Page 58 of The Captive Duke
John Coachman banged his tankard in a signal for a refill, which the gentleman sharing the snug with him would no doubt pay for. The gentleman was buying, said his uncle had been a coachman, and the gent always stood a coachman to a drink when traveling from Town.
John was ever fond of good English ale, and the Lion and Cock served some of the best summer ale in Surrey. The day had been long and hot, mostly spent loading up Lady Greendale’s things from the old earl’s place and piling them high on the wagon. The return trip to Severn would be a thirsty undertaking, indeed.
“We’d been making good time from Town,” John said, “for her ladyship were keen to get back to Severn.”
“Fancies running the duke’s household, does she?”
John blinked at his ale, because the comment bordered on impertinent, and come to that, the fellow talked a bit toplofty to be a coachman’s nephew. Might even be some Frog or some American in his accent.
“She fancies her wee niece,” he said. “Devoted to the girl, used to come over regular when Her Grace werealive. She’s a widow to boot. Where else can she go but to family?”
“Where else, indeed?”
The gentleman took a sip of his ale, and John had the passing thought he looked out of place with his Town clothes, his Town gig, and his Town airs. The Lion and Cock was a posting inn, true, but the humblest variety of the species.
“So there we were,” John said, “the team a-cantering along, and I look down and see the front wheel wobblin’ on its pins.”
“But nobody came to any harm.Quel dommage.”
John caught the impatience in the man’s voice. Town fellows weren’t likely to appreciate a well-told story.
“Thanks be to Almighty God.” John banged his tankard for emphasis. “An’ out come her ladyship, calm as you please. Told me to send a groom for the wheel, and to put the feed bags on my team.”
“A cool head, then, for a lady.”
This didn’t seem to please the gentleman either, but ale wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, so John forgave him his mood.
“You have that aright. But beg pardon, sir. What did you say your name was?”
Eleven
FIVE DAYS.
Five days since Christian had held his countess against his naked chest, tasted her sweet kisses, and felt her hands moving over his body with desire. He could hardly credit the memory.
Helene had never touched him like that, not when he was whole and hale and his mind free of shadows and memories. Not when he was blessed with a younger man’s exuberant erotic responses, not when he was newly wed and honestly trying to forge some sort of friendship with his duchess.
Before his marriage, there had been women, of course there had been, and he’d enjoyed them and regarded it as his most enjoyable obligation to see that they enjoyed him as well.
But those had been professionals or bored wives who’d long since met any marital obligations, experienced ladies of the world. They’d liked bedding a lusty young duke, liked being seen on his arm, liked dancing the supper waltz with him.
He’d been a…sexual trophy, just as for Girard, he’dbeen a trophy of war. The whole notion made him want to retch.
“Be there some reason we’re stopping back at Timwood’s so soon, Yer Grace?”
Hancock’s homely face was a study in impassivity, and Christian couldn’t recall a previous occasion when Hancock had questioned his employer’s directives.
“I have a reason,” Christian said, putting thoughts of his countess aside. “Timwood breeds those enormous dogs.”
“Mastiffs,” Hancock said. “As his da and grandda did before him. Best in the shire for tracking, and a fair dog for work too.”
“And nigh big as ponies. I want one, possibly two.”
“Two be a mighty lot of dog.”
“Severn is a lot of house.” While the ladies in that house were diminutive.
Mrs. Timwood was so overcome at a second visit from “the dook” in two weeks she about quivered herself into an apoplexy. Mr. Timwood, when he understood His Grace was interested in a puppy, lost his deferential air.
