Page 23 of The Captive
But something in the exchange with St. Just had tickled Christian’s jumble of memories, something in the comments about horses. The words rankled, as so many things rankled, and still, Christian could not put a finger on why. Something to do with Chessie, with finding the horse whole and in good weight, even after months of campaigning against the French.
Christian eventually fell asleep, feeling bodily clean for the first time in more than a year, though feeling clean was by no means the same as feeling safe.
***
Christian found Lady Greendale in the family parlor, sitting at the escritoire by the window.
“The clothing fits,” she said, rising as she surveyed him. “A bit loosely, but well enough.”
“And my thanks for your efforts.” She looked so…composed, sitting in the sunlight, the invitations scattered about on the desk. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had a domestic quality that went well with the tidy parlor and morning sunlight. “I must impose on you a bit further, though.”
“Of course.” She tossed her pen aside and came toward him, then circled around behind him. “You’ll want this tied back.”
“My hair?”
“You’re going to Court, Your Grace. Some still powder their hair for such occasions. Hold still.”
She withdrew a pocket comb and gently started tidying up his hair. He’d done the best he could with his own brush and comb, unwilling to ask anybody’s assistance.
He hadn’t thought to ask hers, though she was a widow and a relation, and a woman who, for all her chatter, possessed prodigious common sense. She’d comprehended he needed his oranges peeled, and he hadn’t had to ask.
Nobody should have to look on the evidence of his captivity—he didn’t want to see it himself—and yet, Christian was gratified that when she did look, Lady Greendale calmly accepted what was before her eyes.
So he suffered her to arrange his hair, tying it back with a simple black ribbon. Her diminutive stature helped him endure her attentions, but so did her tendency to chatter.
Hisirritationat her tendency to chatter, rather.
“You do not appear to be looking forward to this great honor, Your Grace. The day is pleasant, fortunately. Perhaps Prinny will be kept overlong at his tennis matches, and then you’ll be spared the royal interview. Where are your gloves?”
He passed them to her, which merited him a frown.
“These are not riding gloves, sir.”
His dignity suffered more than a pinch, but common sense did not make the woman prescient.
“I can’t easily manage the change of gloves myself—I must use my teeth—and I don’t want to risk…”
She didn’t make him finish. “Dress gloves then. I daresay you’ve a pair or two. You were smart not to tart yourself up with too much gold, lest Prinny get ideas. You won’t glower at the poor Regent like that, though, will you?”
She tugged the glove onto his right hand, and he submitted to her assistance as if he were a boy still in dresses.
“What do you mean, giving Prinny ideas?” He knew the man, had been introduced on a handful of occasions as the scion of any noble house might be in early manhood. The Regent was genial when it suited him, shrewd, and not as spoiled as the press wanted to paint him.
“He solicits donations for his causes, the parks, that pavilion by the sea. Some think it scandalous, while we’ve been waging war over half the globe for his papa’s entire reign. Others consider him a visionary, but everybody knows to keep their coin out of his sight. Where are your sleeve buttons, that I might do up your cuffs?”
“Here.” He extracted them from his pocket, and dropped them into her outstretched hand. He hadn’t figured out quite how he was to don them—a footman usually assisted—and Lady Greendale was still blathering away.
“These are lovely.” She slipped one through his cuff, then brought his hand close to her nose to examine his jewelry. “Are those sapphires?”
By virtue of her having appropriated his hand, his palm was near enough to her cheek he could have stroked her face with his fingers. Had he taken this liberty and dared a small touch of her soft, fragrant person, she would not have rebuked him, but she might have pitied him, and that would have stolen all his pleasure from the moment.
“Those are star sapphires,” Christian said when she let his hand go. “On my personal signet ring, the lion’s eye in the family crest is the same stone.”
“What do you mean your personal signet ring?” She gathered up the right cuff, and slipped the fastener through, then patted his knuckles as if he’d been a good lad, not holding up the coach before the family departed for Sunday services.
“My father was sufficiently practical he kept various versions of the Severn signet ring at our principle houses. He said a groom shouldn’t have to ride halfway across England because His Grace forgot a piece of jewelry and had a letter to seal. I liked the idea of one ring, though,theSevern ducal ring, so I had one made on my eighteenth birthday. Papa no doubt rolled his celestial eyes at my vanity. The sleeve buttons and cravat pin were made to go with that ring.”
“And let me guess, the French took your ring from you?” She seized his left hand and attacked the cuff, his disfigurement of no apparent moment to her.
