Page 14 of The Captive
His condition called to the long-denied part of her that delighted in the role of caretaker, a part of her that had shrunk to a husk under Greendale’s criticisms, that had wished even if Greendale were the father, Gilly might have had children to raise and love.
And yet, what came out of her fool mouth? “What of a chaperone, Your Grace?”
He did not smile. Gilly’s sense of his amusement was unsupported by anything save the way he turned that signet ring, played with it almost, the band loose around his finger.
“First, my lady, we are family, as you’ve noted yourself. You are Helene’s cousin, and widowed. If your own family could not provide for you, I would naturally expect you to apply to me in their stead. Second, you have apparently been a frequent visitor at Severn in my absence. As a kinswoman, you would be the logical choice for my hostess, were I to entertain. In any case, you are beyond chaperones now, are you not? Third, you are the logical choice of female to take a continuing interest in Lucy’s development, because you are the only one who might sponsor her come out ten years hence.”
Quite a speech from him. Gilly sorted through his words and concluded he was offering her a home at Severn, however temporarily. Absenting herself from Greendale represented the closest thing Gilly had to a goal, besides seeing to Lucy’s welfare.
Mercia had some ulterior motive, of that Gilly was certain, but no matter. She’d been dealing with men and their motives for years, and Lucy had no other champion.
Gilly rose, which meant the duke had to come to his feet as well, and gracious, he was tall. “I’ll collect my things and remove here in the morning, Your Grace.”
Some flicker of emotion in the vicinity of his thin mouth suggested he was pleased, or possibly relieved, but apparently he’d left the ability to smile on that French mountainside, too.
“Send for your things. I’m sure a guest room is kept in readiness, and the hour grows late.”
***
Gillian, Lady Greendale, was fretful, busy, and only distant family, but if she kept mostly to daylight hours, cajoled the child out of her megrims, and spared Christian mountains of painstaking social correspondence, then he’d consider the bargain well met.
That she could peel oranges and didn’t regard him as a freak because he eschewed tea was to her credit as well.
Lady Greendale regarded him, her head cocked at an angle like a biddy hen sizing up the new egg girl. “You want me to stay here tonight?”
He did, and not because a craving for more oranges might beset him. “Shall you sit?”
She went back to the sofa, resuming her place before the tea trays.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like some sustenance?” he asked. Except for a few bites of orange, her ladyship hadn’t eaten a thing, and offering food was as close to charming as he could be.
“Am I delaying your dinner, Your Grace?”
“You are not.” He wasn’t capable of eating a dinner. She’d find that out soon enough if she joined his household.
“Well, then yes, I could do with a sandwich. Will you join me?”
“No, thank you.”
Her spine stiffened.
“Well, perhaps…” He surveyed the offerings, and knew he ought to be hungry. More to the point, the lady would take it amiss if he didn’t eat. “A buttered scone.”
She beamed at him with every bit as much guileless goodwill as his staff showed, and Christian had to look away. He resumed his slouch against the mantel, where the fire’s warmth could work its magic on the permanent ache he’d absorbed from the cold, damp stones of the Château’s lower reaches.
“You mentioned an inquest, my lady.” He’d already forgotten her name again, though it would come to him when he was trying to recall where he’d put his pocket watch.
She dabbed butter on his scone and considered the effect, much the way some women held their embroidery up, the better to admire it, then added a bit more butter.
“I was told an inquest was a formality, Lord Greendale being a peer. Nonetheless, it was unpleasant in the extreme, Your Grace, and were it not for the assistance of my barrister, I shudder to consider the consequences. Jam?”
He’d missed most of what she said, because his attention was fixed on the fourth finger of her left hand, which sported a slightly odd bend to the second joint.
“You’re not wearing a ring.” Perhaps her rings no longer fit. His certainly didn’t.
“I’m no longer married.”
Neither was he. The thought still caught him by surprise and unsettled him, which would have pleased Helene. “I gather your union wasn’t happy?”
