Page 112 of The Captive Duke
“You have an undeserved disgust of yourself, which you should turn on your late spouse and leave there, but here comes the colonel, looking entirely too pleased to leave us.”
“We need to talk, Christian.” She spoke quietly, all the fight gone out of her.
“You’re not leaving me.” He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to make a pronouncement to a woman who was entitled to a permanent dislike of men and their dictates.
“Christian Severn,” she said, smoothing his hair back gently. “I do not want to leave you. You are my favorite duke.”
St. Just chose now to come strutting across the gardens, saddlebags over his shoulder. He whistled a nimble, jaunty version of “God Save the King,” as if he knew his timing was awful.
“We will talk, Gillian,” Christian said, leaning closer and cadging a kiss to her cheek despite St. Just’s approach.
“I see you, Mercia, behaving like a naughty schoolboy and trying the countess’s patience,” St. Just said. “I can only thank your staff my horse hasn’t been exposed to such a puerile display.”
“His Grace is feeling frisky this morning,” Gilly said. “Autumn approaches, and he’s suffering the fidgets. Makes him prone to mischief.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Christian said as St. Just’s horse was led out. Christian took the saddlebags from his guest’s shoulder and tied them up behind the cantle.
“See to my mount, Duke, while I see to your countess.” St. Just winged an arm at Gilly and tossed out one of his charming smiles while Christian busied himself with checking over the fit of the bridle and girth. This display of caution was idle, for St. Just would repeat the inspection before mounting, but Gilly liked the colonel and deserved a moment with an ally.
They walked off toward the garden, leaving Christian to pet the beast, a big, solid bay gelding, not the same one as the last time St. Just had come through, for this one was more elegant with a more refined head.
“Cozening my horse, Mercia?” St. Just asked a few moments later.
“Cozening my countess, St. Just?”
“Stop it, you two.” Gilly sounded half-serious in her scold. “The colonel has places to be, and he’d best getto them. Cook says her knees are acting up, and that means rain by nightfall.”
“I’m off to Town, then,” St. Just said. “Mercia, I’ll be in touch. Countess.” He bussed her cheek and whispered something in her ear, meriting him a terse nod. Christian drew Gilly back and slid an arm around her waist.
“Come by any time, St. Just,” Christian said. “Cook will miss you.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, swinging onto his horse. “I want to see when Lady Lucy’s dogs are pulling a pony cart around with His Grace at the ribbons.” He blew Gilly a kiss and cantered off, the personification of elegance in the saddle.
“How did I travel the length of France with our guest and never realize he’s a devilish good-looking man with a penchant for kissing other people’s countesses?”
“His papa is a duke,” Gilly said, sliding away from his side. “That can explain a lot about a man’s penchants.”
“You are my hostess, if you’ll recall,” he said, letting her put some distance between them. “And I am your duke.”
She wandered away, into the garden, but he kept her in sight, and not only because he and the lady had some significant matters to sort out. She might tell herself she was the victim of accidents and mishaps, or that a jealous kitchen maid was capable of orchestrating the malfunction of a coach wheel or the sabotage of a saddle.
Christian knew differently.
Nineteen
CHRISTIAN WAS THE SOUL OF PATIENCE, SO MUCH SOthat Gilly wondered if he’d had second thoughts about proposing to her.
His lovemaking was patient too—tender, lyrical, sweet, and silent. Gilly had fallen asleep in his arms, when her best intention had been to talk to him.
Truly talk.
She wanted to accept his proposal, wanted to embark on the joys and challenges of being a wife to Christian Severn. Not duchess to the Duke of Mercia, the Lost Duke, or the Silent Duke—that wretch was welcome to dwell in the past, along with the unfortunate Lady Greendale—but finding the right moment to talk of the future was difficult.
They were shooting at targets a week after St. Just’s departure, a pastime Gilly had taken to with relish. When Christian had first suggested it, she’d cringed at the noise and destructiveness of it, but the first time she’d hit her target, she’d felt such a thrill she’d joined him every day since.
She’d need years to catch up to him, though. Heshot flying targets out of the air, hit his mark from great distances, and could manage clean shots from peculiar angles while he himself was in motion. Whatever had been done to his left hand, it hadn’t affected his ability to fire a weapon at all.
“You had to shoot from the saddle, I take it,” she said when he’d shown her a maneuver involving shooting on the run, dropping, rolling, and discharging his second barrel.
