Page 16 of The Captive Duke
His own embarrassment was apparently of no moment.
“You dread this outing.” And that was puzzling, because lazing about the tailor’s was supposed to be as much gentlemanly fun as hanging about at Tatt’s or Jackson’s.
“I most assuredly do not look forward to being poked and turned and handled like so much puppetry. Here.” He pushed a daunting stack of papers across his desk at her. “You will politely decline these invitations. Pressing matters require my presence at the ducal seat, et cetera.”
“You have no secretary?”
“He had the great good fortune to marry well in my absence. Were I not serving King and Country, I would no doubt have prevented such insubordination.”
Was hejoking? Complaining? As he tore off a small bite of scone, Gilly had no way to tell.
“You’ll hire another, though?”
He chewed his bite of scone while Gilly waited for an answer and wished she hadn’t been so hasty in declininga reprise of breakfast. The bacon smelled divine, and that scone looked as light as summer clouds.
“Hiring an amanuensis, my lady, would involve running an advertisement, or notifying the agencies, wouldn’t it? And that would require lingering here in Town, andthatwould require accepting at a minimum the invitations extended by the other ducal households, andthatI am unwilling to do.”
His voice, always pitched softly, dropped even more as his scold continued.
He was not her husband, to scold her for no reason. This fact somehow got tangled up with Gilly’s longing for the bacon she’d declined, with the lingering smart to her finger from the cat’s bad behavior, and with years of sleepless nights.
“Your mood leaves something to be desired, Your Grace.” And in lieu of bacon, Gilly would not mind being served an apology for that state of affairs.
He paused with another small bite of scone halfway to his mouth. Greendale would have been on his third scone by now, crumbs everywhere, butter streaking his chins, and that realization only made Gilly more irritable.
“I beg my lady’s pardon.”
“Don’t do that with me.” Gilly got to her feet, and braced her hands on the desk, as if she might appropriate some of the furniture’s bulk and weight. “I spent eight years married to a man who thought his every flatulence and eructation should be greeted with awe,when in truth he was a cretinous excuse for a human. I understand that you’re tired and cranky, but so am I. If you beg my pardon, you do it sincerely, not with exquisite condescension that implies I have the wits of a small child.”
Mercia’s chewing slowed, then came to a halt.
Oh,feathers. This had happened twice already since Greendale’s death. Twice before, some furious creature with no sense had taken control of Gilly’s mouth and flown into a rage over nothing. The first time had been with Mr. Stoneleigh after the inquest; the second time had been when the vicar had come round after the funeral, apple cordial on his breath, inquiring after Gilly’s spirits.
Mercia had committed no such blunder, and yet, Gilly wished Meems would return with the damned tray.
“I’m sorry,” she said, straightening. “I don’t sleep well, and the cat ripped my glove, and I wanted bacon—” He’d think her daft, and not be far wrong.
Mercia patted his lips with his serviette and rose, bracing himself on his hands as Gilly had. He leaned close enough that Gilly could smell sandalwood over the ambient scent of breakfast.
“Can you ply a needle?”
“Of course.” Hadn’t he heard her outburst? She’d used the wordflatulence, for pity’s sake, and Mercia was aduke.
He leaned farther over the desk, only inches betweenhis nose and hers. “Can you sew with sufficient skill to spare me a trip to the tailor’s?”
Where was Meems? Where were her wits? “If you want me to alter an existing set of clothes, I can do that, provided I have some time.”
He stayed right where he was, allowing Gilly to note that His Grace had a white scar across one earlobe.
“I am due at Carlton House the day after tomorrow for a private audience at two of the clock.”
The day after tomorrow was…soon. “Well, then, yes. You put on what you intend to wear, inside out, and I can take in the seams.”
And the whole time they’d had this exchange, his expression had been as unreadable as a sphinx’s. And yet, Mercia was more concerned about dodging this outing to the tailor’s than he was about Gilly’s rudeness.
“I’m more than competent with a needle, Your Grace.” She’d had to be, as few clothes as Greendale had permitted her.
“I’ll meet you in my sitting room in an hour. The maids will help you get settled.”
