Page 48 of The Captive
“God in heaven…” He put the cup down, swallowing cautiously. She’d served him real tea, not the infantile combination of milk, hot water, and sugar he’d been forcing down for the past two months. Christian waited for his stomach to rebel, to clench in miserable, acid rebellion, but the pleasurable taste in his mouth wasn’t obliterated by any other bodily response.
“I’m sorry,” the countess said. “I forgot, honestly. Let me fix you up…”
“No. I’ll manage. The tea isn’t very strong yet, and you’ve added plenty of cream.”
“I fixed it as if for myself. You have me flustered.”
He took another sip of tea, pleased to be able to, but determined to stop at half a cup.
And flustered was gratifying. She didn’t look flustered, but the lady was quiet, and she’d bungled his tea.
“Flustered, my dear? Perhaps it’s your lawsuit that has you unnerved.”
“The matter is something to do with Greendale’s will,” she said, stirring her tea. “Stoneleigh would only say there’s no cause for worry, only cause to consult.”
“Haven’t you a solicitor to deal with something like a will?” Christian had an entire cricket team of them, though offering the countess the use of one didn’t seem to be what the moment called for.
“I’m more comfortable meeting with Mr. Stoneleigh, who will direct me to a solicitor if one is needed.”
Matters usually went the other way around, with the solicitor directing business to the barrister, but the countess hadn’t yet taken a sip of her tea.
“Tell me what’s afoot,” Christian said, trying to make it a helpful suggestion rather than a ducal mandate—and mostly failing. “And drink your tea before it gets cold.”
She gave him another puzzled look, but took a sip then set her cup down. “Orange, Your Grace?”
He wanted her to call him by name. Nobody referred to a duke by name—Helene certainly hadn’t, not even when he’d come to bed of a night—but all this Your Gracing…
Even Girard had referred to him by his title.
“No oranges, thank you, and quit dithering about. If you have a legal worry, you are under my roof, and I will relieve you of it, do you deign to allow me.”
He’d fallen a bit short of making a helpful suggestion, though the woman was smiling at her tea.
“The trunks are empty. I’m traveling to Town by way of Greendale and retrieving more of my belongings.”
Abruptly, the tea tasted ambrosial. The trunks were not a sign of her impending departure; to the contrary, they were for collecting more of her effects and bringing them to Severn.
Where she now…resided.
“Will four trunks be enough?” He popped a section of orange into his mouth. They could spare her a farm wagon, should she need it. He’d drive the thing himself.
“Four will be plenty. I’ll gather up only my personal belongings from Greendale and send them here, if you’ll allow it.”
“Of course I’ll allow it.” He’d like to see her try to send them elsewhere.
“Greendale told me repeatedly that upon his death, I would receive the bare minimum required by the settlements, a dower portion of the unentailed estate, though I assume he organized his finances so that sum is paltry.”
“What about a dower property?” Because if she ever were wroth with him, she ought to have a dower residence to retreat to.
“Greendale has a dower house,” she said, helping herself to a section of orange. “His lordship did not spend a single farthing on its upkeep during the eight years of our marriage.”
“Has the dry rot or creeping damp, then?” He tried not to sound pleased about this, but if he were lucky, the roof leaked as well.
“Likely has bats. I’m sure Easterbrook would allow me to stay in the main house until the dower house is marginally habitable, but he’ll be finding himself a bride, and I can’t look forward to sharing the table with her.”
“He is obligated…” Christian began, but she stopped him by holding up a section of orange. He took it with his teeth, as she’d no doubt intended.
“How is it men cannot see themselves ever tolerating charity, but women are supposed to meekly, even gratefully, accept it?”
