by Gayle Callen
“The three witches?”
She tried not to laugh, but it escaped her in a snort. Oliver eyed her with amused satisfaction. In these moments, she could forget her worries about him, the press of duty and responsibility. But he kept sipping his brandy, and her smile faded, knowing how the drink would affect him as the day wore on.
“They wanted to meet my husband,” she said at last.
“Can you blame them? You’d never even met him.”
She sighed. “Did you get in any shooting?”
“A few rounds, but Blackthorne seemed distracted, and after ruthlessly proving his domination, he came back to the Hall. He said he couldn’t concentrate.”
“Did he . . . say anything?”
Oliver went to refill his glass, and his movements were already slower. “He said he learned to shoot as a boy, that the army improved him, and I could get better with practice. No need to do that, of course. I have servants to put birds on my dinner table.”
She nodded wryly. “But aren’t you men usually competitive?”
He shrugged. “Why? Too much effort. I have better things to do.”
“Like what?” she whispered.
He didn’t hear her, only saluted her again with his glass and took himself and his drink from the study.
That night, Cecilia paced her room, one end to the other, over and over again, trying to exhaust herself so that her mind would quiet and allow her to sleep. She kept replaying the day in her mind, remembering how Mrs. Webster had said the late Lord Blackthorne had been a fortune hunter. Cecilia’s husband hadn’t bought a commission—did that mean his family was short of funds?
But he’d asked for nothing from her.
It didn’t matter. Lord Blackthorne had no access to her funds, and even on her death, nothing would go to him but a small stipend. But does he know that? a voice whispered as if from a quiet hiding place inside her.
She was being foolish. There were many little things bothering her, but none of them added up to the serious crime of attempted murder.
She heard a knock from the dressing-room door and called, “Come in, Nell.”
The door opened, but it wasn’t her maid. Her husband stood there, paused on the threshold, wearing trousers and boots, in shirtsleeves with an open collar. His neck looked so . . . exposed, from the deep hollow of his throat, to the bump of his Adam’s apple. And once again, her body reacted with heat, even if her mind told her not to.
“You’re not Nell,” she said dryly, realizing she wore only her nightgown, with a dressing gown belted over it. Her hair was loose in anticipation of a good brushing, and her feet were bare.
He leisurely studied everything she wore. He was her husband—she’d claimed him as such when it suited her but wanted to deny it now that he was here. She’d spent so many years in control of herself and her home that the threat of losing even part of that was so very real.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked quietly. “I could hear you pacing.”
“All the way from your room?”
“No, of course not. I’d come into the dressing room. But I wouldn’t have knocked if I thought you were asleep.”
And he still hadn’t even stepped inside but was waiting there.
“I could tell you to go,” she said.
“You could. And I’d go.” He leaned forward, one hand braced on the cane, the other on the doorframe. “I promised to give you time, and I’m keeping to that. But today . . . I wanted to make certain you were all right.”
She gave a sigh. “Come in. But I trust you’ll tell no one you were here.”
He arched a brow as he limped forward and closed the door behind him. “I’m not certain what that would prove one way or the other. I’m your husband, and they’ll all believe—”
She held up a hand. “Stop. I don’t wish to discuss this tonight.”
He paused, as if gaining mastery of himself, but any struggle did not show on his face. It was remarkable how well schooled his features were. She wasn’t used to it, wanted to see every emotion written there—if he even had any deep emotion.
“Then we won’t discuss our marriage,” he said.
“We could discuss my brother. He said you offered to shoot with him, but after my accident—”
He grimaced. “He and I were both distracted. Mistakes happen that way, and I didn’t want to take that chance.”
She leaned both hands against the back of her dressing-table chair, feeling a bit foolish keeping the chair between them. “You have spent some time with Oliver. Do you feel like you’ve helped at all?”
He walked the few paces toward the window and looked out upon the full moon. “He is very young still, and I see his kind often, brash and arrogant, feeling entitled to do as he pleases from position and wealth.”
It hurt to hear his assessment, but she knew it was true—partly. “You don’t yet see the whole picture,” she said. “I’ve told you of the deaths, that Oliver wasn’t even meant to be the earl. Don’t you think that matters?”
“I do. I’m simply telling you the image he projects to the world.”
“Do you know he felt very bad that he wasn’t the one to rescue me from Sir Bevis?”
Lord Blackthorne glanced over his shoulder, surprise widening his eyes. “That is an interesting comment from him. And it shows promise. But he didn’t fling the man from Appertan Hall, and he still left with him.”
She bit her lip. “They’d all been drinking. I wish he’d stop. He uses it to forget.”
“That is part of it—some men would rather forget what hurts, what they can’t change, using alcohol to do so. It is a childish thing, like covering your ears and pretending you can’t hear bad news.”
She sighed. “What do others do to forget?”
“Strong people—like you—do just what you’ve done, go on with their lives. They don’t forget, but they learn to accept and put it in the past, since most things can’t be changed.”
She wondered if he spoke from experience, imagined the horrors he’d seen—maybe even participated in.
“So what do you do to forget?” she whispered. “What are you doing when you’re not with my brother, or not annoying me?”
“Annoying?”
Again, she thought she saw the faintest smile curve his lips, and it caught her breath, making her wonder how truly handsome he might be if he gave in to a softer emotion.
Oh, she didn’t want to think like this about him. He’d promised to stay on the other side of the world, after all. But for the rest of her life, even if they separated and never saw one another again, she’d remember him there in her bedchamber.
“I cannot possibly annoy you like your many suitors used to do,” he said. “Were there dozens of marriage proposals you turned down in your day?”
“You make it sound like I’m ancient.” But she was trying not to smile, even as she took another step closer. “And there were certainly not dozens.”
“A half dozen?”
She didn’t answer. It had been a long time since she’d bantered with a man, a year of mourning, and soon after, her marriage. They were alone in her room, and no one knew. She was surprised at the forbidden pleasure of it, had never imagined that this might attract her.
It was the danger, she realized, and felt a little shiver. He could do . . . anything. And yet she didn’t ask him to leave, nor did she flee. A single candle kept him in the shadows, his broad shoulders filling the window frame.
“Tell me, Cecilia,” he murmured.
Again, she felt the lure of the familiar way he said her Christian name. She’d heard him use it just after the accident. It made her feel . . . close to someone, not so alone, with the weight of so many responsibilities on her shoulders. Responsibilities she wanted, she reminded herself. And she was strong enough to accept them. But to Lord Blackthorne, she was a woman.
“You don’t want to hear about my suitors,” she said, finding herself at his side. They stared out on the moonlit g
ardens, where the pale light illuminated the strangest shapes, making it not the grounds she knew so well.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “They are all the men you turned down, so you could choose me.”
She almost choked out a laugh. “Choose” him? She’d turned to him in desperation. “Some were simply too young, others too old. And I loved none of them.”
“I didn’t realize you cared about such an emotion. I thought maybe you didn’t even believe in it, as if you were so very different from other young women.”
She shrugged, still not looking at him. With a prickling awareness, she realized he’d silently stepped behind her, and now she could see his face reflected in the window, above and behind hers.
“Love—love doesn’t matter in the management of great estates,” she said.
“So cynical for one so young.”
He very gently rested his hands on her shoulders. She tensed, but when he did nothing else, she didn’t pull away.
In a soft voice, he continued, “But others obviously believed that you married me because of my letters. Aren’t they misleading themselves into thinking that’s love? Or did you tell them something else?”
“I was vague,” she admitted. “I told them your letters were . . . meaningful, and I allowed them to believe what they wished.”
“But I hear I was romantic.”
She was hot with embarrassment, with his nearness, with the crazy feelings that were surging inside her very blood. “You know you weren’t. You’re a practical man, Lord Blackthorne.”
“I’m sure others believe the opposite, that one would have to be very romantic to woo such a sensible woman as you into a wedding ceremony performed on the other side of the world from the bride.”
His hands weighed heavy on her shoulders, and without her skirts keeping them apart, he was able to stand very close behind her. She thought she could feel the brush of her dressing gown against his legs. She almost wanted to sway with abandon.
He was not making love to her with his words, but there was something about being alone with him, on the edge of danger, that made her realize now why good girls didn’t allow themselves to be alone with a man.
“Tell me the things that a romantic man would write,” he said, his voice growing huskier. “I have no experience in courtship, unlike you, with your half dozen suitors.”
He was moving his hands on her shoulders now, very gently squeezing, and it felt . . . strangely relaxing. At the same time, she couldn’t imagine being any more awake and aware. His long fingers spanned her collarbones, dangerously close to the rise of her breasts. She could see in the window that his head was bent, as if he watched his own hands upon her. She couldn’t move—the moon and the night and his presence enthralled and held her captive.
She had to speak; surely that would break the spell. “I guess . . . you could have written about the moon. That seems to captivate young lovers.”
“The moon,” he mused. “You think imagery would lure you into marriage?”
“Others were ready to believe it so.”
In the window, she could see his head lift as he gazed out on the English moon that loomed over the land with distant benevolence.
“I remember the moon,” he murmured, “shimmering in the night heat, rising over the ruins of a temple that was being swallowed up again by the jungle.”
It was difficult to swallow, difficult to find moisture, when her lips wanted to part. She didn’t remember India that way and didn’t like that he could conjure up such a vision with only words. She cleared her throat. “That imagery . . . wasn’t bad.”
She wanted him to chuckle, to keep things light between them, but he didn’t. He was studying her in the window just as much as she was studying him. And then she realized that the dressing gown she’d clutched to her throat had now separated, the belt sagging, her neck revealed, along with the dark valley at the tops of her breasts. It was nothing he wouldn’t have seen as they danced a waltz in a ballroom, but they were so very alone in the night—in the bedchamber that by law he should be able to share with her.
Her trembling started again, and he must have felt it, for his hands slid to her upper arms, and he began to rub up and down, slowly, so slowly.
“Tell me more,” he said. “I want to learn what pleases you.”
Chapter 8
Michael wanted to take back the words as soon as he said them. Everything was so perfect here in the dark with Cecilia—his wife, the wife he never thought he wanted. But his words of pleasing her called up in his mind the sensuous slide of her clothing from her body. He could imagine touching her, the erotic thrill of her telling him what pleased her. He barely kept himself from pressing into her from behind, trying to find relief and delicious pleasure.
But she would pull away. She was angry that he disturbed her perfect little world, perhaps even frightened of all the changes. He knew it was easier for her to be in control than to let emotions overwhelm her.
But she didn’t pull away, only stared at him in the window with a faintly curious look. Maybe she didn’t even understand the double meaning of his words.
“What romantic words please me?” she murmured, sounding confused, turning her head to the side as if she could no longer look at him.
The fall of her golden hair was like a curtain drawn across the classic beauty of her face, with its slanted cheekbones, the sultry mouth made to form to a man’s—to form to his.
“What else should I have written?” He had to whisper, afraid to trust his voice. He didn’t want to sound harsh and frighten her when it was taking every ounce of his control not to draw her back against him, to cup her breasts, to part her gown. She was wearing so very little, and all of it of the finest silk. He could see her nipples, hard for him, though she might not realize it.
“You could tell me about the nautch girls,” she said.
He glanced back at her face in surprise.
“A long time ago, I was at the court of a rajah,” she murmured. “I remember little of it except feeling . . . captivated by their dancing.”
He inhaled the warm scent of her and closed his eyes. “I would write that their beauty was nothing to yours, even in their jewels and glittering fabric. Their long scarves of gold floating about them in time to their dancing would be dim in comparison to your hair.”
When she said nothing, he murmured, “How was that?”
“Adequate,” she said after a long pause.
He was still moving his hands slowly up and down her arms, could feel the faint sway of her body, saw her eyes half closed as she succumbed to the magic of the moonlight and their nearness to one another.
He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think she’d ever been touched, ever been kissed—or maybe he just wanted to believe that she’d saved even the first caress for her husband.
But that couldn’t be true, not with a half dozen proposals. He knew every other man who beheld her must have succumbed to the same dazed longing. But it wasn’t just her beauty—he admired her determination, her belief in herself, the very intelligence that let her stand toe to toe with any man.
He leaned closer, felt the strands of her hair against his face as he imagined baring her throat for his kiss. He inhaled deeply, smelling warm woman, fragrant with something exotic, as if she’d brought it back from the Far East.
He let his hands drift lower down her arms, no longer knowing what he meant to do. He encircled her wrists with his fingers, wanting to draw her arms up so that her head would fall back against him, that long, supple hair spill down his body—
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He froze, hearing a thread of unease in her voice. He couldn’t express his lustful thoughts—not without frightening her. His mind scrambled and latched on to the first thing he remembered—the thing that had haunted him all afternoon and evening.
“I can’t forget your near escape today. I feel like I need to make certain nothing is broken.”
/> Very slowly, he released her wrists, then silently cursed as she straightened and moved away from the lure of the moon and the apparent threat of his body. She touched the locket at her throat as if for comfort. He stood still for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply, evenly, calming himself, as he had such practice doing—although usually for a very different reason than the ache of pleasure thwarted. He told himself that this was promising, that Cecilia wasn’t immune to him, that perhaps she might come to realize staying married to him was the best thing for her.
She stood indecisively in the middle of her own bedroom, as if she didn’t know where it was safe to go. Her gaze hastily avoided the four-poster bed, with its luxuriant hangings meant for warmth but so intriguing when used for privacy. The counterpane had been turned down, the pillows plumped, already bearing the indentation of her body.
He began to perspire, never imagining what a fine line he’d walk, trying to get close to his skittish wife.
She rubbed her arms almost absently, as if she didn’t quite remember what he’d done to her. “I’m fine,” she said too firmly. “It was only an accident.”
“I don’t like to imagine a woman in danger.”
She turned then and studied him with an earnestness that caught him by surprise. He didn’t know what she was looking for but remained transfixed in her spell, off balance. And then he realized he didn’t have his cane. He had to look for it, so he didn’t further damage his leg by letting it collapse underneath him.
“It’s leaning against the window frame,” she finally told him, as if reading his mind.
He heard the faint amusement in her voice, and something in him relaxed. “I had no memory of where I put it. I think I was trapped in your notion of romantic letters when I set it down.” He reached for it, then knew what he must do. “I’ll bid you good night then.”
“Good night,” she murmured, even as she turned away.
Disappointed, Michael went into the dressing room and closed the door behind him.
Cecilia didn’t even bother climbing into bed. She practically ran to her writing desk and began to search the little drawers until she found what she’d been looking for: the letters her father had written from India.