Page 106 of The Captive Duke
The sound of hooves in the stable yard signaled Mercia’s arrival. Marcus put on his best charming smile, squared his shoulders, and prepared to greet a man who lacked the common decency to die when the opportunity presented itself, or even to lose his reason so a trustee—in the person of a devoted cousin—might have been appointed to oversee the ducal assets.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Marcus extended a hand to Mercia. “A beautiful day for a ride. Hullo, horse. He looks to be thriving in your care.”
“As he did in yours.” The duke slapped Marcus hard on the back then looked around as a groom led the beast away. “The stables are not falling down. You exaggerated shamelessly.”
Mercia’s handshake was firm, his voice hearty, his dismount lithe. Marcus wanted to punch His Grace in his smiling face.
“Compared to Severn, this place is a disgrace. And I wish I could say I’ve found a great stash of the King’s coin hoarded up during all the years of neglect, but Greendale spent it on his entertainments and keeping the house up.”
Mercia’s smile turned disgustingly sympathetic. “You can always marry an heiress. In the alternative, rent out thehouse to some rich cit, fix yourself up a bachelor’s paradise in the gatehouse for a few years, diversify your incomes, and come visit me often. I promise to break out the best the cellars have to offer, and listen to all your woes.”
Goddamned hail-fellow-well-met.
“Sounds like good advice, particularly if I want to look in on my uncle’s widow from time to time.”
“She offered to take Lucy in hand.” The words put shadows in the renowned Severn blue eyes, and this was a relief, because Marcus had lost his only spy in the ranks of Severn servants.
“The poor girl still hasn’t found her tongue?”
“No, and I lose hope she ever will. If seeing one’s dear papa rise from the dead, and commanding the daily care and company of the countess hasn’t wrought a miracle for Lucy, I’m not sure what will.”
Thank God.“She doesn’t lack wits,” Marcus said, leading his guest through the extravagance of the Greendale gardens. “Perhaps you might send her north to one of those establishments that deal specifically with hysterical females.”
Marcus, having done some research, could name a few that would treat the girl with admirable attention to discipline.
“The physicians offer their tuppence worth of guesses, but that’s all they are, guesses. You’re good to ask after her.”
“The best cousin you’ll ever have, and I’ve promised decent food and drink, because God knows Greendaletook care of his cellars. Come, and we’ll wash the dust of the road from your throat. How is the countess, by the way?”
Mercia paused by a bed of mostly blown roses that had likely cost more than the mount Marcus made do with in Aragon’s absence. “Lady Greendale is struggling, Marcus.”
“Mourning is a difficult time.” What could make Gillian, Lady Greendale, struggle now, if eight years before the mast with the old man hadn’t done it?
“Mourning is difficult for us all. Helene was your friend.”
For God’s sake…after months of silence among the bloody French, Mercia had to turn up fearlessly blunt now. Marcus made a study of the roses, though if this variety had a scent, he could not detect it.
“Helene was your duchess, but these are gloomy thoughts on a beautiful day. Come up to the house, and we’ll enjoy some fine brandy before you interrogate me over lunch.”
He watched a strange look cross His Grace’s features at the use of the wordinterrogate,and knew a little satisfaction to think in some small way he could make his famous, unbreakable, quiet, ducal cousin squirm.
It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
St. Just’s gaze traveled from the vines twining up the curtains, to the pansies blooming on the pillowcasesand slipcovers, and the intricate geometric designs on the runner gracing the coffee table in Gilly’s sitting room.
“You really do embroider everything in sight,” he said.
“And I embroider some things out of sight,” Gilly replied then realized from the smile on St. Just’s face that his imagination wasn’t conjuring images of handkerchiefs.
“Mercia warned me to lock up my stockings,” St. Just said, sauntering into the little parlor. He was a good-looking man, less refined than Christian, but blessed with a pair of green eyes sporting long dark lashes and winging dark brows. All in all, an imposing man, but somehow, less of a man to Gilly than Christian.
St. Just had never been taken captive, never known torture, never been moved nigh to violence at the sight of an unexpected kitten. These facts ought to diminish Christian, but in her eyes, they gilded his courage and made him all the more remarkable.
“If you keep looking at the clock, my lady, the hands will advance, and your duke will return, but a visit to the back terrace might be in order if you’re not to entirely waste this beautiful day.”
“You’ve been very patient with me,” she said, rising. “Another turn through the park might serve.”
He offered his arm and matched her pace as they made their way to the terrace. He’d been a cheerful if ruthless companion when she gardened, pulling weedsbeside her with a sort of barbaric enthusiasm. She’d asked him about his horses, though, and his gaze had softened considerably.
