Page 118 of The Captive Duke
He spoke gently and too quietly for anyone else to hear. The words were easy to understand on the surface, but the sense of them went much deeper. She took a breath and let herself feel his arms around her, let her cheek rest against his muscled chest.
“I’m about to cry.”
“I know of nobody who has greater justification for tears.”
She heard the curricle being brought around, and the sound of the wheels rattling against the cobbles struck at her. Christian was truly leaving, and now,now, she clung to him.
“I want to be angry with you. Angry enough to push away from you.”
Still, he didn’t turn her loose. “You have every reason to be angry, love.”
“But not with you.”
“And I have no excuse for being wroth with every cat I see, but if I find one in my house, I will still be tempted to toss it out the nearest window. That is a small price to pay for walking in the sunshine and being free to love you.”
“Don’t.” She pressed her fingers to his lips and felt his mouth curve in a smile.
“We are talking, my love. This is a vast improvement over bickering and silence.”
“It is, and now you’ll spoil the mood by leaving.”
“I will be back, and we will resume this discussion. I am aware difficulties lie ahead, Gilly, but I am determined we shall face them together.”
“By leaving me here and keeping your infernal silence.”
His smile faded, and she realized not only were they talking, he waslistening. This heartened her—and frightened her—more than all of his smiles and promises together.
“I will be here when you come home, Christian. I can make that promise, but no others.”
“I’ll sustain myself on that much.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but the leader of his matched team of blacks chose then to stamp a hoof. “I’m off. See to Lucy for me, and I’ll bring her some storybooks from the shops in Town.”
“Bring yourself.” Gilly kissed him on the mouth and should have known better. His arms closed around her tightly, and what was meant as her parting shot became his closing argument.
“Be off with you,” she said, settling back on her heels. “Your horses grow impatient.”
He stepped into his vehicle, took up the reins, saluted with his whip, and tooled the team out of the yard.
All before Gilly could find the nerve to tell him she loved him too.
The proprieties were observed easily, with Christian tracking Girard to one of the newer clubs that very evening. All it took was slapping a sweaty leather ridingglove across Girard’s face before many witnesses, including St. Just, who would serve as Christian’s second. Contrary to best practices, the blow carried some force and left the corner of Girard’s mouth bleeding.
And Christian enjoyed that, making Girard bleed all over his linen while others looked on. He would enjoy killing the man even more, despite the fact that Girard now styled himself Sebastian St. Clair—Sebastian Robert Girard St. Clair—Baron St. Clair.
“A challenge, then?” Girard rose, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. “A duel to the death?” He looked Christian up and down. “As you wish,mon duc, and I look forward to matching myself against you now that you’ve had time to recover from your ordeal. War takes such a toll, does it not?”
Girard was gaunt, and his Gallic panache seemed labored—which wasn’t as gratifying as it ought to have been. Christian wanted to best a worthy and deserving opponent, not put down an ailing dog.
“Name your second, Girard, and St. Just will call upon him.”
“My man, Michael Brodie, who dwells with me on Ambrose Court, shall second me. The choice of weapons will be communicated to you. Now, you have interrupted my reading, Your Grace, though your business was understandably pressing. If you will forgive me, I will resume my amusements.”
Girard turned his back with the virtuosic rudenessof the French, and won points from the onlookers for his sangfroid.
“Cold bugger,” St. Just muttered as he and Christian gained the street. “One would think he expected you, he left such a clear trail.”
“He’s thinner,” Christian said. “He’s aged since last I saw him.” And yet, Girard was the same too, dark hair worn fashionably long, green eyes that could convey humor, indifference, and even respect without a word, and a coldness beneath every gesture and word that suggested no human soul had ever inhabited that big, lean body.
St. Just kicked a loose chip of cobblestone into the gutter. “Now is not an easy time to be a former French army officer. What does Lady Greendale make of all this?”
