Page 38 of The Captive Duke
Neither could he, thank God. “I did not go off to get killed. I went off to serve King and Country, and if I might point out, I succeeded.” The notion was no comfort whatsoever, but torture did that too—put a man beyond any comfort.
“You succeeded spectacularly.”
The small woman beside him worried her upper lip with her teeth, probably biting back more words. She had a healthy sense of self-preservation, did the countess.
And a way with a silence.
“I wanted more children,” Christian said, giving up the struggle to maintain any dignity in this conversation. “A spare seemed a prudent undertaking. She said she’d gut me in my sleep did I attempt it. I thought time apart would help. It did not. It had not as of the last leave I took.”
“She owed you a spare,” the countess said, her tone stern. “We talked about this before we married, Helene and I. She pitied me because Greendale was my lot, but I was prepared to present him with children.”
She was blushing, which restored his spirits, if not his dignity. The touch of color looked well on her, as did a color other than black. The lady was, viewed in a certain soft morning light, attractive. Certainly attractive enough to remarry.
“You would have loved any children you bore old Greendale.” This truth was the closest he could come to consoling her.
Though for what? Childlessness? For being married to an old martinet who was jealous of his flower gardens? For having to serve as Helene’s most recent confidante?
And how did they get onto this indelicate and personal topic?
“I am to meet my steward directly after breakfast,” he said. “Shall I walk you back to the house?”
“Please.” She extended her hand, he drew her to her feet, and this time, it was Christian who was ambushed.
She gave him another of those kisses to the mouth, rose up off the bench and kept coming, a one-woman, fragrant, soft cavalry charge of pleasure and comfort. After she’d brushed her lips across his, she also gave him a more intriguing gift.
She rested against him, fully, gave him her weight for a moment, let his greater height and what strength he had hold her upright. The sensations were exquisite.
Her hair tickling his chin.
Her breasts, unapologetically soft and full against his chest.
Peppermint—from her tooth powder?—lingering on his lips.
His reactions were slow, and she seemed to understand they would be, for she remained against him long enough that he could loop his arms around her waist, rest his chin against her temple, and let the peace of the embrace settle over him.
Girard deserved to die, slowly and painfully, but of all the things Girard had destroyed in Christian’s life, he had not, nor would he ever, destroy this moment.
“I wanted the graves to be tidy for you, too,” she said. “For all of us, the graves should be tidy.”
The countess was protective of those she cared about, and in her admission, Christian found proofthat she cared abouthim. She hadn’t assured him she’d remain for her entire year of mourning—the most he could ask of her, for now—but she’d given him a morsel of her trust.
He turned her under his arm and walked her back to the house without allowing her to leave his side.
Eight
“WHY NOT A HACK ABOUT THE PARK ONE DAY SOON?” Mercia asked his daughter. He had the knack of pausing long enough to invite the child to answer, but not so long as to create expectations. Gilly wondered where he’d learned such interrogatory skill, or if he simply had a gift.
“Hearing no objection,” he went on, “I’ll invite the countess to ride with us.”
“I haven’t a proper habit, but I will make one up, now that I know the stables are open to guests.”
Something nonplussed then a trifle aggravated flickered in Mercia’s eyes.
“We’ll choose her ladyship a mount, shall we?” He put the question to his daughter and extended a hand to the child. “One must indulge in some anticipatory spoiling if one is to form an alliance with a horse or a member of the opposite sex. You are not to repeat that to your governess, Lucy.”
As if she’d repeat anything to anybody.
Mercia took his daughter from stall to stall, eventually lifting her onto his hip, something the girl was oldenough to object to, and wise enough to enjoy. She was content to wander from one velvety equine nose to another, her head resting on her father’s shoulder.
