Page 73 of The Captive Duke
“I will allow those mishaps are unsettling accidents, but only that. Coaches lose wheels, riders take the occasional tumble. Those are everyday occurrences.”
“In the eight years of your marriage to Greendale, did either occur to you even once?”
“No,” she said, trying to focus mentally on the topic of her safety. This was difficult, when her body had developed an acute and inconvenient physical awareness of the duke.When I am inside you…
“Then you will indulge me, my lady, when I ask younot to leave the house without either my escort or that of at least two footmen?”
She mentally reviewed the words independent of his leonine stare.
“You’d make me a virtual prisoner of the house.” Indignation gave her some purchase against the fog in her brain and the lassitude in her limbs. “I spent eight years bowing and scraping to Greendale, denied my liberty. I shall not exchange his domineering possessiveness for another man’s, not ever.”
That sounded convincingly clearheaded, and was even true.
“I seek to keep you alive,” he countered, running his finger around the rim of her glass. He had her drink cradled in his lap, resting against his falls. She looked away as he continued to speak.
“You agreed to join this household, so you should consider yourself bound by my dictates. I’m not suggesting we lock you in a tower for the rest of your days, only that you exercise some reasonable caution for the nonce.”
Reason was not her friend, and never had been.But you’ll be a countess, Gillian. A countess…
“You make it sound so simple, to be again attended everywhere as if I were a child of Lucy’s years.”
“You make it sound so awful, to have the company of brawny fellows—or me—dedicated to your welfare when you’re out-of-doors. Can you detest me so much as all that?”
His lips quirked, as if he’d made a jest, but those eyes of his were watchful and serious, and Gilly realized abruptly she’d swum into even deeper waters than she’d feared.
“You are good-looking,” she said, her tone resentful. “Too good-looking and good-smelling and good-sounding,andnow you’ve become nigh brawny yourself. I cannot think straight when you’re giving orders and duking about, and when you turn up charming and reasonable, I am even more befuddled.”
“Isto dukea verb now?”
“Don’t distract me, and yes, when you’re underfoot, there’s duking going on.”
“And some countessing too, I suspect.” His finger stopped moving round and round on the glass. “For the next little while, indulge me, Gilly. Let me give you my arm when we’re out of doors, let the footmen carry your basket when you’re in the garden. I’ll assign you the handsomest of the lot, my only aim to keep you safe from harm.”
She nibbled her lip, hating him for being so believable.
“Please, love…I wasn’t here to keep Helene safe. I wasn’t here to look after my own son when he fell ill. Let me protect you.”
And listening to him, listening to the low, utterly serious words, it was easy to forget how closely protection could resemble possession. He believed what he was saying, and he had a point: Gilly was under his roof. Her choices were to leave, or to obey him.
She could leave later, when Lucy was in better spirits, when memories of captivity didn’t have the duke seeing threats in every shadow.
For now—only for now—she’d obey him, and only in this matter of permitting an escort out of doors.
Only for now.
The countess was not a sedentary detainee, but Christian had hardly expected she would be. He would come in from his morning ride to find her dragging two bleary-eyed footmen all over the gardens, even as the sun was peeping over the Downs. By late morning, she was on his arm as they made their outing with Lucy. She spent the afternoons on the back terraces or again in the gardens, embroidering, reading, tatting lace, or working at the social correspondence Christian delegated to her in such volume.
He decided to take pity on his footmen and joined her as she once again headed for an afternoon out-of-doors.
She set her basket at her feet and crossed her arms. “I thought George and John were to assist me.”
“Alas for you, you’ll have to make do with a mere duke,” he said, picking up her basket. “What are we about today, Gilly? Gardening, I see.” He winged his arm, and a martial gleam came into her eyes.
“I’m tending the graves.” She took his arm, looking pleased with her strategy.
“More transplanting, then?”
“Yes, though it’s too late for the lily of the valley to bloom.”
