Page 19 of The Captive
Certainly, no tears. Tears were never a good idea. Gilly’s husband had wasted no time instructing her on the matter of useless tears.
“I can no longer write comfortably with it,” he said, as if his hand were a quill pen in want of attention from a good, sharp knife. “With a glove on, it suffices for appearances’ sake.”
“It pains you, then?” Of course it hurt. Any visible scar hurt, if for no other reason than it reminded one of how the scar arose, and memories could be more painful than simple bodily aches.
“I rarely feel much with it, though I can predict approaching storms. Are you quite through?”
“Almost.” She put in one last, completely unnecessary pin, and let him withdraw his hand before she could weep over it.
She didn’t even know Mercia and might not like him if she did know him, but to have endured such suffering made her hurt for him. Men did stupid things without limit—duels, wagers, horse races, dares, bets—and war had to be the stupidest.
“My thanks.” He stood as soon as she sat back, no doubt glad to be done with the whole business.
“Can you get the shirt off without stabbing yourself? It wants caution. Here.” She didn’t wait for his invitation, but started lifting the hem. She was presuming, but she’d been married for years and years, and his valet was not on hand—if he had a valet—and the shirt was full of pins…
“Really, Lady Greendale, you needn’t.” He reached out as if he would still her hands, but stopped short of touching her. “I can manage, if you’d simply…”
“Close your eyes.” She wasn’t tall enough to lift the shirt over his head unless he bent forward, which he did, allowing her to extricate him from his voluminous, pinned up, inside-out shirt. She stepped back, glad to have the maneuver safely concluded, and carefully folded up the shirt. “There. All done.”
He turned toward his dressing room, and Gilly couldn’t help the sound that came from her. She moaned, an involuntary expression of dread and horror and even grief. He turned to face her, shirtless, and his eyes were colder than ever.
“You insisted, my lady.”
That he’d taken his back from her view helped not at all, for his chest was every bit as disfigured as his back.
***
Over Meems’s sniffy, tenacious protest, Gilly had insisted Mercia be allowed to rest right through dinner the previous night. Meems was in the same excellent rebellious form the next morning, and perhaps of the opinion that a mere interfering countess needed to learn her place in the household.
For Meems was male and must inflict his opinions on all in his ambit.
“His Grace hasn’t stirred, your ladyship, not that we can hear.”
“Not that you can hear?”
“He sleeps with his doors locked, milady.”
Meems’s grave deference notwithstanding, he was happily anticipating how Gilly would see His Grace awakened through a pair of locked doors.
“You’ve tried calling out?”
“If the sitting room door is closed, that would do little good, milady.”
“Then I’ll wake him myself.” She set her teapot down as quietly as she could, when she wanted to bash the thing over the old man’s head. “You’re heating His Grace’s hot water, are you not?”
“But of course.” He had the temerity to fall in step nearly on the heels of her slippers, until Gilly turned and glared at him at the foot of the stairs.
“Surely you’ll see personally to the duke’s breakfast tray, Meems?”
He indulged in a peevish sniff, then took himself back to the kitchen stairs without a word. Meems was piqued because he wanted to show his duke off before Polite Society for what remained of the Season, but Mercia was not an exhibit in a public circus.
Gilly tapped on the door to the sitting room and heard nothing in response. “Your Grace?” She leaned her ear against the door, and still…nothing.
And yes, the door was locked.
She extricated a hairpin from her bun and went to work. The lock was well oiled—give Meems credit—and Gilly was skilled, and soon the mechanism gave with a satisfying click. The bedroom door was even easier, and there he was, the eighth Duke of Mercia, facedown in his great four-poster monstrosity.
Gilly closed the door behind her, mindful of His Grace’s privacy, and approached the bed.
