Which was exactly how a man felt when he was badly, sorely, and completely smitten. Gilly would no more want to spend time at Greendale than Christian would enjoy a return visit to the Château.
“I’ll bide here,” she said, tucking her serviette on her lap. “Lucy will pine if we both leave, and Greendale has no positive associations for me. Colonel, what shall we find to do with ourselves?”
She ignored Christian as politely as company would allow, and he let her. Maybe she was peeved because he was leaving for the day, but the call really should not be put off when St. Just’s presence made leaving the property easier.
Maybe Gilly was cranky from a restless night or from being taken from her own bed when she had halfway asked to have a night to herself. Maybe she resented having to entertain company.
And maybe she would simply take her sweet time coming to terms with the fact that everybody needs an orange peeled for them, from time to time.
***
Gilly dabbed her toast with jam—the table boasted no butter—and ignored two large, worried men who likely did not know what to do with a grenade of female emotions lobbed into their midst, her fuse lit and burning down.
Tossing and turning in Christian’s arms—always in his arms—Gilly had come to the mortifying conclusion that Christian had been right: marriage to Greendale had left her ashamed of herself. Exactly as Christian had said—had accused—she blamed herself for her marriage and for not finding a way out of it.
Greendale had been depraved but not brilliant. Gilly could have absconded with the silver from her trousseau, taken a coach for Scotland, and made some sort of living with her needle.
She might have fought back, revealed her scars to Polite Society, arranged a visit to Helene but instead taken ship for South America. By the hour, she had listed the plans and schemes she might have, should have, and did not attempt.
She also blamed herself for revealing the whole business to Christian, who had put all the violence he’d suffered behind him and focused on building a life around the daughter he loved and his ducal responsibilities.
And Gilly blamed herself for being rude over breakfast to the man she loved, though as awkward as things had grown between them, she didn’t like the idea of him traveling to Greendale without her.
She couldn’t say why the idea rankled, but it did.
And thus, she was on the drive after breakfast, ready to bid Christian farewell on more cordial terms than she’d shown him earlier.
“Good of you to see me off.” Christian settled on the lady’s mounting block next to where Gilly stood. “You were less than charming over breakfast, except to St. Just.”
“I am yet tired,” she said, though those words weren’t what she wanted to convey to him.
He stood and took the step necessary to close the distance between them.
“It won’t work.” He put a hand on each of her shoulders and brought her against him. “Paw and snort all you like, Gilly. Dodge, duck, and dawdle, but your temper won’t chase me off. I’m tending to a duty, but I’m also giving you some peace and quiet.”
She put her arms around his waist and let herself have the comfort of his embrace for a moment. “Don’t let Easterbrook make you smoke any of his smelly cigars.”
And that had nothing to do with anything either.
“Gilly, the only sleep you found was when I held you. I want to always be there to hold you.”
She held on to him, trying to believe what he was telling her. Christian’s mistreatment by the French made him only more dear to her. Her mind trusted that Greendale’s abuse did not sully her in Christian’s eyes, did not make her less worthy of Christian’s regard.
Her heart was more wary.
“I didn’t want you to know.” An orphan’s cry for her mama might have been more forlorn, barely. “I didn’t want you to know I’d let somebody treat me like that. A shame is less wounding if it’s private.”
He was silent, simply holding her, and Gilly took it as a measure of her upset that she let him embrace her more or less in public. A quick hug between cousins-by-marriage might be excused, but not this.
“I cannot know the experiences you’ve survived, Gilly, except what you tell me of them.” His hand stroked across her back, as if he would remind her of what he’d seen and that her scars did not frighten him. “I will tell you what somebody told me: I respect you all the more for what you’ve confided, both because of what you survived and because you don’t pretend it never happened. The shame wounds you, but it belongs entirely to Greendale.”
If Christian did not get on his horse soon, she’d be telling him every last, awful detail. “I wanted it all to die with him.”
“The mistreatment died with him, but you, my love, did not, for which I will ever give thanks. You’ll be decent to St. Just?”
“I’ll flirt my eyebrows off with him.”
This earned her a chuckle. “He’s a cavalry officer. He won’t scare easily.”
Christian kissed her forehead, and Gilly couldn’t help holding him tighter.
“I’ll stay if you ask me to,” he said softly, right near her ear, “but I owe Marcus a show of support.”
“Go then.” She stepped back quickly, before she started begging. “Give him my regards, and tell him…”
She never wanted to see Marcus Easterbrook again, never wanted to see Greendale again.
And never wanted to say another good-bye to Christian Severn.
Gilly made a decision. She made her decision based on the way Chessie nuzzled at Christian’s pockets, the way Christian had held her right here in the stable yard, the way a man he’d befriended stood a few yards off, pretending to play with the puppies while standing guard over Christian and Gilly both.
“Tell Marcus to blow the dower house to kindling. It has the creeping damp, and I cannot see myself inhabiting such a sorry dwelling, ever.”
“I’ll tell him no such thing.” Christian smiled as he kissed her cheek, which both gratified and annoyed her, for she’d been deadly serious and trying to convey something besides the proper fate of a neglected heap.
Then he was up on his horse, a groom handing him his crop. He lifted it as if to flourish it in a salute, but caught Gilly’s eye.
In her heart, Don’t go warred with Take me with you. She blew him a kiss and tried to smile. He touched his hat brim with his riding crop and still didn’t nudge Chessie off down the drive.
“Gilly?”
She shaded her eyes to meet his gaze.
“Keep this for me—or destroy it.” He tossed her the crop, and she caught it, the first time she’d touched such a thing willingly in years.
“Until this evening,” he said, and then he and Chessie were clattering over the cobblestones and cantering down the curving driveway until they were out of sight.
Gilly held the riding crop without looking at it and waited for the familiar pounding to begin in her chest.
And waited, while the puppies gamboled, the morning breeze rippled the surface of the lake, and Gilly’s heart…went about its job, as if she held a stick to throw for the puppies, or a flower.
Christian had entrusted her with a simple riding crop, a wooden handle covered in cowhide, the braided leather ending in a short lash. She’d seen hundreds in her lifetime, held a few dozen, and swatted the occasional lazy horse with one, though never in anger.
She was still drying her tears a few minutes later when St. Just ambled over, passed her a plain cream silk handkerchief that smelled slightly of horse, and proposed she give him a tour of the gardens.
Eighteen
Of all the inconveniences plaguing Marcus Easterbrook, Christian Severn, eighth Duke of Mercia—and ironically, heir to the Greendale ancestral pile—figured as the most prominent. Even the damned weather cooperated in His Grace’s bloody social whims, for it w
as a perfect summer day. Sunny, dry, and pleasant without being hot, and the duke’s note had said he’d join his cousin for a midday meal.
Bad enough the man was unbreakable, and unkillable, but he was also likely to be punctual, so Marcus put the kitchen on notice that a proper feast had best be forthcoming at the one o’clock hour.
The staff would not disappoint. One result of inheriting from old Greendale was a staff who knew how to take orders from their betters.
And if Marcus were lucky, his dear former-step-aunt-the-countess would accompany Mercia on this call between relatives. Her ladyship had to be getting restless, what with being in mourning, and Mercia observing half mourning for the fair Helene.
Marcus wandered down to the stable, seeking a distraction from thoughts of Helene. Of the many bothersome results of Mercia’s return to the living, losing the use of Aragon—Chesterton, to the duke—was one of the worst. The beast had been handsome, faultlessly trained, and possessed of beautiful gaits.
The sound of hooves in the stable yard signaled Mercia’s arrival. Marcus put on his best charming smile, squared his shoulders, and prepared to greet a man who lacked the common decency to die when the opportunity presented itself, or even to lose his reason so a trustee—in the person of a devoted cousin—might have been appointed to oversee the ducal assets.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Marcus extended a hand to Mercia. “A beautiful day for a ride. Hullo, horse. He looks to be thriving in your care.”
“As he did in yours.” The duke slapped Marcus hard on the back then looked around as a groom led the beast away. “The stables are not falling down. You exaggerated shamelessly.”
Mercia’s handshake was firm, his voice hearty, his dismount lithe. Marcus wanted to punch His Grace in his smiling face.
“Compared to Severn, this place is a disgrace. And I wish I could say I’ve found a great stash of the King’s coin hoarded up during all the years of neglect, but Greendale spent it on his entertainments and keeping the house up.”
Mercia’s smile turned disgustingly sympathetic. “You can always marry an heiress. In the alternative, rent out the house to some rich cit, fix yourself up a bachelor’s paradise in the gatehouse for a few years, diversify your incomes, and come visit me often. I promise to break out the best the cellars have to offer, and listen to all your woes.”
Goddamned hail-fellow-well-met.
“Sounds like good advice, particularly if I want to look in on my uncle’s widow from time to time.”
“She offered to take Lucy in hand.” The words put shadows in the renowned Severn blue eyes, and this was a relief, because Marcus had lost his only spy in the ranks of Severn servants.
“The poor girl still hasn’t found her tongue?”
“No, and I lose hope she ever will. If seeing one’s dear papa rise from the dead, and commanding the daily care and company of the countess hasn’t wrought a miracle for Lucy, I’m not sure what will.”
Thank God. “She doesn’t lack wits,” Marcus said, leading his guest through the extravagance of the Greendale gardens. “Perhaps you might send her north to one of those establishments that deal specifically with hysterical females.”
Marcus, having done some research, could name a few that would treat the girl with admirable attention to discipline.
“The physicians offer their tuppence worth of guesses, but that’s all they are, guesses. You’re good to ask after her.”
“The best cousin you’ll ever have, and I’ve promised decent food and drink, because God knows Greendale took care of his cellars. Come, and we’ll wash the dust of the road from your throat. How is the countess, by the way?”
Mercia paused by a bed of mostly blown roses that had likely cost more than the mount Marcus made do with in Aragon’s absence. “Lady Greendale is struggling, Marcus.”
“Mourning is a difficult time.” What could make Gillian, Lady Greendale, struggle now, if eight years before the mast with the old man hadn’t done it?
“Mourning is difficult for us all. Helene was your friend.”
For God’s sake…after months of silence among the bloody French, Mercia had to turn up fearlessly blunt now. Marcus made a study of the roses, though if this variety had a scent, he could not detect it.
“Helene was your duchess, but these are gloomy thoughts on a beautiful day. Come up to the house, and we’ll enjoy some fine brandy before you interrogate me over lunch.”
He watched a strange look cross His Grace’s features at the use of the word interrogate, and knew a little satisfaction to think in some small way he could make his famous, unbreakable, quiet, ducal cousin squirm.
It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
***
St. Just’s gaze traveled from the vines twining up the curtains, to the pansies blooming on the pillowcases and slipcovers, and the intricate geometric designs on the runner gracing the coffee table in Gilly’s sitting room.
“You really do embroider everything in sight,” he said.
“And I embroider some things out of sight,” Gilly replied then realized from the smile on St. Just’s face that his imagination wasn’t conjuring images of handkerchiefs.
“Mercia warned me to lock up my stockings,” St. Just said, sauntering into the little parlor. He was a good-looking man, less refined than Christian, but blessed with a pair of green eyes sporting long dark lashes and winging dark brows. All in all, an imposing man, but somehow, less of a man to Gilly than Christian.
St. Just had never been taken captive, never known torture, never been moved nigh to violence at the sight of an unexpected kitten. These facts ought to diminish Christian, but in her eyes, they gilded his courage and made him all the more remarkable.
“If you keep looking at the clock, my lady, the hands will advance, and your duke will return, but a visit to the back terrace might be in order if you’re not to entirely waste this beautiful day.”
“You’ve been very patient with me,” she said, rising. “Another turn through the park might serve.”
He offered his arm and matched her pace as they made their way to the terrace. He’d been a cheerful if ruthless companion when she gardened, pulling weeds beside her with a sort of barbaric enthusiasm. She’d asked him about his horses, though, and his gaze had softened considerably.
Over lunch, he’d told her amusing stories about his siblings and about that august personage, his father, the Duke of Moreland. Then he’d let George and John stand guard outside the study door while she caught up on correspondence, but here he was, again taking escort duty.
“Do you miss your siblings, Colonel?” she asked as they descended from the back terrace.
“A challenging question, to which a man not decorated for bravery would say, of course.”
“But you are a brave man, so…?”
“I miss them, and I dread them,” he said, and rather than tour the roses—which were past their prime—St. Just escorted Gilly in the direction of the stables. “We’ve been at peace for months now, and I expect to wake up one day and say to myself, ‘Well, now, things are back to normal, and isn’t that a great relief?’”
“Except?”
“Except I keep waking up prepared to tell my men we’re moving on to another town, farther to the north and east, pushing our way across the entire Iberian Peninsula to crawl up Bonaparte’s back. I expect to hear we’re besieging yet another bloody walled city, and I do mean sanguinary, with all the same carnage and misery the last siege provoked.”
The charming officer had gone, leaving a career soldier in his place, and Gilly liked this fellow even more than that officer.
“You miss war?” Gilly asked, because she missed nothing, not one thing, about her marriage to Greendale.
A curiously happy thought.
“I grew used to it,” he said. “I knew who my enemies were, w
ho was under my command, and what our objective was when we marched out. I had specific tasks: get this report to that general, count the number of horses in the following towns, and so forth. This is not a fit topic for a lady.”
“The interesting topics never are. So you do miss it.”
The gardens were past their peak, and the fall flowers hadn’t yet started to bloom. St. Just knelt to snap off a sprig of lavender and held it under his nose.
“I miss having a purpose as compelling as life and death, King and Country. I miss being something besides Moreland’s oldest by-blow.”
My goodness, no wonder Christian considered this man a friend. “Moreland has more than one?”
“I have a half sister similarly situated, and in many ways, her lot is more difficult than mine.”
Gilly did not ask what could be more difficult than war; she didn’t need to.
And St. Just wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t prose off into a description of his siblings again. Though it might have been the easier course for them both, Gilly didn’t want him to.
“I’ve heard rumors,” St. Just said, crumpling the lavender in his fist. “Rumors the Corsican is trying to escape from his island, rumors the French would march with him again if he did. The poor devils have forgotten how to go on in peacetime, and Napoleon left them little enough to go on with.”
The scent of lavender wafted on the summer air when St. Just opened his fist.
“And you’re ready to fight him again if he does.” Gilly didn’t make it a question. St. Just looked so unhappy, so bewildered, she realized she’d hit the mark. “Why?”
He tossed the mangled lavender aside and was quiet for a moment, gazing out over the back gardens, then one corner of his mouth kicked up.
“Damned if I know. Pardon the language.”
Gilly remained beside him in the fading afternoon light and realized if Christian were there, he might have an answer. He might have the wisdom and the courage to understand why a man, a good man, was choosing war and death over a life of peace and plenty.
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