Page 26 of The Captive
His heart slowed. Chessie stomped a back hoof, and Christian swung up as he let his mind add detail after detail.
The sound of carriage wheels tooling over the crushed white shells of the driveway.
Light bouncing off the windows on the third floor at the end of the day.
The scent of the lake when the breeze shifted, how the surface rippled with the wind. The ducks rioting and taking wing en masse for no apparent reason.
By the time he found his own mews, Christian was breathing normally and looking forward to seeing the ducal seat.
And to his next sighting of the small, fierce countess who gave surprisingly good advice.
***
“His Grace is riding up the alley, milady.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Gilly lifted her bonnet off and passed it to the footman, whose relief had been evident in his tone. The duke was a grown man, a peer of the realm, a decorated officer, and still, she’d fretted over him as if he were a child gone missing at the market.
“If you would tell Cook we’ll take a cold collation out on the back terrace, I’d appreciate it. Lemonade, plenty of sugar, no tea. And tell her to make it pretty.”
“Very good, milady.”
When he’d left, Gilly checked her appearance in the mirror above the sideboard, hoping her own relief was not as obvious as the footman’s had been. A hairpin had caught in her bonnet’s black netting, which caused a thick blond curl to list down around her shoulder. She hastily tucked it up, fetched her embroidery hoop, and managed to be sitting on the terrace, stitching, when His Grace came trooping through the gate from the mews.
“You’re back.” She rose, planting a smile on her face despite the inanity of her words. “How was your visit?”
“These are ruined.” He pulled off his dress gloves with his teeth, and passed them to her. “His Highness sends you his condolences. Have we anything to eat?”
“He didn’t feed you?”
“He didn’t…he…I forget.” Mercia ran a hand through blond hair coming loose from its queue. Gilly did not offer to tidy him up lest he use his teeth on her.
“I’ve ordered a cold tray.”
He muttered something as he wandered to the bed of daisies pushing up along the back wall.
“I beg your pardon?” Gilly raised her voice to carry over the clopping hooves in the alley beyond the wall.
“I said, you need not join me, Countess. I can take the tray inside.”
Despite his snappishness, the duke should not be alone. “I want to hear of your call upon the Regent.”
He wandered a few more steps, plucked a daisy, and began pulling off its petals, one by one. “You do not want to hear about my call on the Regent, which was perfectly prosaic, boring, in fact.”
“Was it boring for four or five hours?”
“I beg your pardon?” He lifted his gaze from the half-dismembered daisy, and Gilly saw the depths of an arctic winter.
“You were gone for nearly seven hours, Mercia. Prinny observes the courtesies, but by bestowing a few words here, a few minutes there. You missed tea.”
“I missed tea?” Those blond eyebrows rose, and Gilly steeled herself for a blistering set down. “So I did. Perhaps that’s why I’ll have something to eat now.”
He hadn’t said he was hungry, putting Gilly in mind of all the times she’d been too upset to eat. She was saved from concocting some reply when the footman arrived bearing a large tray.
“I’ll set it out,” Gilly said, offering the footman a smile. “My thanks.”
He bowed, shot a puzzled look at the duke, and withdrew. Mercia’s household endured a great deal of puzzlement of late.
“Come sit, Your Grace, unless you’d like to perambulate while you dine?”
