Page 114 of The Captive Duke
Christian’s arms came around her, promising security and more of his patient reason. “Did Greendale raise his hand to you before others?”
“His voice, occasionally, before the servants, not his hand.”
“Then Marcus likely suspected you suffered nothing worse than a tongue lashing.”
“That is balderdash,” she said. “I have uncles. I know how men are. You gather around the port or the brandy and you talk of women, and you have no privacy from one another regarding your bodily pleasures.”
“Some men,” he said. “But Greendale was arrogant. He would not boast of having trouble consummating his vows.”
“He would boast of bringing his rebellious wife to heel, like some hound prone to running riot.”
“You are so very angry,” he said quietly. He held her tighter, and Gilly wanted to rage and break things and cry, not because he didn’t understand—but because very possibly he did, and he was leaving anyway.
She stepped away instead and did not take Christian’s arm. They went up to the nursery in silence, a distance growing between them that Gilly both needed and hated.
Why didn’t Christian invite her to go with him to Town?
Why couldn’t St. Just be recruited to serve as her nanny again?
What had been in that damned note?
And why, despite all his importuning Gilly to talk with him, had Christian grown in some way, once again, silent?
“How is my scholar doing today?” Christian asked.
Lucy held up her copybook for him to inspect.
“You have the prettiest hand,” he said. “You get that from me. Your dear mama’s scribbling was nighincomprehensible, but she told the best stories over tea and had a marvelous sense of fun.”
Lucy pantomimed shooting with a gun by cocking her thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, we were shooting, the countess and I. When you are twelve, I will show you how to shoot as well, if you like. You may start with the bow and arrow when you are ten, if you’d enjoy that?”
She nodded vigorously, and Gilly was struck as she often was by how badly Lucy must want to communicate with her father. Christian had the knack of carrying on conversations with the child better than the nurse, the governess, or even Gilly herself. His skill with the child was gratifying and maddening, both.
“I must beg your company at tea today,” he said, “because I’m off for a few days to Town. I have business the stewards cannot resolve.”
Whatbusiness?
Lucy put her forefingers to her temples and trotted in a little circle.
“No, I will not take Chessie. I’ll make better time with the curricle. You can take Chessie out for me in my absence, can’t you? At least bring him some treats so the old fellow won’t mope.”
Lucy grinned and swung her father’s hand.
“I’ll miss you too, princess, and I will miss our countess, and Chessie, but I will not miss those two.” He nodded at the puppies—already showing the promise of great size—slumbering on a rug. “They will be asbig as ponies ere I return, but with only half the wit. I am glad horses do not bark, else we’d have no stables.”
He nattered on, about how interested he’d be to see Lucy’s drawings when he returned, and he might stop by the shops while he was in Town to pick up some pretty hair ribbons for his pretty daughter. Gilly went to a window seat and watched while father and daughter charmed each other.
“You won’t have time to miss me,” Christian said, “and Cousin Marcus will come stay at Severn while I’m gone. I’m sure it has been an age since he’s seen you, and he’ll be very impressed with how much you’ve grown.”
The transformation in the child was so swift and radical, Gilly would not have known it was the same little girl. Lucy drew back, crossed her arms over her chest, and shook her head vigorously side to side. Her expression was a small thundercloud as she glared up at her father.
“You don’t want me to go,” Christian said. “I’m sorry, dear heart, but go I must, though not for long.”
She seized his hand, and the shake of her head became frantic.
No, no, no,no.
