Page 99 of The Captive
“You are spouting nonsense, and it isn’t very nice of you, Christian. More tea, if you please.” She passed him the cup and saucer, hoping he’d ignore the way her hand shook.
He watched the cup and saucer trembling in her hand for a pointed moment, then fixed her a second cup.
“Then when it was obvious the marriage could not be undone,” he went on as if there’d been no pause, “you were the only one who could have orchestrated your own escape, and you failed to do that as well.”
“And what purpose would that have served?” she said, staring at her tea. “Anybody I sought aid from would have been bound to return me to Greendale’s care or suffer the King’s justice. My own father, my uncles, they would not help, Helene could not, Marcus could not, not openly. Greendale was careful to ensure I made no friends, and never allowed even the vicar to call on me privately. Greendale read my correspondence, controlled my money—”
She had to set the teacup down lest she shatter it, and the last thing, the very, very last thing she sought was to indulge in the violence her husband had delighted in.
“And still, you think you should have found a way,” Christian went on. “Passage to America, a life following the drum, a lady’s companion on some remote Scottish island. You never stopped blaming yourself, and belittling yourself, until you began to believe the things he said about you.”
She gave up wondering why Christian, of all people, would say such mean things to her, for he spoke only the truth. By the second year, her marriage had become precisely as he’d described it.
“I came to believe I wasn’t conceiving because I dreaded the prospect,” she said. “To imagine bringing a helpless child into that man’s household. The housekeeper was the one to tell me I was his fourth countess, every one of them as petite as I am, and they’d all despaired of having children too. Something my parents had carefully neglected to tell me.”
She made herself tell him the rest of it. “The housekeeper’s admission must have been overheard, for Greendale fired her without a character the next week.”
“So you stopped even looking for allies,” Christian said, staring at the fire. “You no longer even talked to the mice.”
Whatwashegoingonaboutwithhisblessedmice?
“I prayed for his death. I did not kill him.”
“You think I’d blame you?” He flicked a glance over her. “Men like Greendale need killing, badly. That his evil will have no representation in the next generation is divine justice, and did you kill him, I’d toast you for it in the streets of London.”
“And get me hanged by the neck until dead.”
Because violence begets violence, as surely as cats had kittens and horses foals.
Her logic silenced him, for of all men, Christian could understand her reasoning.
She sat in her torn nightgown and robe, trying not to feel chilled, trying not to feelanything, while the stubborn wish that he’d take her in his arms again plagued her badly.
“You cannot marry me because of what Greendale did to you,” he said at length, something in his tone both angry and weary. “Not yet.”
“I want to marry you, but I did not want you to see…toknow. I contemplated death with affection, Christian, rather than face more years like that, blaming myself. And yet, I did not surrender my power on this earth. My power, my dignity were wrested from me and smashed to bits, while my family and all of Society went merrily on their way and the law applauded. One grew…bewildered.”
“I understand.”
She feared those two words were his way of initiating their good-byes, because her bewilderment had come between them, and who knew when she might resolve it?
Then he did something odd. He slid out of his chair and knelt beside hers. She braced herself, not sure what to expect, for the moment did not call for the dramatics of aparfitgentilknight.
He slipped his arms around her waist and laid his head in her lap.
“Your Grace?” He’d done this once before, when he’d first started proposing to her. He burrowed in closer and nuzzled her thigh.
“Christian?”
“Hush, love. We can argue more later, but for now, hush. You mustn’t fret, but I cannot leave you alone right now. You have humbled me in ways I never conceived a man could be humbled.”
“I’vehumbledyou?” The useless lump was back in her throat, along with useless, stupid tears. He liked it when she stroked his head, so she did that, over and over again, while the tea grew cold and her heart broke.
Over and over again.
Seventeen
Thanks to a merciful God, the day of Gilly’s awful revelations saw a surprise visit from Devlin St. Just, who was in the neighborhood on a horse-buying mission.
