very possibly he did, and he was leaving anyway.
She stepped away instead and did not take Christian’s arm. They went up to the nursery in silence, a distance growing between them that Gilly both needed and hated.
Why didn’t Christian invite her to go with him to Town?
Why couldn’t St. Just be recruited to serve as her nanny again?
What had been in that damned note?
