Page 96 of The Captive
“You’re affectionate with Lucy, too, and with your horse and those puppies.”
“They won’t be puppies for long. I’m glad you allow me to be affectionate, Countess. Have I told you that?”
“You tell me, though not with words.”
He liked that reply, liked that she didn’t make it a point of honor to chide him for it, or to pretend she merely tolerated his attentions. She curled up against him easily, their bodies having grown familiar with each other.
“How do you feel this morning?” he asked, sliding a hand over her tummy.
“Somewhat rested. What have you planned for this day?”
“I was considering riding over to Greendale,” he said, rubbing his chin over her crown. “Marcus has been in residence for some weeks, and I’ve yet to pay a call.”
“He’s your heir, shouldn’t he call on you?”
Did she fear Christian’s absence, even for a day? “We’ve corresponded. Your departed spouse left his estate in disarray, so unwilling was he to part with coin before the last needful moment.”
“He was a cheese-paring, nip-farthing old penny-pincher.” She never used one insult when three would do for her late husband. Had a bit of the gunnery sergeant about her, did his Gilly.
“Thus Marcus is up to his ears in squabbling tenants, sagging fences, and weedy crops. One wonders why the man didn’t put his foot down with the old earl prior to this.”
“Because the old earl had a wicked temper,” Gilly said, trailing off into a yawn. “He was not beyond leaving all his personal wealth to charity should Marcus defy him or cross him or disrespect him.”
“In which case, Marcus would not have been able to sell his commission, but would have become an absentee landlord to a neglected estate, thus ensuring the misery of all. Tell me again you didn’t poison your spouse.”
“I did not poison my spouse.”
He laid his cheek against her breast. “You thought of it.”
“Many, many times.”
“I do understand, you know.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
Her hand drifted in his hair, and he closed his eyes, for having his scalp rubbed was a guilty pleasure. Gilly was astute about how he liked to be touched, or maybe he craved any contact with her on any terms.
“Marry me, Gillian. Please.”
“Stop it.” She left off petting his hair and struggled toward the edge of the bed. “Your constant importuning is not attractive, Your Grace, and I am considering your offer as seriously as I can.”
“Referring to me as Your Grace is also not attractive, not from you, not when we’re private. Come back to bed.”
That merited not even a glance. She flounced about the room—petite women had a way with a flounce—looking for the wool stockings he insisted she borrow, no doubt intent as always on leaving him before the chambermaids came to poke up the fire and bring the morning tea.
“They’re under the vanity.”
A halfhearted glare, and she went down on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant stockings. Christian worked himself to the edge of the bed, enjoying the show and trying not to think of ways he might enjoyherin such a pose.
Gilly was modest, even in bed, always keeping her nightgown on until the candles were out. Though he’d shown her a variety of sexual positions, she’d balked at getting on her knees before him, claiming it wanted dignity.
As if…
“Ouch.” She muttered it and went still, half under the vanity, half not, and then she moved, and the fine linen of her nightgown ripped.
“Don’t move, love. You’ve probably caught the thing on a nail, for which somebody will pay.”
“Don’t…” She backed out, stockings in hand, but succeeded only in tearing her nightgown the length of her back and starting a thin red welt up near one shoulder.
