Page 87 of The Captive
Her lips quirked up before compressing into a severe line. “Where did you learn to put stockings on a lady’s feet?”
“Early in the marriage, I used to put my stockings on Helene’s feet, lest she catch her death. She had perpetually cold hands and feet.” Also a cold nose, of all things. The recollection pleased him, for only a noticing husband would have perceived it.
“I cannot marry you now. I’m still in mourning.”
This approached clutching at straws, and included the gratifying qualification that she could not marry Christiannow. “You loathed the old besom.”
“I owe my own reputation proper decorum, nonetheless.”
“So marry me this time next year,” he said. “We’ll get a start on the intimacies betimes, and we’re already perfecting our ability to disagree civilly.” He tucked the other sock onto her second foot and remained kneeling before her, lest she go haring off clear to Greendale.
She twitched the collar of his dressing gown then smoothed it flat. “What we did in this bed was ill-advised, though I cannot regret it.”
“Ill-advised?” He did not like that term. He very much liked her lack of regret.
“Imprudent. Below stairs, there will be talk.”
“I was ill,” he said. “Were you to allow me to die or to suffer mortal agonies when you are the logical source of care for me?”
“Why me?”
“You are a widow, and you nursed your ailing husband for weeks before he succumbed. You were here when Evan fell ill. Who else would know as much as you about caring for an invalid?”
She closed her eyes, as if seeking patience. “I must return to my room.”
Retreat, which suggested he’d routed her, albeit temporarily. “In a moment.”
He kissed her, tasting surprise, curiosity, and capitulation in her return fire. Time to put his guns down, or at least pause to reload.
“I have surprised you with my proposal,” he said, his forehead leaning on hers. He’d surprised her with his ardor, and she’d more than surprised him. “I’m sorry you feel ambushed. Badly done of me. I want to marry you, Gilly, but you have a point: we’ve some matters to sort out that rather take precedence over setting a date.”
“I havenotsaid—”
He kissed her again, but she was on to his tricks and merely endured the visit of his mouth upon hers.
“You needn’tsay. Greendale was an awful old curmudgeon, I understand that. So you take your time, look me over thoroughly. Count my teeth, put me through my paces.”
Her hand smoothed his hair back. “You’re not a horse.”
“I’m a horse’s arse. You were harried into marriage once before, and that ended badly. Am I right?”
She shifted so her forehead rested on his shoulder, and Christian scooted in closer, as if he’d protect her from her own past.
“Yes. Too right. One day I was memorizing my fifth declension nouns, and the next, my mama was taking me shopping for a trousseau. When I met Greendale, I had to excuse myself with a megrim so I could sit in the carriage and cry all the way home. He was on his best, most jovial behavior when courting me. He did not improve with time.”
“I will. I’ll bring you more puppies, I’ll read poetry to you, even that stupid Blake, and I’ll—”
She lifted away, but the fight had gone out of her. “Groveling becomes you ill, Mercia.”
“I’ve amused you. Your smile is worth the affront to my dignity.” What little dignity he still had. Christian traced her hair back from her face. “You won’t run off? Somebody means you harm, my dear. I would much rather you stay here and castigate me for my impetuous ardor. If you leave…”
He’d come after her and fetch her home. He didn’t say that, because it smacked of taking her captive, which he could not do.
“I care for you,” she said, the words a grudging admission. “I did not choose my first husband well, and in that you’re right. I will not be rushed into marriage again.”
He waited, because she wasn’t finished, and because talking like this was something he and Helene had never learned to do, a realization that in itself gave him regret and…hope.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to rush you.” He’d meant to marry her, though, and still did.
