Page 49 of The Captive
“A dower house isn’t charity. It’s your due for putting up with that old besom for eight years of days…and nights.”
She shuddered, confirming Christian’s sense the marriage had been a trial. He was pleased about that too, also displeased for her sake. He held out his cup for a refill, the first having helped settle him rather than agitate him further.
She poured out, her movements graceful and relaxed, not those of a lady prevaricating about her plans.
“I am loath to return to Greendale with the dower house in its present state. I am also not looking forward to haggling with Easterbrook’s bride over which objects were part of my trousseau and thus mine to keep, and which were part of Greendale’s family collection. You truly don’t mind if I send some things here?”
“I am not keen on you undertaking this mission without my escort, but you may send anything you like here for safekeeping.”
“Mission? As if I’m one of your cavalry officers?”
“You would have buttoned old Soult up in a trice. Boney would have fallen shortly thereafter.”
She smiled at his prediction, the real, private, sweet smile, and something in his vitals eased. If she was smiling, maybe she really did intend to return to him.
To them.
“Was Lucy very upset over that cat?” he asked, surprised to see he’d finished his second cup of tea as well.
And damn, it had been good. A hot, sweet cup of good black tea, served by a proper English hostess under his own roof.
“Not very. She knew she’d been caught transgressing. Are you truly upset with her?”
“I certainly acted upset.” He’d been furious, and the anger had been both appropriate—wonderfully, marvelously, bracingly appropriate—and all wrong.
The countess passed him half the remaining orange sections, and took half for herself. “You were on your dignity.”
They munched oranges in prosaic silence—his teeth and gums were much improved—while he tried to muster his courage. She scooted closer to top off his tea, then stayed right there beside him, adding her rosy scent to the fragrance of the orange.
“Have a tea cake,” she said, putting one on his plate. “I certainly intend to have some.”
They were adults. They should have begun their meal with sandwiches and a serving of small talk, but consuming oranges together had somehow become a ritual uniquelytheirs.
“I was…upset, over the cat.”
She held up a tea cake. He took it from her hand and dutifully had a bite. The confection was rich and sweet with a dash of nutmeg. Now that he was trying to talk to the woman, she crammed his maw with delicacies.
“We’ll spoil our dinners,” he said, though how long had it been since he’d had a tea cake?
“We’re adults. Spoiling dinner is one of few prerogatives thereof. You were saying?”
“About?”
“The kitten.”
She watched him with those big blue eyes, but they weren’t judging, they were solemn, patient, and kind.
“Cats…” He had to look elsewhere, at the porcelain service adorned with birds the same color as her eyes. “Cats toy with their prey. They delight in toying with their prey, and teach their young to do likewise.”
“The French?”
He nodded. “The Château had an abundance of cats.” Miserable, hungry wretches who had had the freedom to leave but remained, like rats skulking about the foundation of a ruin, only meaner and more deadly.
She slid her arm around his waist and hugged him. “We must put you back on your mettle. Have another cake.”
He had five.
***
