Page 20 of The Captive
If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the duke dead. He was that pale, as if he’d wandered beyond even the reach of the sun. In his utter immobility, he looked exhausted, like he’d been on forced march for weeks. A castaway quality to how he sprawled among his crisp, white sheets and blue satin pillows suggested he was resting deeply.
“Your Grace?”
His hand—the right hand, the perfect one—slid under his pillow, and his cheek twitched.
“Mercia? Your Grace?”
She was on the verge of reaching out to shake his shoulder, when he rolled onto his back. Gilly took a blinking moment to comprehend he held a wicked-looking knife in his hand. The blade gleamed in the morning light, brighter than any tea service, bright as jewels.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“What the bloodyhellare you doing here?” Not his near-whispered drawing-room voice, but the rasp of a savage, one who’d use that lethal knife on any and all comers.
He’d snarled a question at her.
“I’m leaving, of course, in a moment. Your tray is on its way, though, and when you’ve broken your fast, I’ll await you in the library.”
***
Though she’d seen many of his scars—by no means all—the countess hadn’t left Christian’s household, and this pleased him more than it should. Of course, she might depart still, probably would, in fact, but she hadn’t run off, a silly note in her wake referencing pressing business or whatever polite fiction women resorted to when terrified out of their wits.
By a scarred, emaciated duke wielding a knife, may God have mercy upon him.
Christian dressed in waistcoat and shirtsleeves—hang the bloody cravat—and stepped into a worn pair of Hessians that had once been nearly painted onto him but fit him loosely now. As he brushed his hair back into its queue—barbering required proximity to scissors too—a footman appeared with a breakfast tray.
The scent of bacon in close quarters, of any cooked meat, nearly drove Christian to retching. “You will please take that down to the library.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He didn’t recognize the man, didn’t recognize half his staff, and it had been only two years since his last leave had sent him pelting through London on a lightning spree of self-indulgence.
Helene had disdained to come up to Town for more than a week of it, and he’d applauded her stubbornness, if anybody had cared to ask. What an idiot he’d been, and what a silly twit he’d married.
And yet, he’d give anything to be that idiot again, and for the silly twit to be at his side now, sniffing and judging and trying to tell him what to do.
He paused outside the library and rolled his shoulders as if he were loosening up for a cavalry charge. The countess, being widowed, no doubt had a dower house, but she’d struck him as a woman who’d rather be around family than moldering away on her late husband’s estate.
He opened the door, rehearsed contrition at the ready.
“I do apologize for intruding on your slumber, Your Grace.” The countess was in good looks this morning, dressed in a black gown that showed her figure to great advantage. Three years ago, he would have stolen a kiss to her cheek.
Idiotdid not begin to cover the matter.
“You need not apologize in the slightest, my lady, nor do I sense that you are genuinely sorry.” His breakfast tray waited on the low table before the countess, so he took a place more or less beside her. “Your intent was to rouse me, else you would not have gone through two locked doors to achieve that end.”
“Your orange?” She handed him a plate of fruit, the orange peeled and divided into sections for him. “I’ve told the kitchen they’d best be seeing to the preparation of the foods you enjoy regularly. They’re happy to do it, you know, even to peeling your oranges. I did this one myself. Tea?”
“Without the tea.”
Cautiously, he took a bite of orange. The scent of it was appealing, particularly when blended with the countess’s soap-and-flowers fragrance.
“I’ve basted up your clothes from yesterday’s fitting. If you can spare the time, we’d best see how they do. Scone?”
“Please.”
“Meems is moping,” she went on. “He wants you to sport about Town for a bit so the household might have bragging rights on the lost duke.”
“Lady Greendale—”
