Page 28 of The Captive
“He said…” Mercia tapped the daisy against his own nose. “He said the way I’d been treated was useful for shaming the French into concessions at the negotiating table. Useful.”
“You were treated disgracefully. Shall you mutilate that flower too?” Gilly didn’t want him to. Yes, the daisies were profuse, and only daisies, but she didn’t want him to indulge in pointless destruction.
He looked down, his expression unreadable in the gloom. Then he strolled over to the table and tucked the flower behind Gilly’s ear. His fingers grazed her jaw, probably unintentionally, but it was a sweet touch. Gentle and soothing, unlike His Grace’s mood.
“My thanks for the food. I’m sorry you were worried. I’ll try not to give you cause for it again. You’ll excuse me if I don’t join you for dinner.”
He sauntered back out the gate, into the darkening alley, off on God knew what ducal errand, while Gilly ate the last of his strawberries and wondered if anything she’d endured in her marriage to Greendale could be considereduseful.
Six
Gilly had grown too used to the quiet of the countryside, and her attempts to sleep in Mercia’s town house were fruitless. The streets grew quieter after dark, true, but the remaining sounds compelled the attention for being more isolated.
Then too, she was anxious. Anxious on Lucille’s behalf, hoping the duke’s reunification with his daughter lifted the child’s spirits, and hoping the child might lift the duke’s spirits.
Gilly tossed back the bedclothes and found her black silk wrapper. Was there any consolation to the new widow greater than black silk? She gathered her shawl around her shoulders and made her way to the library, intent on selecting a book for the next day’s journey. She could read in coaches, in short doses anyway.
Except even in this small task, His Grace had to frustrate her.
She rapped softly on the open library door—startling a man who cuddled up with knives was not well advised.
“Come.” He uttered the word without looking up from his desk.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
He set his pen down with the long-suffering air of a composer interrupted by the charwoman. “I thought you were a footman coming to trim wicks and build up the fire.”
“Sorry to disappoint. What are you working on?”
“A report.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Obviously.”
His foul humor was so palpable Gilly wanted to stomp from the room. No wonder Helene had despaired of the man, despite his former good looks.
“I came to find a book, something soothing to quiet my mind, something to take with me on the journey to Severn.” She crossed to the bookshelves, which held more volumes than she could count in a month. “Shouldn’t you be in bed if we’re to be awake at first light?”
“Sleep eludes me as well.” He was up, prowling around, then poking at the fire.
“When Greendale died, the physician left me with enough sleeping draughts to put down a small herd of horses. I tried not to be offended.”
“He didn’t mean for you to use them all at once.” Now he tidied up his desk, capping the inkwell, opening and closing drawers.
“I’ve never been certain. Have you read all these books?”
“The ones in Latin, English, or French, probably. My Greek is rusty.”
“Then you might show a hint of good manners—nothing binding or impressive—and help me select a book I can take to bed with me and read in the coach tomorrow.”
“Poetry,” he said, banging a drawer loudly. He came over to stand beside her, which meant they were in some proximity, the rows of shelves positioned to accommodate one person browsing, not two. “Here.”
He took down a volume of Blake. “Bucolic, but with occasional nods toward the profound.”
“Read me a few lines.”
His scent came to her, rosemary and sandalwood, fresh, a little piney, male, and clean—even at this hour.
