Page 107 of The Captive Duke
Over lunch, he’d told her amusing stories about his siblings and about that august personage, his father, the Duke of Moreland. Then he’d let George and John stand guard outside the study door while she caught up on correspondence, but here he was, again taking escort duty.
“Do you miss your siblings, Colonel?” she asked as they descended from the back terrace.
“A challenging question, to which a man not decorated for bravery would say, of course.”
“But you are a brave man, so…?”
“I miss them, and I dread them,” he said, and rather than tour the roses—which were past their prime—St. Just escorted Gilly in the direction of the stables. “We’ve been at peace for months now, and I expect to wake up one day and say to myself, ‘Well, now, things are back to normal, and isn’t that a great relief?’”
“Except?”
“Except I keep waking up prepared to tell my men we’re moving on to another town, farther to the north and east, pushing our way across the entire Iberian Peninsula to crawl up Bonaparte’s back. I expect to hear we’re besieging yet another bloody walled city, and I do mean sanguinary, with all the same carnage and misery the last siege provoked.”
The charming officer had gone, leaving a careersoldier in his place, and Gilly liked this fellow even more than that officer.
“You miss war?” Gilly asked, because she missed nothing, not one thing, about her marriage to Greendale.
A curiously happy thought.
“I grew used to it,” he said. “I knew who my enemies were, who was under my command, and what our objective was when we marched out. I had specific tasks: get this report to that general, count the number of horses in the following towns, and so forth. This is not a fit topic for a lady.”
“The interesting topics never are. So you do miss it.”
The gardens were past their peak, and the fall flowers hadn’t yet started to bloom. St. Just knelt to snap off a sprig of lavender and held it under his nose.
“I miss having a purpose as compelling as life and death, King and Country. I miss being something besides Moreland’s oldest by-blow.”
My goodness, no wonder Christian considered this man a friend. “Moreland has more than one?”
“I have a half sister similarly situated, and in many ways, her lot is more difficult than mine.”
Gilly did not ask what could be more difficult than war; she didn’t need to.
And St. Just wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t prose off into a description of his siblings again. Though it might have been the easier course for them both, Gilly didn’t want him to.
“I’ve heard rumors,” St. Just said, crumpling thelavender in his fist. “Rumors the Corsican is trying to escape from his island, rumors the French would march with him again if he did. The poor devils have forgotten how to go on in peacetime, and Napoleon left them little enough to go on with.”
The scent of lavender wafted on the summer air when St. Just opened his fist.
“And you’re ready to fight him again if he does.” Gilly didn’t make it a question. St. Just looked so unhappy, so bewildered, she realized she’d hit the mark. “Why?”
He tossed the mangled lavender aside and was quiet for a moment, gazing out over the back gardens, then one corner of his mouth kicked up.
“Damned if I know. Pardon the language.”
Gilly remained beside him in the fading afternoon light and realized if Christian were there, he might have an answer. He might have the wisdom and the courage to understand why a man, a good man, was choosing war and death over a life of peace and plenty.
“Your brother is ill, isn’t he?” Gilly asked.
“I will have to admonish your duke that unpleasant confidences spilled over the brandy aren’t for a pretty lady’s ears.”
She led him to a bench, the topic being a sitting-down sort of subject.
“I keep you in my prayers, Colonel, and Christian considers you a friend. You needn’t worry I’ll spread gossip.” To the vicar? Who was concerned only about his leaky roof and launching four daughters?
“I would never accuse you of gossiping. Victor puts a brave face on his illness for the sake of my parents. We all know he’s consumptive, but my father acts as if Victor malingers, and we must drag him to the sea and the quacks and the countryside all in aid of denying his approaching death.”
“Once death becomes a friend, much becomes easier. Easier for the one dying, but perhaps harder for those left to grieve.”
