by Gayle Callen
“Since I was in England, I wanted to see to your welfare, my lady,” Sergeant Blackthorne said. “I could not in good conscience visit my mother without seeing how you fare first.”
“I appreciate your consideration, Sergeant.” She prided herself on being able to judge a person’s character, but in so brief a time, Sergeant Blackthorne seemed utterly blank to her, except for the very cloak of masculinity that made him so different from her. The letters from him she’d once enjoyed now seemed foreign to her.
She mustn’t forget his history with her father. He’d opened himself up to her in his letters, granted her request though it had cost him his freedom from a marriage of his own choosing. She should be grateful—but she could not banish her suspicion.
“You are the daughter of my commanding officer,” Sergeant Blackthorne continued, “a man I held in the highest esteem. His death—” He broke off from whatever he meant to say, and his gaze went to the window, where the rain streaked down in rivulets. “He taught me what it was to be a man and a soldier. I will never forget my debt to him.”
He’d obviously looked up to her father, as had she. But she’d also resented his dedication to his regiment, the Eighth Dragoon Guards, for the many sorrows it had caused. It had made her mother miserable, and the older Cecilia got, the more her mother had confided that misery.
“So you consider me a debt,” she said slowly.
“No,” he said, then spread both his hands. “What am I to you?”
She stared at him, and was glad when Talbot himself, rather than a gawking maid, came into the room with a tea tray. Cecilia could only imagine how the servants’ hall was buzzing with news of her mysterious husband’s arrival.
“Since dinner is some hours away,” Talbot said to her, “I had Cook prepare sandwiches for Lord Blackthorne.”
“You are using an incorrect title, Talbot,” she said absently, still obsessed with staring at the sergeant.
Talbot hesitated. “I have served this family for long years in London, Lady Cecilia, and I have always prided myself on my knowledge of Society. I recognized Lord Blackthorne’s name and heritage, but if he wishes me to use his military title, then I shall. I acquiesced to your retention of ‘Lady Cecilia’ as your title, thinking you had personal reasons. I now regret my silence.”
“My mistake was not your fault, Talbot.” Cecilia turned back to the man she’d married. “Sir, you have a title I know nothing about?”
“It was in the marriage papers. You did not read them all? I hold a viscountcy.”
Talbot once again made himself scarce. Sergeant-Lord Blackthorne was not just a soldier; he was a peer, a man with even more power than she’d thought. She’d never heard of the title although she’d never had much time for London Society. She regretted that her lawyers had the marriage papers.
“You’re a viscount,” she began slowly, “yet you are a noncommissioned officer. I don’t understand.”
“I did not feel qualified to be an officer without the knowledge to lead. I wanted to earn my fellow soldiers’ respect before I expected them to follow me into battle.”
“So you enlisted like any ordinary man.” She’d never even heard of that being done by a peer. “And you call yourself sergeant? I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t believe your thoughts occurred to me, my lady, considering I didn’t even know of you when I made my decision years ago. I would have thought my being a viscount might have appealed to you, might even have helped explain our unorthodox wedding. The fact that you didn’t realize it makes me very curious.”
“Curious?” She forced a smile. “That is the least of what I’m feeling about this awkward situation.”
“It seems we are beginning this marriage on the same footing.”
She willed her hands not to tremble as she poured his tea. “How do you prefer yours?”
“Plain, Lady Blackthorne. Thank you.”
She flinched at the use of her new title, then watched him sip his tea and eat several wedges of ham sandwiches.
At last he sat back and regarded her. “So, where do we stand, my lady?”
She truly was his lady, not just his wife. Their mutual stare seemed charged with awareness, a knowledge that they were man and woman—joined, at least legally, as husband and wife. It was an intimacy she’d never imagined. She got to her feet. “I don’t know what to say, my lord. I had never planned on marrying—I am far too busy here with the Appertan estates.”
He rose with a slow, graceful agility that suddenly made them too close. She stepped back.
“That is a strange sentiment for a woman. And yet you are now married to me. You cannot want an annulment,” he added, as if they were discussing the weather.
Then she’d be a ward again, at the mercy of her guardians, and without the power she needed. He knew that. “I need to give this . . . situation consideration. If I decide to end this, then it could be scandalous that you lived here within the house. Please take no offense, my lord, but would you sleep in the dower house? It is just across the western lawn.”
For the first time, she watched his gaze move slowly down her body, taking in the flower-sprigged muslin. She suddenly had trouble catching her breath.
“So now I am a horse to be examined before a sale?” she asked quietly.
His brown eyes met hers once again. “I never said you were, my lady. Do you have other rules I as your husband should be aware of? No referring to my embarrassing military title, no looking at my wife.”
“I never said I was embarrassed by your military title,” she protested. “You earned that above other enlisted soldiers, and the accomplishment must be a source of pride.”
He bowed his head gravely. “You do me honor. But you also seem to believe I will meekly acquiesce to whatever you want, regardless of how reckless it is. No, I will not reside in the dower house.”
She tensed, but he spoke before she could reply.
“I am your legal husband, and I assume all of your friends and neighbors know. It would cause a terrible scandal and harm your reputation if you were to cast me off.”
“I would not be casting you off,” she insisted, striving to be calm. “If my lawyers say a proxy marriage is invalid, then we would have to abide by it.”
“You’d be making the marriage invalid by treating it that way. Now that I’ve met you in person, I know something must be drastically wrong for you to marry a man sight unseen, even if I do write interesting letters,” he added dryly.
Her mouth opened and closed, but her brain couldn’t seem to settle on the right response. This man was insisting he knew what was best for her.
“I would be happy to continue this discussion at dinner,” he continued, “but first I should change out of these damp garments.”
“Of course. I will have Talbot show you to your bedchamber. I hope you understand that you will not be sharing mine.”
“I assume you have a spacious apartment, Lady Blackthorne. Give me whichever of your rooms you’d like. I would never force myself on you. I will gladly give us time to know one another. And it is no one’s business but ours.”
She let out her breath. “Thank you. I will see you at seven when we dine.”
He bowed. “Until then.”
She watched him limp across the drawing room, and it wasn’t until she glimpsed him meeting with Talbot, that she stumbled back to sit on the sofa and close her eyes. Oh God, what have I done?
Michael, Viscount Blackthorne, followed the butler up into the mansion that had obviously once been a cavernous castle. Part of his mind memorized the route to his bedchamber, as any good soldier would, but another part of him was still stunned by his first encounter with Lady Blackthorne.
His wife.
For the rest of his life, he’d never forget his first sight of her, the lightning illuminating her beautiful, bewildered face, surrounded by a blond crown of hair. He’d been stunned, having convinced himself that only a truly ugly woman would ne
ed to marry as she had. Instead, he’d been astounded by her flawless features, the high cheekbones, the golden tones of her skin that hinted she was a woman of the outdoors. Her eyes reminded him of the petals of the Indian blue poppy, so vivid that he could have lost himself in their depths. Her figure was just as captivating, curves barely contained by her corset. He was still amazed he’d managed to speak to her coherently.
Talbot opened a door, and Michael preceded him into a spacious bedchamber, the chill of disuse now combated by a fire in the coal grate. The massive four-poster bed dominated although it was complemented by a wardrobe, writing desk, washstand, and several different chairs. He wondered if the door at the far side led to a dressing room—or his wife’s chambers.
“My lord, a maid will arrive soon to unpack your bag,” Talbot said, apology in his voice.
Michael nodded, barely noticing the butler’s departure as his thoughts returned to his wife. His very reluctant wife—he could see that now, and it surprised him, after the desperation that had hovered beneath each word she wrote. He couldn’t blame her for holding him off. They truly didn’t know each other but for words on paper. The instant connection he’d felt with her made them seem more intimate than they really were. If she felt it, she was fighting it, for he saw no hint that she might be as instantly smitten as he was. Her letters over the last two years had been the bright point of each month. He’d read them several times each, smiling at her lightheartedness, understanding that she tried to distract him with cheerful stories from home.
After the first few letters, Michael had assumed that Lady Cecilia was doing well enough, though in mourning, of course. His few friends in London had reported that the estate thrived, and that she had a dowry to attract any man she wanted.
But something had gone terribly wrong, and Michael, half a world away, had not seen it until the friendly letters were briefly silenced. The fact that she’d only come to him, a stranger, had made him feel concerned rather than flattered, and now, upon meeting her, his concern was only heightened. She’d experienced true desperation for some reason, and Michael felt keenly the vow he’d made to her father to protect his children.
He owed Lord Appertan so much he could never repay. His commander, a man more like a father to him than his own, had died in his arms. It would have been his last engagement; he’d wanted to return home to his children. With a bloody hand, Appertan had held Michael’s own and begged him to take care of his family.
So when Lady Cecilia, a lively, intelligent, amusing correspondent, needed help, he’d agreed to marry her. He’d thought for certain she was exceedingly plain and that she must not trust any man who’d want to marry her. There were fortune hunters out there, as he well knew—his own family bore the scars of such disastrous marriages. He wasn’t going to do to a woman what had been done to the women in his family: used for their money, not respected in any other way. His own father had been guilty, his mother a victim, and as a youth, Michael had seen his father planning for Michael’s own marriage to a wealthy girl, beginning to ensnare her family with lies. It was one of the reasons he’d enlisted at eighteen, forgoing even one Season in London. There were honest ways to earn money to restore his estate. Marriage would have been what he made of it if he married at all.
Michael had learned never to let himself show interest in a woman when he lived at home. He had held back, never giving himself the chance to know someone too well, too deeply. He’d never realized how much that continued through his twelve years in the army—until he’d begun to receive her letters. He’d been able to glimpse the life and heart of Lady Cecilia, and for the first time, he’d felt a yearning for a woman he could never have.
She was so lovely that he could barely look upon her golden beauty without wanting her with a desperation he’d never felt before. He remembered all those men who used to follow his beautiful mother around like rutting dogs. He didn’t want to be one of them either. Thank God the late earl hadn’t known how Michael would lust after her.
He remembered the shock on her face when she beheld him—old and infirm, she’d thought him, uninterested in a marriage bed. He’d done for her what no other man would do—denied her dowry and any claim to her inheritance.
But she worried he had ulterior motives, and the truth of the rash proxy marriage she’d asked for now stared her in the face. For a woman of intelligence, she’d not thought further than her own desperation.
He walked to the window and looked out, past the rain-streaked glass to the Appertan land, which must stretch to the horizon. He knew from her father the vastness of the estates scattered all over England and Scotland. He imagined even though she was now married, men still flocked to her.
Patience was the only card he could play. If necessary, he would dive into cold rivers every day to keep himself from seducing her before she was ready. She wanted a distant marriage—or no marriage at all, now that she’d met him.
He’d vowed to marry on his own terms, without the involvement of money. His service in the Eighth Dragoon Guards—his rise in power, even without a purchased commission—would add enough to the estate to guarantee the stability of his family, along with the small investments in shipping and exporting he’d begun to make. As a cavalryman, his dedication to work mattered more than his lack of inheritance.
Michael would do his best to be a good husband, for he’d already seen every mistake a family could make and had learned from them. But first he had to find out why the lovely sister of an earl, who could have married advantageously, was so desperate to control her own wealth.
“Cecilia!”
A woman’s light, cheerful voice called to her, and Cecilia pasted a pleasant smile. “In here, Penelope!”
Miss Penelope Webster was their nearest neighbor. Her parents leased a small manor house from the Appertan estate. She breezed into the drawing room, her black hair in perfect ringlets about her olive-toned complexion. She had cat green eyes that projected mischievousness, and moved with grace, considering her abnormal height. Her older sister, Hannah, had been Cecilia’s dearest friend growing up, and when Hannah drowned last year, Penelope had become the little sister Cecilia never had. Cecilia was grateful for her cheerful presence, for now that she dealt with the estate, she didn’t have as much time to devote to writing letters to old friends.
Penelope’s sisterly relationship with Cecilia’s brother, Oliver, had changed with maturity, and now they were engaged. Privately, Cecilia thought Oliver was too young at twenty years of age, but who was she to judge someone’s marital fitness? Penelope tolerated Oliver’s wild ways, and perhaps she could help change him for the better.
“Did you miss the rain?” Cecilia tiredly patted the sofa beside her.
Penelope flounced onto it, her white skirts spreading all around her. She gave Cecilia a quick hug. “Oh, I was already here, in the library with Oliver.”
“The library?” Cecilia repeated hopefully. Oliver had never been one for studying, and the moment he’d inherited the earldom two years before, he’d gladly left Cambridge. She had spent her life being tutored privately, and she would have given anything to attend university. But she could not force her beliefs on Oliver; she could only help him and was gladly doing that.
“We were looking up a title in Debrett’s.” Penelope giggled, and when Cecilia didn’t follow suit, her smile faded. “Is something wrong? I saw the stranger your butler was leading away. You have a visitor?”
She’d meant to tell Oliver first, but it hardly mattered. “A stranger yes, but only in one sense. It seems my soldier husband decided to visit me.”
Penelope’s green eyes went wide. “No! He didn’t inform you he was coming?” She put a comforting hand on Cecilia’s arm.
Cecilia covered it with her own. “No. He was injured, and the army sent him home to recover. And it also seems I should have read my marriage papers more closely before handing them over to my lawyers. I am the wife of Viscount Blackthorne, not simply Sergeant Blackthorne
.”
“So you are Lady Blackthorne!” Penelope cried, clapping her hands together. “You deserve to marry into a title and lands, Cecilia.” For a moment, Penelope looked confused. “I thought I received an impression from you that your husband was older, but I never heard you tell others such a thing. I must have been mistaken. Now things have happened as they should. You work so hard—you need someone to work hard to take care of you!”
But that wasn’t going to happen, Cecilia knew. She was going to continue to take care of the Appertan properties until Oliver was ready to grow up and give up his wild friends and his drinking. Even a fiancée couldn’t stop Oliver from doing that.
Sometimes, she thought Penelope didn’t even see Oliver’s flaws. She made more excuses for him than Cecilia did. But basically, they were both hoping Oliver would mature—soon.
“So what did you think of your husband?” Penelope whispered, looking over her shoulder as if Lord Blackthorne were eavesdropping.
Cecilia sighed. “I—I don’t know. I was so shocked when I heard his name. I don’t think I’ve yet recovered.”
“Is he finished with the army and come to sweep you off in romantic bliss?”
Cecilia blinked at Penelope, who broke into laughter that gradually faded when she realized Cecilia hadn’t joined her.
“Oh dear,” Penelope murmured. “Do forgive me. It is all so strange. I thought to . . . lighten your mood.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. You’ve been in love with Oliver—forever.”
“But you fell in love with Sergeant-Lord Blackthorne’s letters!”
“But it’s not the same thing as meeting him in person,” Cecilia insisted. “He’s my husband, a man with whom I exchanged so many letters”—none of them romantic although he’d been kind and considerate—“yet he’s a stranger. I . . . I don’t know if I’ve made the right choice.”