Page 66 of The Captive Duke
“You know, Mercia,” St. Just said, swinging onto his horse, “the world boasts plenty of Hebrew children, and has for thousands of years.”
This peculiar comment had His Grace’s lips turning up.
“Get ye to Kent,” Christian said, “where your sisters can spank you for such impertinence. If you’re posting back to France by way of Portsmouth, then drop in on us again, please, and mind my letters, Colonel.”
“I will stay in touch. You have my direction. See that you do likewise.”
When St. Just had cantered off, Christian slipped his arm through Gilly’s, and she let him, because saying goodbye to a friend was never easy.
“We’re at peace,” she reminded him. “You’ll see him again.”
“You might be right,” he said, his smile fading.
“What was that comment about Hebrew children?”
The smile came back, brilliant as summer sunshine on the lakes beside the drive.
“It was the truth,” he said, sneaking a kiss to her cheek. “Nothing less than the blessed, simple truth.”
St. Just’s visit bore two kinds of fruit, each, in Christian’s view, positive.
First, Christian found his internal view of his captivity shifting. He’d been considering Anduvoir’s work with the knife a shame to be privately borne—proof of capture, of failure—and that was at least half of what prevented him from allowing another to look upon his scars and disfigurements.
In France, St. Just’s reaction to Christian’s limitations had been to polish his weapons, to offer protection to a fellow soldier, not revulsion or judgment.
And in England…St. Just had aimed his revulsion squarely at the French.
Where it should be aimed.
As St. Just had destroyed elegant crystal tumblers, Christian had barely stifled a shout in affirmation of the violence. For with St. Just’s destructiveness came not only the certainty that Christian had been deeply violated, but also a renewed desire for revenge.
Christian should never have doubted either the violation or the entitlement to revenge, but the captive allows himself to be taken, after all—and doubt thus gains the only toehold it needs to assault the prisoner’s self-worth.
And somewhere in these shifts and awakenings came a hope—the thing Christian had become deaf and blind to while a prisoner—that the Countess of Greendale hadn’t been momentarily accessible to him merely out of grief and bodily deprivations.
She’d seen his scars, told him quite baldly he was desirable to her, and acted like a woman susceptible to a man’s advances. Despite the scars she hadn’t yet seen, he could build on that. Encouraging her interest would take time, stealth, and more charm than he’d ever laid claim to, but he could build on it.
His first opportunity came several days after St. Just’s departure, several rainy days of mundane discussions with the countess over breakfast and dinner, unremarkable encounters in the quiet of the nursery, and long evenings lying in wait for her in the library—in vain.
When the sun came out, Christian accosted his quarry as she emerged from the back steps, a piece of paper in her hands.
“Might I hope you’re coming to discuss menus with me?” Christian asked. “It’s Monday, and we last had this discussion a week ago, if memory serves.”
She looked…prim, tidy, and disgruntled, but forcing her to share household decisions was part of his strategy.
“Perhaps if I leave these menus with you—”
He plucked the paper from her hand. “No such luck. I’ll not be chasing you all over the house to suggest we substitute green beans for the braised carrots on Wednesday. Come along.” He tugged her by the wrist—oh, what a pleasure to put his hands on her—and towed her into the library.
“You do favor the garden,” he said, perusing the menus.
“It’s summer, of course I favor the garden, particularly when what Cook prepares is served in the nursery as well.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought children were supposed to be fed only bland foods, bread, pudding, soup, and more pudding.”
“That is old-fashioned thinking, Mercia.” She meandered, spinning the globe, flipping over the pages of the atlas, taking down a book only to put it back.
“You have made a study of child-rearing practices?” For Helene had found the topic of little interest.
