Page 98 of The Captive Duke
“You think I’d blame you?” He flicked a glance over her. “Men like Greendale need killing, badly. That his evil will have no representation in the next generation is divine justice, and did you kill him, I’d toast you for it in the streets of London.”
“And get me hanged by the neck until dead.”
Because violence begets violence, as surely as cats had kittens and horses foals.
Her logic silenced him, for of all men, Christian could understand her reasoning.
She sat in her torn nightgown and robe, trying not to feel chilled, trying not to feelanything, while the stubborn wish that he’d take her in his arms again plagued her badly.
“You cannot marry me because of what Greendale did to you,” he said at length, something in his tone both angry and weary. “Not yet.”
“I want to marry you, but I did not want you to see…toknow. I contemplated death with affection, Christian, rather than face more years like that, blaming myself. And yet, I did not surrender my power on this earth. My power, my dignity were wrested from meand smashed to bits, while my family and all of Society went merrily on their way and the law applauded. One grew…bewildered.”
“I understand.”
She feared those two words were his way of initiating their goodbyes, because her bewilderment had come between them, and who knew when she might resolve it?
Then he did something odd. He slid out of his chair and knelt beside hers. She braced herself, not sure what to expect, for the moment did not call for the dramatics of aparfit gentil knight.
He slipped his arms around her waist and laid his head in her lap.
“Your Grace?” He’d done this once before, when he’d first started proposing to her. He burrowed in closer and nuzzled her thigh.
“Christian?”
“Hush, love. We can argue more later, but for now, hush. You mustn’t fret, but I cannot leave you alone right now. You have humbled me in ways I never conceived a man could be humbled.”
“I’vehumbledyou?” The useless lump was back in her throat, along with useless, stupid tears. He liked it when she stroked his head, so she did that, over and over again, while the tea grew cold and her heart broke.
Over and over again.
Seventeen
THANKS TO A MERCIFULGOD, THE DAY OFGILLY’Sawful revelations saw a surprise visit from Devlin St. Just, who was in the neighborhood on a horse-buying mission.
“I wanted to smash the damned teapot, but she looked so broken,” Christian said. They’d ridden far and wide on Severn property, the day cool enough that the horses were frisky. Christian shared his confidences between brisk canters and gallops over the stiles.
“Her experience puts your situation in perspective. What will you do?”
His situation. He was a war hero for silently enduring a few months of Girard’s intermittent abuse, while Gilly remained emotionally imprisoned after eight years of silent torture, for which the law and Society both had guaranteed her tormenter impunity.
“I will give her time.” He’d give her his hands, his sight, anything, if it would help her regain her sense of worth and joy.
“You want to give her the rest of your life and all your wealth and consequence,” St. Just said. “She may neverget back on the marital horse, so to speak, and you have no sons.”
“I don’t need sons. I need Gilly.”
“Have you told her that?”
“In the King’s English.”
“Not have you said the words, but have you communicated your need for her?”
Christian frowned at his friend—for surely, one in whom such confidences could be reposed was a friend—but St. Just wasn’t finished.
“You’re a duke, wealthy, powerful, reasonably good-looking when you make the effort, and a decorated war hero. She’s a penniless victim of an abusive spouse. What can she possibly have that you need?”
“Everything.”
