by Gayle Callen
“You found a solution to your problems,” he replied. “You did it yourself.”
“With your help,” she said dryly.
He briefly bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“Why were you downstairs tonight?” she asked.
He looked grim. “To see what happened with your brother’s friends.”
“Did you think I should not have permitted the event?”
“Was that your decision?”
“No.” She sighed. “He is the earl. I fear I antagonized him in front of his friends tonight.”
“He deserved it.” He practically growled the words. “I regret that I was not close enough to intercept that fool who frightened you.”
“You stopped him. I am truly grateful. I’m sorry I did not yet say those words to you.”
Michael stared at her, masking his surprise. She’d suffered a trauma, yet she still tried to be polite, as if he were a stranger rather than her husband. He was both, he realized. “I did not take offense.”
And still he stared at her, this woman who was his wife yet not his wife. In the candlelight, her hair gleamed like a beam of moonlight, cascading down her back and around her shoulders like a cape. She was made to be worshipped, and, out of honor, he could do nothing.
And he could do little to comfort her either. He saw that she kept touching the locket she always wore around her neck, like a touchstone that helped orient her.
He needed to focus his mind back on his mission. “Will Lord Appertan be affected by what happened here tonight? Or will he take it in stride like a child who always wants what he wants?”
He saw her back stiffen, even as she turned away to pour herself a glass of water. Her hands still shook, and he yearned to hold her.
“You don’t understand him,” she said softly. “He has seen too much death at too young an age.”
Michael frowned. “Your mother didn’t die all that many years ago.”
“No, but Oliver’s twin, the first heir, was only ten when he died.”
Startled, Michael stared at her somber profile. “I did not know you had another brother. How did he die?”
“An accident, in India.”
He wanted more details but did not press her. There were things he didn’t choose to discuss either. Yet it surprised him that her father had not confided in him.
“Oliver was close to Gabriel, and when he died, Oliver . . . changed. My mother became even more possessive of him, and my father thought it was time Oliver went to Eton, to . . . get away. In some ways, I think my father should have waited a year, given Oliver time to grieve. He thought the change would do him good.” She glanced at him with faint amusement. “I think that is a male trait. A woman will usually let herself experience the grief until it lessens, while a man wants to forget it.”
But she wasn’t letting go of the grief, he saw that now. The sadness he’d sensed wasn’t just about her father, but the deaths of her family one by one. She didn’t want to control so much as to protect. She nourished a deep love for them, and the only one she had left was Appertan.
“It doesn’t mean a man forgets the tragedy itself,” he said.
“Oliver’s behavior is his own reaction to everything that’s happened,” she continued, “his own kind of grief.”
Michael arched a brow. “So selfishness and immaturity should be excused?”
She frowned at him. “He’s only twenty.” She held up a hand before he could speak. “And I know what you were doing at twenty, a man’s work in the army. But . . . Oliver isn’t you.”
“You are being too lenient with him,” Michael said in a sober voice. “You expect nothing of him, so he gives you nothing.”
“He is still practically a boy,” she insisted.
He realized she was going to continue to protect her brother because of the death of Appertan’s twin. She was a woman of many layers, and, for the first time in his life, he wanted to see beneath, to find out everything about her.
“Appertan is your brother,” he answered, giving her a brief bow. “You know him best. I’ll take my leave.”
And he walked out of her room before he did or said something he’d regret.
Chapter 6
It had taken a long time for Cecilia to fall asleep. In the morning, she felt fuzzy and drowsy going through the estate ledgers, startling easily whenever someone knocked at the study door. She kept hoping Oliver would come apologize for what had happened, but he didn’t—of course, he probably wasn’t awake yet. He’d come home in the wee hours, according to Talbot.
Cecilia’s mood only worsened during luncheon. Lord Blackthorne joined them for the meal, and he was watching her every time she glanced his way, as if he thought she would break down. Oliver coolly asked to speak with her afterward, and Lord Blackthorne left, signaling to the footmen as he went to shut the doors for their privacy. Oliver glowered at her when they were alone.
She sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to get an apology for his friend’s behavior the previous night. “Is something wrong, Oliver?”
“I permit you to do as you wish with the estate,” he said crossly, “but my entertainment is my choice. I did not care for how you challenged my authority in front of my companions last night.”
She gaped at him, feeling sad and frustrated. “Oliver, how can you speak to me that way after what Sir Bevis did?”
He reddened. “It was uncalled for, I know. But it was an accident. It had nothing to do with—”
“It had everything to do with my own reaction!” She threw down her napkin. “How can you think I’d want such a man in my house? He may have misunderstood my identity, but he was about to force an unwilling woman to . . . to . . . be alone with him!”
Oliver’s gaze sidled away. “I know. And it was wrong.”
“Are you even grateful that Lord Blackthorne intervened? Or did that embarrass you, too?”
“Of course not. He was right to do so. Perhaps I wish I could have been the one to help you.”
She stared at him, her anger and indignation deflating and the first tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Oliver,” she whispered. “I know what happened wasn’t your fault. And it is kind of you to wish you could have been the one to make things right. But regardless, you must understand why I don’t wish such entertainment in our home.”
“I’ll explain your concerns to my companions,” he said after a long hesitation. He used his knife to trace a pattern across his dirty plate. “About Blackthorne.”
She tensed. “Yes?”
“What do you plan to do about him? He seems to be—hanging about, intruding on everything. I don’t like his superior airs.”
“He is my husband—for now. You know I’ve written to my lawyers to discover my options. Until I hear back and make a decision . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“He knows he’s unwelcome. If he were any kind of man, he’d leave.”
“Leave?” she replied, bewildered. “He’s injured, Oliver. And he promised Papa he would see to our welfare.”
“By his clothing, he doesn’t have any money to do so,” Oliver said with a faint sneer.
“He’s been in uniform for years.” She felt suddenly tired. She’d been defending Oliver to Lord Blackthorne, and now she found herself defending Lord Blackthorne to Oliver. “And it’s not about money. You know that.” But there was always a deep part of her that worried that maybe money really did play a part in Lord Blackthorne’s sudden appearance. “Be patient, Oliver. I appreciate your spending time with him. He has little enough to do here, and I don’t wish him to be bored.”
“If he’s bored, he’ll leave sooner.”
“No, he won’t. Surely you see that. He believes that it is best we stay married.”
“Of course he does,” Oliver said with sarcasm.
“Perhaps if you spend time with him, you could help me make the decision about my marriage.”
“That’s easy. Annul the thing.”
“You know
it’s not that easy. I like being an independent woman rather than a ward to my guardian, which I’ll be once again if my marriage is ruled invalid. Surely you can understand that since you’re about to reach your own majority.” Then a guardian wouldn’t be the one giving Cecilia permission to manage the estates—it would be Oliver. He could take it all away from her even if he wasn’t ready for the responsibility. She thought she had time, but truly, it was less than a year. Lord Blackthorne’s concerns about Oliver were valid.
Oliver frowned, then said reluctantly, “I do understand. But if he stays here, you won’t be independent for long.”
“That won’t happen,” she said quickly. “He’s a career man, Oliver. The only thing keeping him in England is his injury.”
“And perhaps you, Cecilia,” Oliver said, narrowing his eyes. “You have much to interest such a man, and not just your money. I’ve seen him looking at you.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice suspiciously weak.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “You know you’re comely, Cecilia. Don’t make me compliment you.”
She almost smiled.
Someone knocked on the door to the family dining room. She gave a start, and Oliver called for the person to enter.
Talbot stepped inside and bowed. “Lady Blackthorne, you have visitors, several ladies of the neighborhood and Miss Webster. I have escorted them to the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Talbot,” she said. “I’ll be there momentarily. Please send tea and whatever cakes Cook has made today.”
He bowed again as he left the room.
Cecilia found herself watching Oliver’s face and felt relieved when his smile seemed to relax on hearing his fiancée’s name.
“I could tell Penelope you’d like to see her,” she said.
He shook his head and grimaced. “Wish I could, but I promised Blackthorne I’d shoot with him.”
She smiled. “Thank you for keeping the peace, Oliver. I knew you would.”
He shrugged and left, and she followed him out, listening as the footmen filed in behind and began to remove the dishes.
Cecilia followed the wide corridor to the public drawing room at the front of the castle. She heard the ladies even before she arrived, their voices carrying out into the entrance hall, echoing up the two floors. She smiled, feeling calmer than she had that morn.
As she entered, all four ladies looked up with varying expressions. Mrs. Webster was Penelope’s white-haired grandmother, a formidable woman who’d made herself important in the town social life by sheer will. She never let the lack of a title in the family impede her. Miss Jenyns was Mrs. Webster’s constant companion, plump and reticent and on the shelf for decades, who took her social cues from the other two ladies. Lady Stafford was far more congenial, with a twinkle in her eye that suggested one was in on her little jokes. She was just reaching her middle years, her dark hair glinting with strands of gray that she swore came from trying to find a husband for her daughter.
“Ladies, how nice of you to call,” Cecilia said.
Miss Jenyns blushed furiously and couldn’t meet her gaze. The spinster was able to compose herself when a maid entered the room pushing a tea cart, where iced cakes were displayed to entice.
They made small talk about parish events while Cecilia poured the tea and handed out refreshments, but she couldn’t help noticing that Penelope seemed . . . nervous. Or maybe she was just distracted. After all, her beloved was somewhere on the premises, and perhaps she wished to be there.
But then she realized the cause of Penelope’s tension, when her grandmother set down her teacup and fixed Cecilia with a pointed gaze.
“Lady Blackthorne,” Mrs. Webster said, “I must admit, when I first heard several months ago that you had married a soldier who was still in India, I was . . . surprised at your choice.”
Miss Jenyns watched her mentor with earnestness, while Lady Stafford gave Cecilia an encouraging smile, as if they both realized it was none of their business, but even she would like to hear the details. Cecilia had been permitted to get away with vague answers before, but now the actual man had arrived.
She sipped her tea and debated how to respond. “Mrs. Webster, after the tragedy, Lord Blackthorne’s letters gave me comfort. He had been with my father at the end and could explain so much. We shared sympathy and temperament, and I found I could write my feelings to him in a way I’d never cared to express with another man.” And that wasn’t a lie, she reminded herself.
Penelope was watching her with a soft expression, as if she hoped to share even a part of such wonder with Oliver.
Lady Stafford leaned forward. “That is a noble sentiment, my dear, and one we all can understand. But we’re so curious—what was it like when you finally met him? He just . . . arrived at your door unannounced!”
Cecilia kept her smile relaxed and confident, knowing that her next answer would make its way about Enfield, and even into London itself. But she felt anything but confident, a new experience for her. She explained about Lord Blackthorne’s injury and his need to recover. “Surely he shouldn’t have languished in London, in pain, waiting for a letter from me?”
“No, no, of course not,” Miss Jenyns mumbled as she dabbed a crumb from her lips.
Mrs. Webster looked doubtful but held her remarks.
“And when I saw him . . .” Cecilia began, trying not to laugh as all four ladies leaned toward her, “I felt that all my father’s praise of his kindness and honor showed right there on his face.”
“Is he a handsome rascal?” Lady Stafford asked.
“Some would think so.”
“Including me!” Penelope almost squealed, and the other ladies chuckled.
Before Cecilia could continue, she caught sight of Lord Blackthorne through the open terrace doors, approaching the drawing room. His coat flapped open in the breeze, and his hair was unruly. Perhaps he only just realized that she had guests, for when their eyes met, he gave her a nod and backed away. But she wasn’t certain he actually left the terrace.
“But,” Cecilia said, before anyone could speak, “our marriage was by proxy, and my lawyers wish to ascertain the validity.”
“So he agreed to your reluctance,” Lady Stafford said, eyeing Cecilia with closer interest. “And?”
“He is a soldier and a gentleman,” Cecilia said simply. “This affects both of our lives, and we want to make certain everything is legal.” Then she wanted to wince, and Penelope actually did. It almost sounded like Cecilia was afraid he was after her money. But she could hardly protest that he’d done the exact opposite, requesting nothing. If only that didn’t seem so suspicious, now that she’d actually met him, a young man in the prime of his life, not an elderly grandfather.
“A soldier,” Lady Stafford mused, exchanging a look with Mrs. Webster, who looked through her lorgnette at Cecilia as if she were a bug. “We cannot help being curious. It has been a long time since someone mentioned the Blackthorne viscountcy.”
“He doesn’t come to London,” Mrs. Webster explained. “He’s never attended a Season although his father used to, quite frequently, until he landed Lady Blackthorne.”
“ ‘Landed’?” Cecilia said. “That is not very complimentary.”
Mrs. Webster sighed. “I did not want to be the one to tell you—especially since I assumed your marriage was legal, and it was too late. But if there’s a chance that your lawyers say that you would have to wed here in England, you might want to think carefully.”
Cecilia spoke coolly. “What are you saying?”
“Only that his father was a fortune hunter, and it was much whispered that his mother was very unhappy in the marriage.”
“That can be said for many Society marriages,” Cecilia said sternly. “My father had nothing but the highest praise for him. Only an honorable man would feel that he wanted to enlist and learn to be a soldier before becoming an officer.”
If Lord Blackthorne was eavesdropping on this, she could only
imagine what he’d think of her staunch defense—or what kind of ideas it would give him.
“Then it’s true, he didn’t purchase a commission?” Lady Stafford asked, eyebrows rising. “I can see the family’s financial difficulties have continued.”
Cecilia never condoned gossip and refused to be drawn into intrigue. “Upon meeting him, you will see that he is a decent man, a soldier injured in service of the queen.”
“We would very much like to meet him,” Mrs. Webster said.
Cecilia stood up. “Then I shall make it happen. Enjoy the cakes, dear ladies, and I’ll return in a moment.”
She strode across the drawing room to the open French doors and went outside, where the autumn sun still shone down with startling warmth. She shielded her eyes, looking across the gardens, wondering if Lord Blackthorne was still exercising his leg, or if he’d already gone to meet Oliver.
“Looking for me?”
She turned her head upon hearing his deep voice and found him right beside the doors, leaning against the rough stone wall of the castle, the shadows almost obscuring his dark garments and hair. She pretended to walk slowly along the terrace, as if still looking for him.
But the moment she was out of sight of the drawing room, she quickly closed the gap between them and leaned up into his face with rare indignation. “You were eavesdropping.”
“We would call it spying in the army,” he said dryly. “It has its place.”
“But on a ladies’ tea?” She threw her arms wide in outrage.
He looked down her body. “I did not know you could be so dramatic. I like it.”
She resisted the urge to fold her arms over her chest. “Please answer me.”
“I came upon your party quite accidentally. I heard your spirited defense of my character and could not tear myself away.”
The teasing strummed her like a bad guitarist. “If you’d been caught, it wouldn’t reflect well on your status as my husband.” Without realizing it, she poked him in the chest to emphasize her point.