Page 62 of The Captive Duke
“I don’t know. What are you embroidering now?”
She held up a silk shawl, sized for a child, the hems decorated with dragons tumbling along one side, unicorns leaping across another. She’d made sure the creatures were a bit chubby and that every one of them grinned its way across the fabric.
“For Lucy?”
“I can make one for you, Your Grace.”
“And wouldn’t that be lovely? His Grace dressing in lady’s clothing. See how long I’d stay out of Bedlam when that got out.”
“You are the last person who will find himself in Bedlam.” She hoped her tone put this observation in the realm of fact rather than opinion. “Who is your guest?”
“Ourguest.”
She let that go by, a harmless dart in their ongoing struggle to…what? In her case, it was a struggle tonot fall in love with a man who was determined to be decent to her when what she sought was indulgence of her wanton nature.
Her recently discovered, very frustrated wanton nature, damn him. Greendale was probably laughing at her from the grave.
As she fell asleep at night, try though she might to pray her way to the arms of Morpheus, Gilly found herself calling to mind the lovely heat of Christian’s naked skin, the taste of his mouth on hers, the silky texture of his hair, and the pleasure—the utter, soul-deep relief, and the pleasure—of being held securely in his arms.
While Christian seemed equally determined to entice her into some sort of friendship.
He wasn’t exactly charming, though he was attentive, seeking her out several times a day, always with some question: Was the lavender ready for harvest? Did she fancy goat cheese or only cow cheese? Had Lucy enough books to keep her occupied?
And now,theywere to have a guest.
“Who is this guest?”
“Colonel Devlin St. Just. The Duke of Moreland’s oldest, though born on the wrong side of the blanket. I traveled with him in France.”
How to ask: Before or after the ordeal of captivity?
He was rubbing his thumb over a hem of Gilly’s shawl, the black silk she wore around the property except on the warmest days.
“Are you looking forward to this company?”
“You called me Christian.”
“I did no such thing.”
“When you saw Dimwit,” he said, his fingers slowing as they moved over the fabric. “You said, ‘Oh, Christian.’”
She’d hoped he had not noticed. “I beg your pardon then, it was an oversight.”
“My name is not an oversight. I used yours, too.”
He’d called her his dearest Gillian, and she’d had to hide her eyes against a silky, panting puppy. And now, the dratted man was going somewhere conversationally. Somewhere Gilly did not want him to go.
“If you used my name, sir, you overstepped.”
“You invited me to use it, my dear.” He was smiling now, faintly, his gaze on the shawl, and that didn’t bode well at all. “Because you’ve shaved me and dressed my hair.”
And she’d kissed him.Merciful feathered saints.
“How are you managing?” she asked reluctantly, though she had wondered—incessantly. “You’ve remained clean shaven.”
“I was uneasy regarding the proximity of a razor to my throat.” The smile was gone as if it had never existed, a seedling unable to sprout roots or leaves. “If I don’t think of the blade, if I concentrate on the scraping away of my whiskers, not on having them scraped, I manage. Does that make sense?”
“You stay outside the business,” she said, knowing all too well what he meant. “You watch yourself beingshaved, as if you were the man in the mirror, not the one whom the razor touches.”
