Page 22 of The Captive Duke
Of which there was an abundance. “Perhaps I always looked like something escaped from the jungles.”
“Not you.” St. Just tucked his pistols away, and Christian was sorry to lose sight of them. “I was two years ahead of you at university. You were as vain as a peacock ten years ago.”
“We all were.”
“We were boys; it was our turn to be vain.”
Except Christian abruptly recalled St. Just as a much-younger man, a duke’s by-blow who was cursed with astutter. He hadn’t been vain in the least, and when the situation had called for it, he’d let his fists do the talking.
“So you either give me permission to trim you up now,” St. Just said, “or I’ll have a go at you while you sleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Nighty-night then.” He ran his thumb across the blade of yet another knife—this one likely resided in the man’s boot—and his teeth gleamed in the fading light. “Or we could go best out of three falls.” He tucked the knife away. “I’m a decent wrestler, growing up with four brothers. For a while I had a slight advantage, being the oldest, but they’d come at me in twos and threes.”
“Get out your kit, then, and shut up.”
“Wise choice. You wouldn’t want my death or dismemberment on your conscience.”
He pulled a shaving kit from his saddlebag—Aladdin’s cave of wonders for the traveling cavalryman—and produced a pair of grooming scissors.
“Don’t think,” he said. “Just sit there and hate me for doing this, hmm?”
“What hatreds keep you going?” Christian asked the question mostly to keep St. Just talking.
“I am haunted by the abuse I see of good animals,” St. Just said. “They never asked to go to war. They never asked to attempt a goddamned winter march on Moscow. They never asked for the artillery barrages to frighten them out of their feeble little horsey wits. Hold the hell still.”
For all his irascibility, St. Just’s hand was steady and deft. Snip, snip, snip, while Christian wondered if he’d ever allow another to shave him again. To be assigned a valet when he’d come down from university had been a comfortable and pleasant rite of maturation, to start each day with the cheerful, careful ministrations of a man dedicated to the proper care and grooming of the young duke.
“Your cousin took good care of your horse while you were unable to,” St. Just said. “You’re done, and I expect a solid recommendation from you as a barber when I muster out.”
Christian rubbed his hand along his jaw, finding the beard much closer to his skin, much tidier.
“My thanks.” Because by insisting on this concession to proper turnout, St. Just had scrubbed away another layer of captivity.
“You’ll set all the ladies’ hearts to fluttering.” St. Just tossed him a towel, using, of course, too much force.
And Christian couldn’t catch it, not with either hand. “As if I give a hearty goddamn for the ladies’ opinions.”
“You will,” St. Just said, getting comfortable on his blankets. “God willing, we all will again, someday soon.”
Christian wanted to argue with St. Just, wanted to ask what that last comment meant, wanted an excuse to keep the man awake, really, because bathing and letting his beard be trimmed had left Christian’s nerves shorn too. These mundane aspects of hygiene were accomplishments for him, reasons to be a little less worried for his sanity.
But something in the exchange with St. Just had tickled Christian’s jumble of memories, something in the comments about horses. The words rankled, as so many things rankled, and still, Christian could not put a finger on why. Something to do with Chessie, with finding the horse whole and in good weight, even after months of campaigning against the French.
Christian eventually fell asleep, feeling bodily clean for the first time in more than a year, though feeling clean was by no means the same as feeling safe.
Christian found Lady Greendale in the family parlor, sitting at the escritoire by the window.
“The clothing fits,” she said, rising as she surveyed him. “A bit loosely, but well enough.”
“And my thanks for your efforts.” She looked so…composed, sitting in the sunlight, the invitations scattered about on the desk. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had a domestic quality that went well with the tidy parlor and morning sunlight. “I must impose on you a bit further, though.”
“Of course.” She tossed her pen aside and came toward him, then circled around behind him. “You’ll want this tied back.”
“My hair?”
“You’re going to Court, Your Grace. Some still powder their hair for such occasions. Hold still.”
