Page 46 of The Captive Duke
Christian was enough of a horseman not to take out his temper on Chessie, but he needed to gallop, to charge headlong over his fields and fences, not trot sedately within the limits of his imperfect stamina.
The cat…that blasted little orange ball of fluff dashing across his boots…
He rode for miles, knowing he’d pay for his exertions, only gradually able to notice the terrain he covered. Severn tenant farms, a corner of the home wood, the gently rolling hills leading to the Downs, bridle paths he’d learned as a boy, streams he’d first crossed on his pony behind his papa on the way to the local meets.
His, and if he wasn’t careful, Easterbrook would be administering the lot of it while the Duke of Mercia occupied a tidy suite of rooms at Bedlam.
His estate was in disarray, his daughter gone mute, his household likely in no better condition than the land but for the countess’s efforts to take it in hand, and the Duke of Mercia was completely undone by the unexpected sight of a stupid, fluffy little cat. How was he to pursue Girard, track the man down, and administer justice if the sight of akittennigh parted him from his reason?
His upset had cooled to mere irritation—at himself, his daughter, and still, at the bloody cat—by the time he walked across the back terrace, intent on ordering some decent sustenance.
He would be bone tired from overexerting himself, but for the present, he was pleased to be ravenous. He couldn’t recall being ravenous at any point in the past year, and he considered it something of an accomplishment.
“What the hell are these?”
He put the question to a passing footman, who scooted back two steps before answering.
“Her ladyship’s trunks, Your Grace, for her trip into Town tomorrow.”
Four large trunks, stacked two and two, sat along the hallway nearest the porte cochere.
“Take them back up to her room, and please ask the countess to join me in the library.” He stomped off, the heels of his riding boots signaling his ire to all in his path.
Thought she’d leave him, would she? Thought she’d champion the rights of cats and naughty little girls over those of a man in his own home? Thought she’d abandon him and Lucy over a single display of temper? He’d show her temper, by God…
“Good afternoon, Mercia.”
Serene, smiling, her ladyship came into the room, though she moved with more dispatch than grace. She wasn’t a swanning sort of countess, which was good. Easier to read her the riot act that way.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, taking the offensive. “I saw your trunks. Up and leaving without a word? How do you think Lucy will like that, hmm? She’s only a child, and clearly attached to you, and here you are, haring off at the first sign of minor discord in the household.”
She stopped and opened her mouth, but wasn’t fast enough, given his mood.
“Nothing to say, Countess? For once I catch youwithout a glib reply? Come, does a little display of ducal authority honestly offend your sensibilities all that much?”
He paused, and it was a mistake, for she advanced on him, her blue eyes promising a stinging return volley.
“That wasn’t a display of ducal authority, YourGrace. That was a tantrum, unprovoked and undeserved, and you’ll have that child sneaking all manner of creatures up to the nursery simply to watch you cursing and stomping about the room.”
“I did not curse.”
“Bedamned,” she said very clearly, the language all the more foul for the disdain she applied to it. “Benighted, spawn of the devil…perhaps not taking the Lord’s name in vain, but certainly intemperate language unsuited to the nursery.”
“I will not be made to apologize for objecting to that beast’s presence in my daughter’s rooms.” He’d nearly shouted, likely surprising himself more than he’d surprised her.
And over akitten.
“Then don’t apologize.” She took a leaf from Christian’s own book and turned her back on him. Her posture was worthy of a seasoned officer on parade march, and it was a relief not to have to meet her eyes. “Perhaps you will explain your antipathy toward kittens.”
She didn’t make it a question, merely tossed a verbal gauntlet over her shoulder while she fussed a bouquetof white roses. Christian couldn’t see exactly what she’d done, but the bouquet was taller by the time she took up a seat on the sofa.
“First, my lady, explain why your trunks were packed.”
“Please have a seat, Your Grace.”
Order him about, would she? But wandering around the room would only make him look as agitated as he felt. He dropped down beside her. “I’m sitting. I hope you’re pleased.”
The footmen arrived bearing a substantial tray, complete with the tea service, sandwiches, and tea cakes. The ubiquitous peeled orange sat divided into sections on a silver plate, a blossom of healthy citrus, and Christian wanted to hurl the damned thing against the wall.
