Page 95 of The Captive Duke
“Because the old earl had a wicked temper,” Gilly said, trailing off into a yawn. “He was not beyond leaving all his personal wealth to charity should Marcus defy him or cross him or disrespect him.”
“In which case, Marcus would not have been able to sell his commission, but would have become an absentee landlord to a neglected estate, thus ensuring the misery of all. Tell me again you didn’t poison your spouse.”
“I did not poison my spouse.”
He laid his cheek against her breast. “You thought of it.”
“Many, many times.”
“I do understand, you know.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
Her hand drifted in his hair, and he closed his eyes, for having his scalp rubbed was a guilty pleasure. Gillywas astute about how he liked to be touched, or maybe he craved any contact with her on any terms.
“Marry me, Gillian. Please.”
“Stop it.” She left off petting his hair and struggled toward the edge of the bed. “Your constant importuning is not attractive, Your Grace, and I am considering your offer as seriously as I can.”
“Referring to me as Your Grace is also not attractive, not from you, not when we’re private. Come back to bed.”
That merited not even a glance. She flounced about the room—petite women had a way with a flounce—looking for the wool stockings he insisted she borrow, no doubt intent as always on leaving him before the chambermaids came to poke up the fire and bring the morning tea.
“They’re under the vanity.”
A halfhearted glare, and she went down on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant stockings. Christian worked himself to the edge of the bed, enjoying the show and trying not to think of ways he might enjoyherin such a pose.
Gilly was modest, even in bed, always keeping her nightgown on until the candles were out. Though he’d shown her a variety of sexual positions, she’d balked at getting on her knees before him, claiming it wanted dignity.
As if…
“Ouch.” She muttered it and went still, half underthe vanity, half not, and then she moved, and the fine linen of her nightgown ripped.
“Don’t move, love. You’ve probably caught the thing on a nail, for which somebody will pay.”
“Don’t…” She backed out, stockings in hand, but succeeded only in tearing her nightgown the length of her back and starting a thin red welt up near one shoulder.
“Let me help you up, Countess, lest I get naughty ideas while you linger in a very fetching position.” He ambled over to her and couldn’t help peering at the strip of pale flesh revealed from her shoulder blade to the small of her back. In all their lovemaking and disporting, he’d yet to see her—
“Gillian?” He stared at her back, and she quickly sat up on her heels.
“Don’t look.” She tried to gather the nightgown closed around her throat, which only had the effect of parting it farther where it had torn at the back. He looked more closely even as she continued speaking. “You mustn’t…Christian, please. Don’t look.”
Scars writhed over her skin, thin white lines, some pink, a few of a brighter hue. They grew denser closer to her buttocks.
“Gilly,” he kept his voice steady with effort, “love, what happened to you?”
“Don’t look!” She scrambled to her feet, but he manacled her wrist in his hand when she would have bolted from the room. “You must not…please…you must not.”
He wrapped his arms around her, rather than distress her with further inspection. “Who did this to you?”
She shook her head, her face pressed to his bare chest, her mouth open as her body began to shake.
“You’ve been hiding this,” he said, cradling her against him. “You’ve been careful, haven’t you, to keep me from seeing you?”
A soft sob escaped.
He marveled that his voice even functioned, because he wanted to scream, to do violence in her name, to whip somebody as hard and as often as they’d gone after her, and then harder still.
