Page 25 of The Captive Duke
Without warning, his heart pounded, his ears roared, and the periphery of his vision dimmed. A sense of dread congealed in his chest, making him want to both collapse and run.
“You a’right, guv?”
“He’s a bloody dook, that one. The missin’ dook. Yer Grace?”
“He ain’t missin’ if he’s standin’ right cheer. Maybe missin’ his buttons.”
This exchange, quintessentially British in its accents and intonation, and in its cheek, helped Christian push the darkness back.
“Gentlemen, I can hear your every word.”
“You looked a mite queerish, Yer Grace. Your ’orse is ready.”
The groom held up Chessie’s reins, as if thequeerish dookmight have forgotten he even had a horse. Christian reached up with his left hand out of habit, then had to switch hands to take his horse.
This enraged him, that a particular angle of sunlight should plummet him back to the day he was captured, that he was not able to use the hand God Himself hadintended him to use, that his heart was ready to fight to the death when no enemy was about.
The elderly stable lad stood there, looking concerned but also uneasy, and Christian wanted to wallop the little fellow into next week.
With his left fucking hand.
“My thanks.”
The groom sidled away, sending one last leery look over his shoulder as Christian led the horse to the mounting block. He tarried, checking the girth, the length of the stirrups, each buckle and fitting on the bridle, because the sense of dread had not receded.
London was prone to riots, and Christian was out of uniform. This summer, everybody was in love with the soldiers in uniform. Hungry men or widows unable to feed their children might bear ill will toward a duke, but not toward a decorated cavalry veteran.
He should have worn a uniform. Again, he should have…
Some part of him watched as his mind prepared to launch into a flight borne of irrational fear and rootless anxiety, even as his horse stood patiently at the mounting block. Christian inhabited two simultaneous realities: the pleasant early evening in the stables, and the inchoate, amorphous disasters gathering in his mind.
Put in your mind a picture of what you can look forward to, and…add details to it, one by one, until the picture is very accurate and the urge to do something untoward has passed.
A snippet of the countess’s chatter, and yet it hadlodged in his mind like a burr. The western facade of Severn popped into his head, with its long, curving drive that ran past the smaller lake. This time of year, the rose gardens around the central fountain would be in bloom, and the groundsmen would scythe the park lawns twice weekly. The air would be fragrant with the ripening hay fields and the cropped grass, while the fountain made a soft, splashing undercurrent, different from rain but equally clear and soothing.
An occasional lamb would bleat for its mama…
His heart slowed. Chessie stomped a back hoof, and Christian swung up as he let his mind add detail after detail.
The sound of carriage wheels tooling over the crushed white shells of the driveway.
Light bouncing off the windows on the third floor at the end of the day.
The scent of the lake when the breeze shifted, how the surface rippled with the wind. The ducks rioting and taking wing en masse for no apparent reason.
By the time he found his own mews, Christian was breathing normally and looking forward to seeing the ducal seat.
And to his next sighting of the small, fierce countess who gave surprisingly good advice.
“His Grace is riding up the alley, milady.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Gilly lifted her bonnet offand passed it to the footman, whose relief had been evident in his tone. The duke was a grown man, a peer of the realm, a decorated officer, and still, she’d fretted over him as if he were a child gone missing at the market.
“If you would tell Cook we’ll take a cold collation out on the back terrace, I’d appreciate it. Lemonade, plenty of sugar, no tea. And tell her to make it pretty.”
“Very good, milady.”
When he’d left, Gilly checked her appearance in the mirror above the sideboard, hoping her own relief was not as obvious as the footman’s had been. A hairpin had caught in her bonnet’s black netting, which caused a thick blond curl to list down around her shoulder. She hastily tucked it up, fetched her embroidery hoop, and managed to be sitting on the terrace, stitching, when His Grace came trooping through the gate from the mews.
