Page 37 of The Captive Duke
“My death, or the death of my reason.”
She brought his hand up, holding the back of it against the extraordinary softness of her cheek. Until he’d taken liberties with her in the library, he’d forgotten how wonderfully, startlingly soft a woman’s cheek could be. As soft as sunshine and summer rain, as soft as the quiet of the English countryside.
“Shall we sit?” he asked, though she’d likely release his hand if they sat. He was a widower, though, and she ought not to begrudge him simple human contact when he’d been so recently bereaved.
She let him lead her to a shaded bench near the roses, the morning air faintly redolent of their perfume. When Christian seated her, the countess kept his damaged hand in hers.
“I was not allowed to garden at Greendale,” she said, fingers drifting over his knuckles. “The estate had gardens, because his lordship would not be seen to neglect his acres, but I was forbidden to walk them, or to dig about in the good English soil, or to consult with the gardeners regarding the designs and plantings.”
Based on the studied casualness of her tone, this prohibition had been irksome.
“You are free to garden here all you like. I ask only that you not disturb my mother’s roses.”
“They are lovely.”
“She was lovely.”
Another silence, while Christian became aware of his surroundings beyond the small hand holding his. The roses were in their early summer glory, and why Polite Society insisted on staying in Town through most of June was incomprehensible, when the alternative was the English countryside. The sunshine was a perfectly weighted beneficence on his cheek, the scent of the gardens heavenly, and the entire morning aurally gilded with the fluting chorus of songbirds.
He wanted to kiss the lady beside him again, not in thanks, not as a good-night benediction, but for the sheer pleasure of the undertaking.
“You were right about Severn,” Christian said. “Irode a few of the home-farm fields, and those are in good repair, but the bordering tenant farms are not as spruce.”
“You’ll soon put matters to rights.” She patted his hand, didn’t squeeze it. “My goal this morning was to inspect the family plot and the chapel grounds.”
“You wanted to tend the graves?” He didn’t like this idea, instinctively loathed it.
“I doubt Nanny or Harris have thought to bring Lucy to see them. When Lucy visits, all should be pretty and soothing.”
What about whenhevisited? Though Helene had apparently taken her own life, and no amount of flowers would pretty that up.
“You would bring Lucy to see the graves?”
“I’ll tend the graves first,” she said, her chin coming up. “Lucy’s father ought to take her to visit them.”
He disentangled their hands, which required an odd little struggle. The countess didn’t seem to understand what he was about until he shook his fingers free.
“I am of no mind to linger about graves, my lady, not now.” Not ever. Children succumbed to flu, so Christian could not directly blame Girard for the boy’s death, but it was time to send out letters, to call in favors, to pester the generals, and start tracking the French pestilence down.
“Then don’t visit the graves now,” the countess said, her expression more puzzled than disapproving. And yet, she seemed to expect something from him, something in the nature of an apology or explanation.
So be it.
“I joined up to get away from Helene, and she was pleased to see me go.”
The admission was out, made mostly to the toes of Christian’s riding boots—his loose riding boots. He willed himself to get the devil off the bench, but his tired ducal arse stayed right where it was.
“She was a difficult wife, I take it.”
Helene had been a difficult cousin too, based on the countess’s dry tone.
“Helene was vain, spoiled, selfish, and mean,” Christian said. “At times. She was also gorgeous, generous, scatterbrained, and capable of kindness, but we did not suit, and we were both growing to accept that.”
Though accepting Helene’s penchant for flirting had been beyond him, and that was what had eventually driven him onto Wellington’s staff.
His duchess had been faithful, so far as he knew, but in the curious manner of troubled marriages, Christian had the sense if he’d remained underfoot, his presence would have goaded her to cross even that line.
“Did you go to war to get yourself killed? Over a woman? I cannot picture the Duke of Mercia being so romantic.”
