Page 105 of The Captive Duke
He was silent, simply holding her, and Gilly took it as a measure of her upset that she let him embrace her more or less in public. A quick hug between cousins-by-marriage might be excused, but not this.
“I cannot know the experiences you’ve survived, Gilly, except what you tell me of them.” His hand stroked across her back, as if he would remind her of what he’d seen and that her scars did not frighten him. “I will tell you what somebody told me: I respect you all the more for what you’ve confided, both because of what you survived and because you don’t pretend it never happened. The shame wounds you, but it belongs entirely to Greendale.”
If Christian did not get on his horse soon, she’d be telling him every last, awful detail. “I wanted it all to die with him.”
“The mistreatment died with him, but you, my love, did not, for which I will ever give thanks. You’ll be decent to St. Just?”
“I’ll flirt my eyebrows off with him.”
This earned her a chuckle. “He’s a cavalry officer. He won’t scare easily.”
Christian kissed her forehead, and Gilly couldn’t help holding him tighter.
“I’ll stay if you ask me to,” he said softly, right near her ear, “but I owe Marcus a show of support.”
“Go then.” She stepped back quickly, before she started begging. “Give him my regards, and tell him…”
She never wanted to see Marcus Easterbrook again, never wanted to see Greendale again.
And never wanted to say another goodbye to Christian Severn.
Gilly made a decision. She made her decision based on the way Chessie nuzzled at Christian’s pockets, the way Christian had held her right here in the stable yard, the way a man he’d befriended stood a few yards off, pretending to play with the puppies while standing guard over Christian and Gilly both.
“Tell Marcus to blow the dower house to kindling. It has the creeping damp, and I cannot see myself inhabiting such a sorry dwelling, ever.”
“I’ll tell him no such thing.” Christian smiled as hekissed her cheek, which both gratified and annoyed her, for she’d been deadly serious and trying to convey something besides the proper fate of a neglected heap.
Then he was up on his horse, a groom handing him his crop. He lifted it as if to flourish it in a salute, but caught Gilly’s eye.
In her heart,Don’t gowarred withTake me with you. She blew him a kiss and tried to smile. He touched his hat brim with his riding crop and still didn’t nudge Chessie off down the drive.
“Gilly?”
She shaded her eyes to meet his gaze.
“Keep this for me—or destroy it.” He tossed her the crop, and she caught it, the first time she’d touched such a thing willingly in years.
“Until this evening,” he said, and then he and Chessie were clattering over the cobblestones and cantering down the curving driveway until they were out of sight.
Gilly held the riding crop without looking at it and waited for the familiar pounding to begin in her chest.
And waited, while the puppies gamboled, the morning breeze rippled the surface of the lake, and Gilly’s heart…went about its job, as if she held a stick to throw for the puppies, or a flower.
Christian had entrusted her with a simple riding crop, a wooden handle covered in cowhide, the braided leather ending in a short lash. She’d seen hundreds in her lifetime, held a few dozen, and swatted the occasional lazy horse with one, though never in anger.
She was still drying her tears a few minutes later when St. Just ambled over, passed her a plain cream silk handkerchief that smelled slightly of horse, and proposed she give him a tour of the gardens.
Eighteen
OF ALL THE INCONVENIENCES PLAGUINGMARCUSEasterbrook, Christian Severn, eighth Duke of Mercia—and ironically, heir to the Greendale ancestral pile—figured as the most prominent. Even the damned weather cooperated in His Grace’s bloody social whims, for it was a perfect summer day. Sunny, dry, and pleasant without being hot, and the duke’s note had said he’d join his cousin for a midday meal.
Bad enough the man was unbreakable, and unkillable, but he was also likely to be punctual, so Marcus put the kitchen on notice that a proper feast had best be forthcoming at the one o’clock hour.
The staff would not disappoint. One result of inheriting from old Greendale was a staff who knew how to take orders from their betters.
And if Marcus were lucky, his dear former-step-aunt-the-countess would accompany Mercia on this call between relatives. Her ladyship had to be getting restless, what with being in mourning, and Mercia observing half mourning for the fair Helene.
Marcus wandered down to the stable, seeking adistraction from thoughts of Helene. Of the many bothersome results of Mercia’s return to the living, losing the use of Aragon—Chesterton, to the duke—was one of the worst. The beast had been handsome, faultlessly trained, and possessed of beautiful gaits.
