Page 51 of The Captive Duke
“I assure you, Mr. Stoneleigh, His Grace is recovering well from his ordeal. His faculties are sound, and we need not worry about his imminent decline or demise.”
Gilly was fiercely proud of her duke, that she could offer these assurances, and with such confidence. Mercia was emerging from captivity stronger than he’d been, stronger than any duke had ever been, and Wellington had nothing to say to it.
“His recovery might well be part of the problem.”
Stoneleigh was not unkind, but subtlety was not hisforte, and Gilly did not want to endure tea and crumpets with him until he meandered around to whatever plagued him.
“How could healing from all manner of abuse be a bad thing, Mr. Stoneleigh? His Grace lost his wife and son while he was in France. A lesser man would not have the resilience to cope with that much grief.”
“He copes by plotting revenge, my lady. The word at the clubs is Mercia intends to confront his captors and see them pay for their transgressions. He’s begun gathering information, laying his traps, some say.”
In his way, Stoneleigh was trying to be kind—and failing.
“Imagine, Mr. Stoneleigh, having no privacy about your bodily functions for months. Imagine having your fingernails forcibly extracted. Imagine beating after beating. Imagine your body decorated with so many scars, you resemble a walking piece of appliqué. Imagine your sleep always interrupted, your ability to digest food ruined…”
She was nearly shaking at this litany, and Stoneleigh was none too happy with her for imposing it upon him.
Gilly rose, unwilling to allot more time to Stoneleigh’s gossip.
“Of course, His Grace will remain informed regarding the whereabouts of the demons who tormented him. We are at peace, however, and his succession hangs by a slender thread. He will not jeopardize the Severn family holdings for petty quests for revenge.If ever a mortal has learned the folly of violence, it is Mercia.”
And what an intimate, unlikely lesson for Gilly to share with a young, healthy duke of the realm, a man in his prime.
Stoneleigh’s eyes were expressive, something he likely worked to hide. He wanted to tell her to get that competence in writing, though. Gilly could see that much as plain as the gold pin in his cravat.
Stoneleigh turned the topic to Lucy, to the victory celebrations and their reported expense, and was soon draping Gilly’s jacket around her shoulders. The movement put Gilly in mind of Mercia, who’d used her shawl to draw her close…
“Lady Greendale, you will keep me apprised of how you fare, won’t you?” He was giving her his Concerned Barrister’s look again, hooded, intense, and compelling. “You’ll call on me if I can be of any service whatsoever, my lady? I’ll have your promise on this.”
Gilly pulled on black gloves. “You are being dramatic, Mr. Stoneleigh, and I must say it’s endearing, so yes, I’ll give you my promise.”
He bowed low over her hand and escorted her to the door, all starch and propriety. Behind his calculating lawyer’s mind and brusque manner, there beat the heart of a knight errant willing to tilt at windmills on behalf of a damsel in distress—or the common law.
Gilly sent Mercia a note letting him know her business with Stoneleigh was satisfactorily concluded, andlingered in Town a few days, seeing to her wardrobe. She made use of Mercia’s town house, hoping the duke used her absence to grow closer to his daughter.
His Grace loved little Lucy, he loved his land, and he grieved for his departed family. Gilly knew he did, despite the absence of tears or words to that effect. Silence could be more articulate and profound than all the words in the language.
And as for revenge, she would not believe it of the man who’d wrapped her shawl about her and held her so tenderly only a few nights past. Mercia was healing, as Gilly was, and violence had no place in the process. Not for her.
And not for him. She was almost sure of it.
Christian missed his countess and thought Lucy did too. The child was less animated, less enthusiastic when he went up to the nursery after the countess’s departure.
“She will be back, you know,” he said as they walked out to the stables. Lucy was in a miniature riding habit, one that Gillian—he used her name, a small weapon to combat her absence—must have fashioned for the child, because the hems were shorter than they would be on an adult’s clothing.
“You could put some embroidery on this fetching little outfit,” he said as they approached the barn. “I’m sure her ladyship would help you design something for it.”
Lucy gave a halfhearted nod, suggesting the countess’s absence might not be the only reason for the child’s blue devils.
“Are you pining for your kitten, princess?”
She glanced up at him, her gaze guarded, then dropped her eyes. He’d guessed correctly, at least in part.
“Your kitten will grow up to be a sleek, fat-headed tomcat, ever interested in the ladies and in the hunt,” Christian said, thinking this description might fit many a lordling too. “He will stay up until all hours, yodeling pathetically when he’s in love, which will be most nights outside the month of December, and one can hardly look forward to having that around the house, can one?”
Lucy’s lips twitched, and she shook her head. A start.
“And when he’s of a mind to mark his territory, he’ll sneer at the chamber pot and mess all over the curtains and rugs, leaving a stench that lingers for days. You don’t want him anointing your drapes, do you, princess?”
