“Why not? He cost me access to my duchess’s intimate favors, did he not?”
Christian had no idea where those ugly words had come from, but he knew they weren’t true. He’d loved his son, loved his wife, even, though not in the manner he’d wanted to. And he hated himself—not Girard, or not only Girard—because he, the husband, the papa, hadn’t been here when they’d needed him so desperately.
He braced himself on the wall, back to her, as a pair of arms slid around his waist from behind.
“You don’t mean that, Christian Severn.”
She held him fiercely, her female shape undeniable, as if she would impress the words on his very flesh. “You cannot mean that. Helene said you doted on the boy. She wrote me thus as well. And you always treated Helene with respect. She gloated over that to me regularly.”
He nodded, hoping to shut the woman up. She was fearless in her willingness to put into words what ought to remain unspoken. He turned, thinking she’d step back, but she instead attacked him from the front, leaning into him, wrapping him in her arms, pushing her nose against his throat.
He surrendered to the moment and brought both arms around her. She was little and sturdy, and very obviously female, and holding her was a pleasure and a…relief.
“I’m sorry. I do not mourn my husband properly, and I am nobody to tell you what you ought to feel.”
Still, she didn’t move. Christian used his teeth to tug off one glove, his left, and stroked his damaged hand over her hair. He wanted to comfort her, but she sought words from him, not caresses and silent wishes.
“You worry nobody will tend your grave,” he said. “It’s real, that worry.”
She moved against him, getting closer when he’d thought she would pull away. She ought to be pulling away, ought to be running back to Town or Greendale Hall, or anywhere to get quit of a place where she was made to cry.
“When you are imprisoned,” he went on, “you suffer bodily. War is hard enough on the soldier in service to his country. Prisoners cannot be spared a great deal of charity, else who would fight to the death to avoid capture? The physical deprivation is not so hard to understand, but inside your mind… Your captors assure you that your people have forgotten you, that nobody came to find you, that you were allowed to fade immediately from memory, and you…”
She was crying still, making miserable little noises against his chest, but he forced himself to find more words. For her.
“You are told and shown and shown again that you do not matter, and you never mattered. Not to your captors, which is only fair, but not to the mates you fought beside, not to your King, not to your own family. They tell you that until it makes sense, and you cast aside whatever you believed that doesn’t fit with that truth. But, Countess, I promise you, your grave will be tended when God calls you home, and you will be mourned.”
He had not comforted her with those words, for she shuddered against him, her tears the more profound for being so quiet.
He didn’t know what else to do but to hold her, stroke her hair, and wonder at this capacity for sorrow. Her grief felt as if she cried not for Helene and Evan, not even for herself, but for him.
“I’m s-sorry,” she said, sighing like an overwrought child against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
He did not ask her for what or whom she was sorry, and neither did he let her go.
Nine
Gilly stood in the door to the nursery suite, arrested by the scene before her.
“This…this vermin is not to be brought into my house, is that clear?”
The duke spoke softly, with a lethal edge, while an orange kitten mewled piteously from its place in his gloved hand. He wasn’t squashing the thing, but his tone of voice alone would terrify it.
“Very clear, Your Grace.” Harris bobbed a curtsy. “Very clear.”
But Lucy stretched up a hand toward the kitten, wiggling her fingers in a silent plea for the little cat. The duke held the beast higher, the epitome of the school yard bully as he glared down at his daughter.
“You brought it in without asking, Lucy, and it’s bad enough they lurk in the stables and granary, hang about the hay mows, and haunt the dairy. I’ll not have such as this bedamned, benighted, spawn of the devil under my roof, and you are not to bring another into the house.”
Lucy stamped her foot, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared right back at him, while Harris looked on in dumbstruck horror.
“Excuse me,” Gilly said, crossing into the room. “Lucy and Harris can see to returning this little fellow from whence he came.”
She lifted the kitten from the duke’s palm, passed it to a startled Harris, and spared Lucy a warning look. Lucy took Harris by the hand and towed her from the room.
“You’re excused,” the duke said, his expression still thunderous.
Gilly waited until the child and her governess were gone, closed the door, and considered a duke far more upset than the situation called for.
“You never sneaked a kitten into your rooms as a child, Your Grace?”
“I did not.” He was the picture of paternal pique, and over a kitten. A kitten?
“A puppy then? A frog? You didn’t put a butterfly in a jar or some minnows from the swimming hole in a watering can and hide them in your closet until you should have been abed, only to take them out and examine them by the light of a single pilfered candle?”
He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back on her.
“The child does not need your fits of temper, Mercia.”
“She damned well doesn’t need that flea-infested bag of mischief under her covers either.”
“Many people dislike cats.” But kittens? Who could dislike a kitten?
“I loathe them.”
He turned to face her, his expression…ducally unreadable. “I suppose you expect me to apologize to Lucy?”
“For what?” She crossed her arms as Lucy had done. “You are lord and master here, and she did not have permission that I know of to bring the cat indoors even to play with.”
He stalked past her. “I have not the manners necessary to spar with you over this. I bid you good day.”
And then he was gone, temper and all, leaving Gilly to take up a rocking chair near the windows and watch as three stories below, Harris and Lucy made their way through the gardens to the stable. His Grace had been dressed for riding, which meant he’d probably cross paths with Lucy in a few minutes.
And he might apologize for the way he spoke, but not for ordering the cat out of the house. He’d been near panicked to find the kitten in the nursery, and God help Cook’s big, fat mousers if His Grace ever dropped in on the kitchens unannounced.
***
Christian was enough of a horseman not to take out his temper on Chessie, but he needed to gallop, to charge headlong over his fields and fences, not trot sedately within the limits of his imperfect stamina.
The cat…that blasted little orange ball of fluff dashing across his boots…
He rode for miles, knowing he’d pay for his exertions, only gradually able to notice the terrain he covered. Severn tenant farms, a corner of the home wood, the gently rolling hills leading to the Downs, bridle paths he’d learned as a boy, streams he’d first crossed on his pony behind his papa on the way to the local meets.
His, and if he wasn’t careful, Easterbrook would be administering the lot of it while the Duke of Mercia occupied a tidy suite of rooms at Bedlam.
His estate was in disarray, his daughter gone mute, his household likely in no better condition than the land but for the countess’s efforts to take it in hand, and the Duke of Mercia was completely undone by the unexpected sight of a stupid, fluffy little cat. How was he to pursue Girard, track the man down, and administer justice if the sight of a kitten nigh parted him from his reason?
His upset had coo
led to mere irritation—at himself, his daughter, and still, at the bloody cat—by the time he walked across the back terrace, intent on ordering some decent sustenance.
He would be bone tired from overexerting himself, but for the present, he was pleased to be ravenous. He couldn’t recall being ravenous at any point in the past year, and he considered it something of an accomplishment.
“What the hell are these?”
He put the question to a passing footman, who scooted back two steps before answering.
“Her ladyship’s trunks, Your Grace, for her trip into Town tomorrow.”
Four large trunks, stacked two and two, sat along the hallway nearest the porte cochere.
“Take them back up to her room, and please ask the countess to join me in the library.” He stomped off, the heels of his riding boots signaling his ire to all in his path.
Thought she’d leave him, would she? Thought she’d champion the rights of cats and naughty little girls over those of a man in his own home? Thought she’d abandon him and Lucy over a single display of temper? He’d show her temper, by God…
“Good afternoon, Mercia.”
Serene, smiling, her ladyship came into the room, though she moved with more dispatch than grace. She wasn’t a swanning sort of countess, which was good. Easier to read her the Riot Act that way.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, taking the offensive. “I saw your trunks. Up and leaving without a word? How do you think Lucy will like that, hmm? She’s only a child, and clearly attached to you, and here you are, haring off at the first sign of minor discord in the household.”
She stopped and opened her mouth, but wasn’t fast enough, given his mood.
“Nothing to say, Countess? For once I catch you without a glib reply? Come, does a little display of ducal authority honestly offend your sensibilities all that much?”
He paused, and it was a mistake, for she advanced on him, her blue eyes promising a stinging return volley.
“That wasn’t a display of ducal authority, Your Grace. That was a tantrum, unprovoked and undeserved, and you’ll have that child sneaking all manner of creatures up to the nursery simply to watch you cursing and stomping about the room.”
“I did not curse.”
“Bedamned,” she said very clearly, the language all the more foul for the disdain she applied to it. “Benighted, spawn of the devil…perhaps not taking the Lord’s name in vain, but certainly intemperate language unsuited to the nursery.”
“I will not be made to apologize for objecting to that beast’s presence in my daughter’s rooms.” He’d nearly shouted, likely surprising himself more than he’d surprised her.
And over a kitten.
“Then don’t apologize.” She took a leaf from Christian’s own book and turned her back on him. Her posture was worthy of a seasoned officer on parade march, and it was a relief not to have to meet her eyes. “Perhaps you will explain your antipathy toward kittens.”
She didn’t make it a question, merely tossed a verbal gauntlet over her shoulder while she fussed a bouquet of white roses. Christian couldn’t see exactly what she’d done, but the bouquet was taller by the time she took up a seat on the sofa.
“First, my lady, explain why your trunks were packed.”
“Please have a seat, Your Grace.”
Order him about, would she? But wandering around the room would only make him look as agitated as he felt. He dropped down beside her. “I’m sitting. I hope you’re pleased.”
The footmen arrived bearing a substantial tray, complete with the tea service, sandwiches, and tea cakes. The ubiquitous peeled orange sat divided into sections on a silver plate, a blossom of healthy citrus, and Christian wanted to hurl the damned thing against the wall.
She was leaving, and he was growling when he ought to be groveling.
No, not groveling. He was constitutionally incapable of that—thank you, Robert Girard—but apologizing at least.
And not explaining. Another constitutional incapability, for he wasn’t sure himself exactly what had got into him.
“I received a letter from my barrister,” Lady Greendale said.
“You’re involved in a lawsuit?” Lawsuits were never good. They invariably ended in scandal, expense, and wasted years. “Against whom?”
“I am not involved in any lawsuits, but I retained Mr. Stoneleigh to advise me regarding the inquest following Greendale’s death. He was invaluable in that capacity, and has now asked me to attend him in Town.”
“And you drop everything and take off like a hound on the scent when the lawyer snaps his fingers? That, I can tell you, is not how one deals with men of the law, Countess.”
“Does keeping your lawyers waiting for you improve their service or the outcomes of your legal matters?”
“I’m a damned…dashed duke.” Who was afraid of kittens. “Their service had best be impeccable whenever I’m so unfortunate as to need it.”
“Yes, well…” She passed him a cup, and he took an unthinking sip.
“God in heaven…” He put the cup down, swallowing cautiously. She’d served him real tea, not the infantile combination of milk, hot water, and sugar he’d been forcing down for the past two months. Christian waited for his stomach to rebel, to clench in miserable, acid rebellion, but the pleasurable taste in his mouth wasn’t obliterated by any other bodily response.
“I’m sorry,” the countess said. “I forgot, honestly. Let me fix you up…”
“No. I’ll manage. The tea isn’t very strong yet, and you’ve added plenty of cream.”
“I fixed it as if for myself. You have me flustered.”
He took another sip of tea, pleased to be able to, but determined to stop at half a cup.
And flustered was gratifying. She didn’t look flustered, but the lady was quiet, and she’d bungled his tea.
“Flustered, my dear? Perhaps it’s your lawsuit that has you unnerved.”
“The matter is something to do with Greendale’s will,” she said, stirring her tea. “Stoneleigh would only say there’s no cause for worry, only cause to consult.”
“Haven’t you a solicitor to deal with something like a will?” Christian had an entire cricket team of them, though offering the countess the use of one didn’t seem to be what the moment called for.
“I’m more comfortable meeting with Mr. Stoneleigh, who will direct me to a solicitor if one is needed.”
Matters usually went the other way around, with the solicitor directing business to the barrister, but the countess hadn’t yet taken a sip of her tea.
“Tell me what’s afoot,” Christian said, trying to make it a helpful suggestion rather than a ducal mandate—and mostly failing. “And drink your tea before it gets cold.”
She gave him another puzzled look, but took a sip then set her cup down. “Orange, Your Grace?”
He wanted her to call him by name. Nobody referred to a duke by name—Helene certainly hadn’t, not even when he’d come to bed of a night—but all this Your Gracing…
Even Girard had referred to him by his title.
“No oranges, thank you, and quit dithering about. If you have a legal worry, you are under my roof, and I will relieve you of it, do you deign to allow me.”
He’d fallen a bit short of making a helpful suggestion, though the woman was smiling at her tea.
“The trunks are empty. I’m traveling to Town by way of Greendale and retrieving more of my belongings.”
Abruptly, the tea tasted ambrosial. The trunks were not a sign of her impending departure; to the contrary, they were for collecting more of her effects and bringing them to Severn.
Where she now…resided.
“Will four trunks be enough?” He popped a section of orange into his mouth. They could spare her a farm wagon, should she need it. He’
d drive the thing himself.
“Four will be plenty. I’ll gather up only my personal belongings from Greendale and send them here, if you’ll allow it.”
“Of course I’ll allow it.” He’d like to see her try to send them elsewhere.
“Greendale told me repeatedly that upon his death, I would receive the bare minimum required by the settlements, a dower portion of the unentailed estate, though I assume he organized his finances so that sum is paltry.”
“What about a dower property?” Because if she ever were wroth with him, she ought to have a dower residence to retreat to.
“Greendale has a dower house,” she said, helping herself to a section of orange. “His lordship did not spend a single farthing on its upkeep during the eight years of our marriage.”
“Has the dry rot or creeping damp, then?” He tried not to sound pleased about this, but if he were lucky, the roof leaked as well.
“Likely has bats. I’m sure Easterbrook would allow me to stay in the main house until the dower house is marginally habitable, but he’ll be finding himself a bride, and I can’t look forward to sharing the table with her.”
“He is obligated…” Christian began, but she stopped him by holding up a section of orange. He took it with his teeth, as she’d no doubt intended.
“How is it men cannot see themselves ever tolerating charity, but women are supposed to meekly, even gratefully, accept it?”
“A dower house isn’t charity. It’s your due for putting up with that old besom for eight years of days…and nights.”
She shuddered, confirming Christian’s sense the marriage had been a trial. He was pleased about that too, also displeased for her sake. He held out his cup for a refill, the first having helped settle him rather than agitate him further.
She poured out, her movements graceful and relaxed, not those of a lady prevaricating about her plans.
“I am loath to return to Greendale with the dower house in its present state. I am also not looking forward to haggling with Easterbrook’s bride over which objects were part of my trousseau and thus mine to keep, and which were part of Greendale’s family collection. You truly don’t mind if I send some things here?”
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