Page 95 of The Captive
His hand went still. “She never said. In damned near a decade of marriage, she never mentioned this. Bloody hell, my own wife, and she was afraid for her life.”
Gilly set his hand away and went up on her elbow to peer at him. The night was cool, so a fire had been lit, and the coals gave off enough light that she could see his face.
“She knew her duty,” she said. “We talked about it. The family was originally considering offering you me, recall, because I was younger than Helene, and marriage would mean nobody had to pay for my come out. I offered to take you on, before Greendale had put his plans for me to the solicitors, but Helene wanted to be your duchess.”
“She wanted to beaduchess, anybody’s duchess. All the little girls want to be duchesses.” He was disgruntled, upset even. “Helene gave birth easily, the physician and the midwife assured me of that, both times.”
Gilly pushed him to his side, which meant pushing at him until he divined her purpose and complied on his own initiative. She hiked herself up higher on the pillows and spooned herself around him, throwing a leg over his hips and tucking an arm around his waist.
He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, then flattened her palm over his heart. “Did you want to be my duchess, Gilly, my love?”
The question was wistful, the endearment devastating.
“Go to sleep, Christian. You have an appointment with Chesterton shortly after dawn.”
He rolled onto his back, his expression serious.
“Marry me, Gillian. Please.” He stroked his hand down the side of her face. “I talk to you, and were you my duchess, you would not suffer in silence over something as frightening as childbed. I’m…not as young as I was when Helene got her hands on me, but I’m not as stupid, either.”
Young, his euphemism for whole of mind, body, and spirit, innocent of the evils men could perpetrate on each other, ignorant of war, murder, and torture.
Italktoyou…
“Rub my back for a bit?”
He held his palm against her jaw and looked like he might for once pick a fight with her instead of the other way round. Then his lips quirked up.
“If you’re asking for comfort from me, then you must be abjectly miserable, poor thing.” He rolled to his side and tucked her into the curve of his body, his hand making slow, easy caresses low on her back.
And despite how his touch eased her aches and relaxed her closer to sleep, Gilly was indeed abjectly, utterly miserable too. He might talk to her, but by no means was she doing a proper job of talking to him.
***
Christian’s countess fell asleep easily, which was reassuring. She admitted by night that they should be together bodily, but resisted by day what he was coming to conclude was the only course: they must marry.
He loved her, though how and why this had come about, he could not exactly pinpoint. Something to do with peeled oranges, soft kisses, black silk, and a rather ruthless approach to gardening. He sensed, though, that announcing his feelings would drive Gilly away, hurt her, or maybe frighten her.
He talked to her, and she listened. She did not talk to him, not about what mattered.
Not about her marriage.
Not about how desperately she wanted children.
Not about her feelings for him.
Something haunted her blue eyes; something kept her willingness to trust under tight rein and thwarted Christian’s efforts to woo her.
So he loved her instead, with his body, with his patience, with his consideration, and with his mind.
When she woke before dawn, he let her slip out of bed. She didn’t leave his room, but rather, went behind the privacy screen, made use of his tooth powder, and came back to join him in the bed thereafter.
“I know you’re awake, Mercia. Your expression is too angelic.”
“I am your angel,” he said, not opening his eyes. “Get over here and let me keep you warm.”
“When did you acquire such an affectionate nature?”
He flipped the covers up for her and considered her question. “In France, maybe. Maybe it was always latent and wanted only the right countess to come along and bring it out.”
