Page 47 of The Captive
Four large trunks, stacked two and two, sat along the hallway nearest the porte cochere.
“Take them back up to her room, and please ask the countess to join me in the library.” He stomped off, the heels of his riding boots signaling his ire to all in his path.
Thought she’d leave him, would she? Thought she’d champion the rights of cats and naughty little girls over those of a man in his own home? Thought she’d abandon him and Lucy over a single display of temper? He’d show her temper, by God…
“Good afternoon, Mercia.”
Serene, smiling, her ladyship came into the room, though she moved with more dispatch than grace. She wasn’t a swanning sort of countess, which was good. Easier to read her the Riot Act that way.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, taking the offensive. “I saw your trunks. Up and leaving without a word? How do you think Lucy will like that, hmm? She’s only a child, and clearly attached to you, and here you are, haring off at the first sign of minor discord in the household.”
She stopped and opened her mouth, but wasn’t fast enough, given his mood.
“Nothing to say, Countess? For once I catch you without a glib reply? Come, does a little display of ducal authority honestly offend your sensibilities all that much?”
He paused, and it was a mistake, for she advanced on him, her blue eyes promising a stinging return volley.
“That wasn’t a display of ducal authority, YourGrace. That was a tantrum, unprovoked and undeserved, and you’ll have that child sneaking all manner of creatures up to the nursery simply to watch you cursing and stomping about the room.”
“I did not curse.”
“Bedamned,” she said very clearly, the language all the more foul for the disdain she applied to it. “Benighted, spawn of the devil…perhaps not taking the Lord’s name in vain, but certainly intemperate language unsuited to the nursery.”
“I will not be made to apologize for objecting to that beast’s presence in my daughter’s rooms.” He’d nearly shouted, likely surprising himself more than he’d surprised her.
And over akitten.
“Then don’t apologize.” She took a leaf from Christian’s own book and turned her back on him. Her posture was worthy of a seasoned officer on parade march, and it was a relief not to have to meet her eyes. “Perhaps you will explain your antipathy toward kittens.”
She didn’t make it a question, merely tossed a verbal gauntlet over her shoulder while she fussed a bouquet of white roses. Christian couldn’t see exactly what she’d done, but the bouquet was taller by the time she took up a seat on the sofa.
“First, my lady, explain why your trunks were packed.”
“Please have a seat, Your Grace.”
Order him about, would she? But wandering around the room would only make him look as agitated as he felt. He dropped down beside her. “I’m sitting. I hope you’re pleased.”
The footmen arrived bearing a substantial tray, complete with the tea service, sandwiches, and tea cakes. The ubiquitous peeled orange sat divided into sections on a silver plate, a blossom of healthy citrus, and Christian wanted to hurl the damned thing against the wall.
She was leaving, and he was growling when he ought to be groveling.
No, not groveling. He was constitutionally incapable of that—thankyou, Robert Girard—but apologizing at least.
And not explaining. Another constitutional incapability, for he wasn’t sure himself exactly what had got into him.
“I received a letter from my barrister,” Lady Greendale said.
“You’re involved in a lawsuit?” Lawsuits were never good. They invariably ended in scandal, expense, and wasted years. “Against whom?”
“I am not involved in any lawsuits, but I retained Mr. Stoneleigh to advise me regarding the inquest following Greendale’s death. He was invaluable in that capacity, and has now asked me to attend him in Town.”
“And you drop everything and take off like a hound on the scent when the lawyer snaps his fingers? That, I can tell you, is not how one deals with men of the law, Countess.”
“Does keeping your lawyers waiting for you improve their service or the outcomes of your legal matters?”
“I’m a damned…dashed duke.” Who was afraid of kittens. “Their service had best be impeccable whenever I’m so unfortunate as to need it.”
“Yes, well…” She passed him a cup, and he took an unthinking sip.
