subjected to awkward questions too, aren’t you?”
Gilly wanted to see his eyes, because she sensed his inquiry had hidden, gnarled roots, so she took a seat on the sofa and patted the place beside her.
Had Helene intended that her husband be left with awkward questions? Had she grown weary of the awkward questions related to his captivity? Was that why she’d made the choices she had?
“One isn’t supposed to be a happy widow,” Gilly said, certain in her bones Mercia would not judge her for the admission. “One might be merry, after several years’ bereavement, or peaceful, or content, but not happy. Perhaps you’ll consider me unnatural and limit my influence on Lucille, but I am a happy widow.”
He settled beside her, gingerly, as if the sofa were too hot to sit upon, and Gilly heard the poem again in her head: “He stretches out my golden wing, and mocks my loss of liberty.” “What was your report about, Your Grace?”
“Nothing of any import, old army business.”
“Then you won’t mind if I sit here and read for a bit while you work on it?”
His expression shifted, as if he were frowning because he was thinking too hard, not because she’d displeased him.
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” she said, opening the book to a random page. “I can keep quiet, you know, when I choose to.”
“I’ve written enough for now.”
“Then find your own book,” she said, leafing through hers. “Find an old friend, and renew your acquaintance.”
He wandered off while Gilly chose a nice long poem about flowers and skies and lambs. She would not have remarked his return, except this time, he sat down like he didn’t expect the sofa to collapse under his weight. He sat close enough that the fold of his dressing gown casually draped over the hem of Gilly’s shawl.
He held another small volume, but stared into the fire, the book unopened in his hands. When Gilly yawned a half hour later and looked up again, he hadn’t moved in the entire time she’d been reading.
“I’m off to seek my bed. You should do likewise, Your Grace. Morning will be here before we’re ready for it.”
“I don’t advise rousing me from my slumbers,” he said, eyeing his book. “I take exception to violations of my privacy.”
“I do apologize, and it won’t happen again. Next time, you’ll wedge a chair under the door in addition to locking it, won’t you?” She rose and put her book on his desk.
He got to his feet as well and laid his unread book beside her Blake. “If there were a next time, which there won’t be, I’d wedge a chair under the door and push a wardrobe behind the chair.”
“I understand.”
And if she meant anything she’d ever said to him, she meant those two words.
He must have sensed this, because he studied her for some moments. Perhaps because she’d been married to Greendale, perhaps because she was tired and the day had been fraught, Gilly did not divine the duke’s intent until the very last instant.
He framed her jaw with one large, callused palm and held his hand to her skin long enough for the heat of him to seep into her.
“When I rode home today, what I put in my mind that I looked forward to,” he said softly, “what saw me past the riots and mayhem and enemy patrols in my mind, was this.” He turned his head at an angle, pressed his lips to hers, and drew back half an inch. “You brought me home today, my lady. For that you have my thanks.”
He kissed her again, on the mouth, then in the center of her forehead, the slow, deliberate reverence of his gestures as stunning as it was surprising.
For one bewildered moment, Gilly held his face against her hand, then left him standing alone in the shadowed library. Before she was halfway up the stairs, she was crying for no reason she could discern.
***
“I did not keep you alive for years on that godforsaken rock pile, despite the English battering at our door, Anduvoir wreaking his intrigues, the garrison
Gilly wanted to see his eyes, because she sensed his inquiry had hidden, gnarled roots, so she took a seat on the sofa and patted the place beside her.
Had Helene intended that her husband be left with awkward questions? Had she grown weary of the awkward questions related to his captivity? Was that why she’d made the choices she had?
“One isn’t supposed to be a happy widow,” Gilly said, certain in her bones Mercia would not judge her for the admission. “One might be merry, after several years’ bereavement, or peaceful, or content, but not happy. Perhaps you’ll consider me unnatural and limit my influence on Lucille, but I am a happy widow.”
He settled beside her, gingerly, as if the sofa were too hot to sit upon, and Gilly heard the poem again in her head: “He stretches out my golden wing, and mocks my loss of liberty.” “What was your report about, Your Grace?”
“Nothing of any import, old army business.”
“Then you won’t mind if I sit here and read for a bit while you work on it?”
His expression shifted, as if he were frowning because he was thinking too hard, not because she’d displeased him.
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” she said, opening the book to a random page. “I can keep quiet, you know, when I choose to.”
“I’ve written enough for now.”
“Then find your own book,” she said, leafing through hers. “Find an old friend, and renew your acquaintance.”
He wandered off while Gilly chose a nice long poem about flowers and skies and lambs. She would not have remarked his return, except this time, he sat down like he didn’t expect the sofa to collapse under his weight. He sat close enough that the fold of his dressing gown casually draped over the hem of Gilly’s shawl.
He held another small volume, but stared into the fire, the book unopened in his hands. When Gilly yawned a half hour later and looked up again, he hadn’t moved in the entire time she’d been reading.
“I’m off to seek my bed. You should do likewise, Your Grace. Morning will be here before we’re ready for it.”
“I don’t advise rousing me from my slumbers,” he said, eyeing his book. “I take exception to violations of my privacy.”
“I do apologize, and it won’t happen again. Next time, you’ll wedge a chair under the door in addition to locking it, won’t you?” She rose and put her book on his desk.
He got to his feet as well and laid his unread book beside her Blake. “If there were a next time, which there won’t be, I’d wedge a chair under the door and push a wardrobe behind the chair.”
“I understand.”
And if she meant anything she’d ever said to him, she meant those two words.
He must have sensed this, because he studied her for some moments. Perhaps because she’d been married to Greendale, perhaps because she was tired and the day had been fraught, Gilly did not divine the duke’s intent until the very last instant.
He framed her jaw with one large, callused palm and held his hand to her skin long enough for the heat of him to seep into her.
“When I rode home today, what I put in my mind that I looked forward to,” he said softly, “what saw me past the riots and mayhem and enemy patrols in my mind, was this.” He turned his head at an angle, pressed his lips to hers, and drew back half an inch. “You brought me home today, my lady. For that you have my thanks.”
He kissed her again, on the mouth, then in the center of her forehead, the slow, deliberate reverence of his gestures as stunning as it was surprising.
For one bewildered moment, Gilly held his face against her hand, then left him standing alone in the shadowed library. Before she was halfway up the stairs, she was crying for no reason she could discern.
***
“I did not keep you alive for years on that godforsaken rock pile, despite the English battering at our door, Anduvoir wreaking his intrigues, the garrison
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