Page 128 of The Captive Duke
Christian must decide for himself when the war ended and life began anew. All that remained for Gilly was to love him, regardless of his decision.
He closed his eyes and leaned on Gilly, truly leaned on her, as he had when she’d first joined his household and he’d barely been able to sleep through the night, keep down a cup of tea, or sign his name.
“Then Girard goes about his business, and I go about mine.”
“My thanks, Your Grace, for your mercy.” Girard bowed low to Gilly, collected his second, and disappeared into the morning fog.
“Lucy is more taken with the adventure of riding all the way up to Town with you than she is traumatized to know Marcus is dead.” Christian might have beendiscussing the weather, not murder most foul, and murder narrowly averted.
While Gilly remained seated at St. Just’s library desk, Christian moved pieces around on a chessboard near the window.
“We were so lucky,” Gilly said, fiddling with a letter opener sporting what had to be the Moreland crest.
Unicorns seemed appropriate for St. Just. He hadn’t come home yet, for he’d had an unfortunate accident to report involving the late Lord Greendale and firearms affected by morning damp.
“How were we lucky?” Christian returned the pieces, one by one, to their starting positions.
“On the way up from Surrey, the roads were dry, we met little traffic, and George and John were able to get us household funds and to pack our saddlebags with food and drink. The groom knew exactly where we were going, and Mr. Stoneleigh was all that was hospitable. Lucy thought we were merely out for a hack until we left the lanes. She rides very well.”
“She’s a Severn, of course she rides well.”
“One hopes she’ll sleep well.”
Christian’s mouth quirked, the first hint of a smile Gilly had seen from him all day. They’d been busy collecting Lucy from Stoneleigh’s, staying in touch with St. Just as he dealt with the authorities, and putting together the story of Marcus’s perfidy.
And of course, Lucy and her papa had had much,muchto say to each other.
“One hopes I’ll sleep well.” Christian examined the white queen, a smiling little study in carved marble. “What were you thinking, trying to stop a duel? What if Girard and I had already engaged? You could have got me killed, or worse, been hurt yourself.”
Did he want to toss the little queen as much as Gilly wanted to upend the entire chessboard? She rose from the safety of the desk and went to the sofa.
“I had to see you, had to talk to you. Come sit with me.” She held out a hand, and he hesitated.
That instant’s hesitation devastated Gilly, though in some corner of her soul, she’d anticipated it.
What man could be attracted to a woman who had judged him bitterly for his instinct for justice, then had fallen prey herself to ungovernable violent impulses?
“If I touch you, Countess, I’ll want to take you to bed.”
She let her hand drop. “Why? I might have killed Marcus, had I been able. And now, my temper seems to plague me without ceasing. I fear for Girard if my path ever crosses his, Christian, though what he imparted in that clearing should at least earn the man my forbearance. Any who seek to harm you or Lucy will find a madwoman—”
His expression was unreadable, but he at least sat beside her and took her hand.
“The protectiveness you exhibited with that buggy whip, which arguably saved my life, is the antithesis of what drove Greendale, Gilly, and had nothing incommon with Marcus’s ruthless self-interest. They were men of hatred. You are a woman who loves.”
He spoke slowly, quietly, as if she might bolt off the sofa and run into the street howling did he get a single word wrong. The composure Gilly had fought so hard to learn threatened to desert her—again.
“About that.” But then the words wouldn’t come, wouldn’t push past the ache in her throat.
“Gillian?” Christian slid his free arm around her, and Gilly turned her face into his shoulder. He smelled good, of lemon and ginger, and understanding.
“I hate embroidery. Needlework makes my head hurt and my eyes sting, and I was never competent at it as a girl.”
“You made your needle a weapon. But you no longer need to wield it.”
“Yes. Exactly. You understand better than I did myself. I thought I was above doing battle. I thought I’d chosen the better path. I hadn’t. I’d chosen only silent battles, though—until today. What does that make me?”
“Brave. Determined, shrewd, resilient. Formidable.”
