Page 39 of The Captive
Her hair tickling his chin.
Her breasts, unapologetically soft and full against his chest.
Peppermint—from her tooth powder?—lingering on his lips.
His reactions were slow, and she seemed to understand they would be, for she remained against him long enough that he could loop his arms around her waist, rest his chin against her temple, and let the peace of the embrace settle over him.
Girard deserved to die, slowly and painfully, but of all the things Girard had destroyed in Christian’s life, he had not, nor would he ever, destroy this moment.
“I wanted the graves to be tidy for you, too,” she said. “For all of us, the graves should be tidy.”
The countess was protective of those she cared about, and in her admission, Christian found proof that she cared abouthim. She hadn’t assured him she’d remain for her entire year of mourning—the most he could ask of her, for now—but she’d given him a morsel of her trust.
He turned her under his arm and walked her back to the house without allowing her to leave his side.
Eight
“Why not a hack about the park one day soon?” Mercia asked his daughter. He had the knack of pausing long enough to invite the child to answer, but not so long as to create expectations. Gilly wondered where he’d learned such interrogatory skill, or if he simply had a gift.
“Hearing no objection,” he went on, “I’ll invite the countess to ride with us.”
“I haven’t a proper habit, but I will make one up, now that I know the stables are open to guests.”
Something nonplussed then a trifle aggravated flickered in Mercia’s eyes.
“We’ll choose her ladyship a mount, shall we?” He put the question to his daughter and extended a hand to the child. “One must indulge in some anticipatory spoiling if one is to form an alliance with a horse or a member of the opposite sex. You are not to repeat that to your governess, Lucy.”
As if she’d repeat anything to anybody.
Mercia took his daughter from stall to stall, eventually lifting her onto his hip, something the girl was old enough to object to, and wise enough to enjoy. She was content to wander from one velvety equine nose to another, her head resting on her father’s shoulder.
And the picture they made, two blond heads nestled together, the duke occasionally murmuring quietly to his daughter, gave Gilly an odd pang for Helene. This was lost to Helene, this simple outing to the stables with father and daughter, lost forever. Watering the flowers in the library, surreptitiously watching His Grace scratch out letters to his old army connections—many of them still on the Continent—that was lost too.
Peeling his oranges.
Kissing him. Reveling in the sandalwood scent of him. Feeling his heart beat with the firm, steady rhythm of a trotting horse.
“Come, Countess, there’s a lady asking to make your acquaintance,” the duke said. “I presented this one to Helene on the occasion of Evan’s birth.”
Gilly caught up to His Grace and peered over an open half door at a dainty golden mare with four white socks, a white blaze, and a flaxen mane and tail.
Gilly stretched out a hand to the horse. “She is darling. It’s a shame she’s not being ridden.”
“The lads no doubt dice for the privilege of taking her out,” Mercia said. “But she’s the right size for you. Helene disdained her because of her modest size.”
He said it casually, as if having such a generous lying-in gift disdained wasn’t of any moment, but Gilly had begun to wonder if anything Helene had said about her husband was true. Perhaps a sojourn in the army had done him good, or perhaps Helene’s judgment had been less than objective.
The duke was not grim; he was serious, as a mature man might be serious.
He was not selfish; he was disciplined.
He was not a great brute, but rather a tall, handsome—if lean—man, whose kisses were the opposite of brutish.
And if he was a ravening lecher, Gilly saw no evidence of it. Helene had claimed he’d kept mistresses and conducted several liaisons simultaneously. Gilly hadn’t questioned where such lurid information came from, but had prayed Greendale might do likewise and leave her in peace.
“Child, your hour of liberty has flown,” the duke said, easing Lucy to her feet. “Will you join me here tomorrow? Perhaps we’ll put you on a leading rein, and let you have a turn on Damsel while the countess cheers you on.”
Lucy’s little face lit up, and she clapped her hands together as she nodded emphatically.
