by Gayle Callen
As if reading her thoughts, Lord Blackthorne said, “I assume you needed your funds because your brother is quick to spend his own on pleasure rather than the estates?”
“You don’t know what his life has been like,” she said in a low voice.
“Regardless, in your opinion, Appertan cannot deal with his own estates, and you do not trust a man of business to do it for you. Does Appertan have any responsibilities at all?”
She leaned toward him, hands braced on the table. “Our father died, and Oliver has suffered with his grief.”
“All while you managed more than your own duties—along with your grief.”
“He is my responsibility, my lord. I gave my promise to my parents that I would see him well. Surely, having a younger brother, you understand that.”
“I do. But you do him no favors in this, madam. You need to rethink his future, and your own.”
“Are you threatening me, Lord Blackthorne?” She was proud of her soft, dignified voice.
“Why would I threaten you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I offer my advice as an objective person outside the family.”
“Objective? For right now, you’re my husband. I’m not sure how objective you can be.” Now that he’d seen the impressive castle that was her country home, perhaps he was beginning to realize how much money he’d given up by allowing her her freedom. “Please tell me the truth—why did you marry me? You say you honored my father, but that cannot be the sum of it since you renounced the money I might have brought you. You’re a viscount—you could find a perfectly lovely wife all by yourself.”
“I’m a career soldier, Lady Blackthorne. Until this point, my regiment has been my mistress and wife. I only planned to marry under my own terms, for I needed no heirs, since my brother is perfectly adequate for that task. In that regard, you and I are well matched since you seem too busy to want children, should we not be blessed.”
She blanched, for she never let herself think about children. And she didn’t want him thinking about the creating of children.
“I believe, in marriage, we suit each other’s purposes. You need access to your money . . .” His voice faded as he frowned.
“And you, my lord?” she whispered. “What do you need?”
He hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. “I thought I needed to help the children of my commander. I tried to write to you about how much he meant to me, but words are not often my forte. But there was something in your letters, my lady, that called to me in a way I’d never imagined.”
She found herself barely breathing, staring at him, but he did not continue with the words that flattered even as they confused her.
He rose slowly to his feet, reaching for the cane hooked in the arm of his chair even as he cleared his throat. “As for your brother, Lady Blackthorne, I had to express my concerns.”
“Then I hope you can be objective, my lord.” She paused, realizing she could not make a grand exit—he could simply follow her right to their rooms. Modulating her voice, she said, “I know the evening is still young. I will be reading in the drawing room if you wish to join me.”
“I thank you for the invitation, but I am fatigued from the journey. I’ll retire for the evening.”
She kept her breath held, afraid she’d let it out in a big sigh of relief, knowing that most men would insist they retire together. Feeling grateful for his consideration, she said, “I wish you a good evening, Lord Blackthorne.”
They stared at each other, the silence fraught with the new awareness she now associated with him. He bowed his head and left her alone in the dining room. The silent footmen entered as if on cue, and, feeling numb with relief, she watched them work. She’d thought she had everything in hand—she was helping her brother until he was old enough to take over, she was in control of her own money, and had miraculously found a husband who wouldn’t intrude in any way at all, except as a convenient reason she wouldn’t have to tolerate other suitors. She wasn’t going to be like her mother, so desperate to cling to her husband, to make sure he remained faithful, that she dragged her children on military campaigns in a country that ended up being the death of her and her son.
But now Cecilia’s world was starting to unravel. Oliver’s behavior was growing worse instead of better, and her absent husband had decided to involve himself in her life.
And she was fascinated by him—overwhelmingly, completely, helplessly fascinated.
Closing her eyes, she told herself she would get through this. She just had to be patient. Oliver would realize his responsibilities, then she’d be able to trust him with everything their ancestors had built. And Lord Blackthorne had come right out and said he was returning to India as soon as possible, hopefully leaving their marriage as it was.
She would consult her lawyers, but until she received a reply, she had to do her best to steer clear of Lord Blackthorne.
After an hour alone in the library, Cecilia reluctantly retired to her bedroom, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Her lady’s maid, Nell, took the hint and asked nothing about the husband ensconced nearby in her apartments. Cecilia knew the girl’s silence would only last so long, but for now she appreciated it. When she was alone, she pressed her ear to the door of the dressing room that separated their bedrooms, but she heard nothing.
At last she crept to her bed, where she read almost until midnight, not feeling the least bit tired. After finishing her novel, she lay down, but her eyes refused to close. Sighing, she put on her dressing gown, picked up a candleholder, and went out into the shadowy corridor. There was supposed to be a lamp lit at each end, but apparently the footmen had forgotten. Shaking her head, she held the candle higher. The library was on the ground floor, and as she approached the main staircase dominating the entrance hall, she slowed her step, for the darkness overtook the cavernous room where the corridor opened out into it, and her tiny candle gave off little light. But she knew every inch of her home well.
Just as she reached the balustrade, her foot hit something hard, pitching her forward into the darkness. The candle went out, her hands flailed for the balustrade, and a feeling of terror overwhelmed her. The bottom seemed to drop out of her stomach as she began to fall.
Chapter 3
Cecilia’s feet hit the first couple steps, but she was pitching forward, unable to right herself, terrified and helpless. Just as she would have tumbled headfirst into the blackness, her hand connected with the balustrade and gripped it hard to catch herself. She felt pain at her shoulder as her body came to a jerking stop, but she didn’t let go. Collapsing against the rail, she remained still, eyes closed, breath heaving in her chest as she hung there.
Slowly, she tried to stand up on the stair, and felt a mild twinge in her ankle that was nothing compared to what might have happened if she’d fallen all the way to the bottom.
She might even have broken her neck.
The candle had gone out; she could see nothing and certainly didn’t want to find the library in the dark. Gripping the balustrade, wincing from the pain in her shoulder, she limped up the few steps to the top, then bent down, trying to feel what she’d tripped over. Frowning when she discovered nothing, she dropped to her knees and widened the search with both hands. Still nothing. Had she just tripped over her own feet?
But her toes were sore to the touch, and she could swear they’d hit something hard. Shaking her head, she felt her way back down the corridor and into her room, where the candlelight was a relief. She washed her perspiring face with hands that still shook and couldn’t stop thinking about what might have happened if she hadn’t been lucky enough to catch herself. Propping her foot on a pillow in bed, she picked up the book she’d just finished and, with a sigh, started from the beginning.
When Nell arrived with a tray before dawn, Cecilia debated telling the girl about her midnight accident but knew everyone would put up a fuss. She wanted to get on with her day, not be coddled. Her ankle felt better already, and she was determined to go o
n her usual long walk. As Nell styled her hair, Cecilia waited with resignation for the questions to begin. She didn’t hear anything from the dressing room.
Nell had seen her glance. “Only you, Lady Cecilia,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess I should say Lady Blackthorne.”
“Pardon me, Nell?”
“Only you would marry a man ye’d never seen, from halfway round the world, and be lucky enough to land a handsome one. We all thought ye crazy, beggin’ yer pardon, but ye come up smellin’ like a rose.”
Cecilia reluctantly smiled. “You know his features don’t matter at all, Nell.”
“Hmm, so ye say.” Nell continued to brush out Cecilia’s long blond hair. “But I will tell ye somethin’ ye might find interestin’.” She leaned closer before glancing out the window. “That husband o’ yours, who ye didn’t spend a wedding night with—”
“Nell, we don’t even know each other!”
“—he’s a proud man, that one. Said he didn’t want a valet, that he was used to takin’ care o’ himself in the army.”
That gave Cecilia pause. Lord Blackthorne had been raised as a gentleman—surely he was used to servants.
“When he needs laundry done, I’m sure he’ll give us a call.” Nell sniffed. “A strange man. Maybe you were right to make him wait on ye for a while.”
In the mirror, she met Cecilia’s eyes with her own wide ones.
“I mean, beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”
But there was a smile at the corner of the girl’s mouth; she knew what she could get away with.
“Nell,” Cecilia began hesitantly, “were the lamps lit in the corridor outside my room last night?”
Nell frowned. “Aye, they lit me way to bed. Why do ye ask?”
Cecilia shrugged and forced a smile. “No reason. I couldn’t sleep and didn’t see the flicker of light beneath my door, and I was just curious.”
The storm must have sent a draft through the old castle and blown out the lamps.
After Nell helped her into a plain morning gown—“Blue to match yer eyes!”—Cecilia ate a quick piece of toast with her hot chocolate from the tray Nell had brought, then took a shawl and went outside. The sun was only just above the horizon, the ground glittering with autumn dew, the leaves beginning to turn orange, yellow, and red. Though the breeze was brisk, it promised to be a lovely day. She followed her usual route, one that led her past tenant farmers and the mill, the stables and outbuildings, where people knew they could speak to her if they needed to. She avoided the soggy patches left over from the storm, even as gardeners were already picking up broken twigs.
She’d no sooner left the formal gardens when she pulled up short in surprise. Lord Blackthorne, limping along with the aid of his cane, had come to a stop when he saw her. For a moment, they stared at each other beneath a glorious sun. Though he was still dressed plainly, conservatively, nothing could hide the very maleness of him. He made her far too aware of him as a man—as her husband. She couldn’t help feeling that he wanted to look at her in a more thorough manner but stopped himself. She was used to the admiration of men, but this seemed . . . different, brazen, dark, with maybe a touch of possession.
She thought of Nell calling him handsome. It seemed too tame a word for him. He was too unfashionably . . . large. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat above his trousers, a simple cravat tied at his throat. Now she could see that he needed no padding in his clothing, that he was broad through the shoulders, even barrel-chested, yet narrow through the hips. She felt herself blushing, remembering how she’d protested when he looked at her in the same manner.
He briefly doffed his hat. “Good morning, Lady Blackthorne.”
“Good morning, Lord Blackthorne. I am surprised to find you exercising your leg. Should it not be healing?”
“Your concern is appreciated, madam, but the leg will stiffen if I don’t use it. The stronger it gets, the less I’ll need to use the cane.”
“But . . . the shrapnel?”
He shrugged. “The doctors say the pieces of metal might work themselves out on their own, or they might not. I’ll just have to become used to whatever the outcome.”
She hesitated, wishing she could say she preferred to be alone but knowing she couldn’t. “I am walking toward the stables, if you’d like to join me.”
He nodded. She expected to slow her pace to accommodate him, but he moved along briskly. He had obviously been in fine physical condition before the wound, and that must stand him in good stead.
“You are going riding?” he asked.
“No, I walk every morning. The stables are simply one stop on my way. Did you plan to ride?”
“I did enough of that yesterday. It made my leg quite stiff.”
Another awkward silence grew between them. She looked into the distance, at the green rolling hills, the occasional cottage.
“I love this land,” she found herself saying. “I wasn’t born here, and we did not spend much time here at all until Oliver returned to go to Eton, when Mother and I came with him. But there is something about the place of our ancestors that calls you to do your best to maintain it.” But not Oliver, she thought with a twinge of sadness.
“I understand,” he said. “I have been improving my estate to bring it back to what it once was.”
She gave him a curious glance but didn’t feel she could question him.
He accompanied her from building to building, and she realized ruefully that in less then twenty-four hours, the news of his arrival had spread far and wide. People turned out in droves to see Lord Blackthorne, and many boldly introduced themselves. What would happen when she had the marriage invalidated? There would be a scandal, of course, but her servants knew they had not spent the night together. And Cecilia didn’t care what other people thought, she told herself.
Lord Blackthorne proved a knowledgeable man about every position on the estate; if only she could discuss things like this with Oliver. As she answered various questions the staff asked about a grain shipment to London, or which cattle had been selected to be delivered by train to market, she felt the uncomfortable stare of her husband. He watched her like a falcon watched a rabbit, intently, single-mindedly, and it was like an itch she couldn’t reach, couldn’t scratch. By midmorning, she wished he would just go away so she could feel herself again, but he followed her into Appertan Hall and right into the study, where the steward and secretary both waited. She introduced her husband to the men, and was gratified when they did not begin directing their estate questions to him, as some men might have.
She spent another two hours dealing with estate matters and correspondence, and she kept waiting for her husband to leave, but he seemed interested. Even when he was leaning on his cane, staring out the window, there was an alertness about him that kept drawing her attention. More than once, she was distracted by him and lost her train of thought. The steward and secretary shared amused glances but wiped away their smiles when she frowned at them.
At last, the two employees left, and she sat back in her chair behind the desk and met Lord Blackthorne’s contemplative gaze.
“Go ahead, say what you need to,” she said briskly.
He perched one hip on the edge of the window seat. “Tell me about Lord Appertan.”
She frowned. “I thought I already had. And surely my father spoke of him often.”
“But I want to hear your thoughts.”
She wanted to say that her brother’s life—her own—was none of his business but didn’t want to antagonize him. She had already written to her lawyers, asking about the proxy marriage and what options she had. But she had to bide her time until she received a response.
She sighed. Anything she told Lord Blackthorne about Oliver could be gotten from any family acquaintance, after all. “As I said, we were born in India and had a home in Bombay. We spent summer in the Hills to escape the worst of the heat.”
“I am surprised your mother did not spen
d more time in England.”
“She did not want to be parted from my father.” Cecilia spoke impassively, but inside, her stomach churned with the memories that wouldn’t go away. How, as she grew older, her mother confided more and more in her as if she were a grown woman, about her fears that Appertan would find a mistress to shame her if she left him alone. Once or twice at a dinner party, she even forced Cecilia to follow her father, as if he might sneak away from the card room for an illicit affair. The constant neediness and dread and pessimism wore away at Cecilia, until she realized she could escape into her studies, into her books. And that also helped her escape the memories.
“You went on campaign,” Lord Blackthorne said, and it wasn’t a question.
“We followed the drum, a military family.” She forced a smile, her fingers playing restlessly with a quill on the desk. “When Oliver was younger, he played with all the other boys, and it didn’t matter whose father was a sergeant or whose was a colonel. But as he grew older, their different circumstances began to play out among even the children. When Papa decided it was time to return to England, for Oliver to attend Eton, I thought things would be better for my brother.”
“Eton can alter a boy,” Lord Blackthorne said. “I noticed it among my friends.”
But not himself? she wondered, but didn’t ask.
“It’s supposed to build character,” she continued, “or so I heard. But the friends he made weren’t the kind I would have chosen for him. They now like to drink too much and . . . socialize with the wrong element. He is immature, and I wish my father were still alive to take him in hand.”
Lord Blackthorne briefly looked away. He must miss her father, and she would try to remember that.
“Every young man goes through such a period,” he said. “But Appertan has not come out of it, and, forgive me, but I don’t think you’re helping by managing everything for him.”
“I’m doing what I must,” she said coolly.
“Then I have a suggestion. Let me become involved.” He left the window seat and limped toward the desk, sitting opposite her.