Page 47 of The Captive Duke
She was leaving, and he was growling when he ought to be groveling.
No, not groveling. He was constitutionally incapable of that—thank you, Robert Girard—but apologizing at least.
And not explaining. Another constitutional incapability, for he wasn’t sure himself exactly what had got into him.
“I received a letter from my barrister,” Lady Greendale said.
“You’re involved in a lawsuit?” Lawsuits were never good. They invariably ended in scandal, expense, and wasted years. “Against whom?”
“I am not involved in any lawsuits, but I retained Mr. Stoneleigh to advise me regarding the inquest following Greendale’s death. He was invaluable in that capacity, and has now asked me to attend him in Town.”
“And you drop everything and take off like a hound on the scent when the lawyer snaps his fingers? That, I can tell you, is not how one deals with men of the law, Countess.”
“Does keeping your lawyers waiting for you improve their service or the outcomes of your legal matters?”
“I’m a damned…dashed duke.” Who was afraid of kittens. “Their service had best be impeccable whenever I’m so unfortunate as to need it.”
“Yes, well…” She passed him a cup, and he took an unthinking sip.
“God in heaven…” He put the cup down, swallowing cautiously. She’d served him real tea, not the infantile combination of milk, hot water, and sugar he’d been forcing down for the past two months. Christian waited for his stomach to rebel, to clench in miserable, acid rebellion, but the pleasurable taste in his mouth wasn’t obliterated by any other bodily response.
“I’m sorry,” the countess said. “I forgot, honestly. Let me fix you up…”
“No. I’ll manage. The tea isn’t very strong yet, and you’ve added plenty of cream.”
“I fixed it as if for myself. You have me flustered.”
He took another sip of tea, pleased to be able to, but determined to stop at half a cup.
And flustered was gratifying. She didn’t look flustered, but the lady was quiet, and she’d bungled his tea.
“Flustered, my dear? Perhaps it’s your lawsuit that has you unnerved.”
“The matter is something to do with Greendale’s will,” she said, stirring her tea. “Stoneleigh would only say there’s no cause for worry, only cause to consult.”
“Haven’t you a solicitor to deal with something like a will?” Christian had an entire cricket team of them, though offering the countess the use of one didn’t seem to be what the moment called for.
“I’m more comfortable meeting with Mr. Stoneleigh, who will direct me to a solicitor if one is needed.”
Matters usually went the other way around, with the solicitor directing business to the barrister, but the countess hadn’t yet taken a sip of her tea.
“Tell me what’s afoot,” Christian said, trying to make it a helpful suggestion rather than a ducal mandate—and mostly failing. “And drink your tea before it gets cold.”
She gave him another puzzled look, but took a sip then set her cup down. “Orange, Your Grace?”
He wanted her to call him by name. Nobody referred to a duke by name—Helene certainly hadn’t, not even when he’d come to bed of a night—but all this Your Gracing…
Even Girard had referred to him by his title.
“No oranges, thank you, and quit dithering about. If you have a legal worry, you are under my roof, and I will relieve you of it, do you deign to allow me.”
He’d fallen a bit short of making a helpful suggestion, though the woman was smiling at her tea.
“The trunks are empty. I’m traveling to Town by way of Greendale and retrieving more of my belongings.”
Abruptly, the tea tasted ambrosial. The trunks were not a sign of her impending departure; to the contrary, they were for collecting more of her effects and bringing them to Severn.
Where she now…resided.
