by Gayle Callen
She hadn’t read them since he’d died, tying them away with ribbon because it was too painful to see his sloppy cursive, realize that the faint scent of his snuff was gone.
But she could no longer delay. Today had shown her too many things about Lord Blackthorne: the ridiculous, momentary thought that he might be trying to harm her, then that his voice and his presence could make her forget everything else except her longing to succumb to his touch.
She put her hot face in her hands and groaned aloud. What had she been thinking? The moon? Dancing girls? Where had all that come from, and why hadn’t she simply asked him to leave?
But no, apparently she had a weakness she’d never guessed. She’d spent so many months as almost the master of Appertan Hall and all of the earldom’s lands that she’d never realized she hadn’t thought of herself as a woman.
Lord Blackthorne made her remember what it felt like when she’d first come out and experienced the admiration of a man. She didn’t want to feel like this, disturbed and intrigued and strangely languorous all at once. And maybe, regardless of what he’d led her to believe, he might not like that she was in control of her own life, that she no longer needed him.
Her father managed to mention Lord Blackthorne in almost every letter. “Blackthorne was a good sounding board today,” “Blackthorne’s bravery is never rash,” “Blackthorne should have left the wounded enemy behind, but wouldn’t.” Her husband sounded like a saint, she thought with exasperation. Then she found an incident where her father didn’t envy Lord Blackthorne’s decision, and she forced herself to slow down. An enemy was running at them, firing, using a woman as a shield. Lord Blackthorne reluctantly ordered his men to fire in order to save the company, and the woman ultimately died. When her father counseled Lord Blackthorne on how to handle his guilt, he said that although he regretted the action, he felt no guilt. He had to save his men and would have made the same decision all over again.
Cecilia stared down at the words, rereading them. Yet Lord Blackthorne was also a man who tried to help a wounded enemy. He was a contradiction, and the letters only made her even more frustrated. She got the sense that her father respected Lord Blackthorne’s abilities as a soldier. In the last one she read, her father mentioned that he’d never met a man more trustworthy, so she eased her misgivings with those words.
Sleep proved elusive, leaving her to pen invitations to the dinner party she would host when Oliver’s guardian arrived—and the first that Lord Blackthorne would attend at her side.
The next morning, Cecilia had to wonder if Lord Blackthorne had deliberately waited for her to go on her walk because he caught up to her before she’d even left the terrace.
“Cecilia,” he called.
She was forced to stop, surprised to find herself most reluctant to face him after their encounter in her bedroom. Under an overcast sky, he was still a dark presence in his sober garments. He walked with a cane and didn’t even have a smile for her. All those things should have kept her removed from him.
Instead, she could only remember the way he’d stood so close behind her in the night, the gentle way he’d touched her without pressing her too far, how he’d left when she asked him to. In the light of day, she shouldn’t be thinking those things, knowing she’d blushed more in the last few days than ever in her life. She’d had a wealthy duke pay her homage, not to mention a foreign prince. But her husband, a cavalryman and a viscount, left her flustered.
He stopped before her, so tall and commanding that she kept her shoulders back, as if to measure up to him. “Yes, my lord?”
“It’s a blustery day.” He squinted out over the gardens. “I took my walk as dawn broke and was almost blown off course.”
“I’ll remember to clutch a tree when I need to.”
A corner of his mouth turned up—was that his version of a smile? For a moment, she felt pleased with herself.
“I was wondering if I could have your permission to rouse Lord Appertan from his bed at a more decent hour.”
“That would be quite a feat,” she said dryly. “But I don’t understand why.”
“I would like him to accompany us into town this morn.”
“ ‘Us’?” she echoed. “Why do you need me? You insist that Oliver is your mission while you’re here.”
“Frankly, he will be more likely to accompany the both of us than me alone. I will have a better understanding for how others see him, and what I might do to make him see the same.”
She considered only briefly, knowing she could not refuse if she wanted Oliver to improve.
“Very well. Do what you wish,” Cecilia said. “I will be very curious to see if you can persuade him.”
To her surprise, when she returned to Appertan Hall an hour later, Oliver stumbled out of the breakfast parlor, shadows under his eyes, his lips shaping a sulky pout.
“I can’t believe you’re insisting I attend you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
She was about to protest that it wasn’t her idea when she noticed that his hands were trembling. She bit her lip, then glanced at her impassive husband, now limping into the corridor.
“It will do you good to get out during the day,” she said. “We could eat our luncheon at the old inn, just like we used to.”
“You’re living in the past,” Oliver grumbled. “Since the railway came, that old coaching inn has seen better days.”
“All the more reason we should patronize it. I’ll be with you shortly.” In her bedroom, she changed into a morning gown, and found herself not too frustrated when Nell insisted on fussing with her hair.
“Ye have to make a good impression, milady,” Nell mumbled between her lips, where she kept pins dangling at the ready.
“Whom do I need to impress?” Cecilia demanded, as if she didn’t already know the answer.
“Yer husband, o’ course.” Nell tsked and shook her head as if her mistress were a lost cause.
When at last Cecilia stepped out onto the front portico near where the carriage waited, both Oliver and Lord Blackthorne turned toward her. Lord Blackthorne stared for a moment too long, nodding at last, while Oliver looked from one to the other and frowned before heading to the carriage and grumbling under his breath. Each of them was playing her on his own behalf, and she was caught in between.
Then she saw Oliver’s horse tied to the rear of the carriage, and when she turned to say something to her brother, he beat her to it.
“I don’t know what my plans are for this evening, so I’d best be prepared. And besides, I might not be able to stand being alone with the two of you.”
Wearing a frown, Cecilia allowed Lord Blackthorne to assist her inside. Oliver crowded in beside her, then smirked at Lord Blackthorne, who had to sit across from them. Her husband simply rested both hands on the top of his cane where it leaned on the bench between his thighs, and regarded her brother.
The coachman guided the carriage away from Appertan Hall.
“What?” Oliver demanded, folding his arms across his chest. “You insisted I accompany you into Enfield; I am coming. You cannot expect me to be pleased at getting so little sleep.”
And then he looked out the window, as if any conversation they had would bore him.
“And how are you feeling this morn, madam?” Lord Blackthorne asked.
He was studying her as if he expected to see an answer written across her face.
“I am well, my lord. You know I was not injured yesterday.”
“But it must have upset you greatly to have such a close call.”
She almost said, It is not the first, but caught herself in time. “Regardless, I will not be thinking about it again.”
Oliver glanced at Lord Blackthorne. “And are you not upset on your wife’s behalf, Blackthorne?”
“Upset? No. Concerned, yes. A terrible tragedy could have befallen your family yesterday. I believe you don’t realize how important your sister is to you, the last member of your immediate family.”<
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“I mean no offense, Cecilia,” Oliver said with a smirk, “but I guess you haven’t told him about our many cousins, and the fact that I could do so much good—your words—with the money I’d inherit should you leave this earth. You didn’t mention that in one of your letters?”
Cecilia took a deep breath and eyed her brother. “I don’t find your sarcasm amusing today, Oliver.”
“And I find you disrespectful,” Lord Blackthorne said.
“Then I guess you need to learn about my sense of humor,” Oliver shot back.
“That’s enough,” Cecilia insisted. Part of her was relieved that Lord Blackthorne knew where her money would be going should she die. She imagined if she stayed married, the lawyers would be pressing her to change her beneficiary, but he didn’t need to know that.
They reached Enfield, and although Cecilia tried to proceed directly to the inn, Lord Blackthorne would have none of it. She found herself paraded about the cobbled market square, then the park along New River, with her husband and brother. They were the center of attention, and the brave immediately approached for an introduction, while the shy held back and gawked. Cecilia knew everyone was curious, but she wished she’d forgone this adventure. Soon she might be having the marriage invalidated, and all along, she’d told herself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care what Society thought of her. “Society” had been nebulous in her thoughts, the people in London she’d once socialized with.
But what about all these people who respected her, the people she spent her life with? Cecilia hoped they wanted the best for her, that they would understand.
Lord Blackthorne was gravely respectful to everyone he met, but she felt uncomfortable with the way he studied the townspeople’s reactions to Oliver. She noticed, too, their reserve, the almost quick dismissal of Oliver in favor of a more open pleasure on seeing her. She felt embarrassed for her brother and wished she knew if her husband could help him.
In a private dining parlor at the inn, Oliver picked at his meal, then seemed relieved when he looked past Cecilia into the corridor. “I see Rowlandson. I’ll return soon.” And then he escaped.
Lord Blackthorne shook his head once Oliver had gone. “Your brother does not like me.”
“Then you are giving up so quickly?” she asked.
“For a woman who was so reluctant to accept my help, you sound disappointed.”
She wanted to look away from the intense focus of his eyes, but she couldn’t. “If he keeps going as he is, he’ll have no one’s respect, including his own. And I am . . . at a loss.” She broke a piece of bread apart in her hands but couldn’t bring herself to eat it.
Lord Blackthorne leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It costs you much to say that. You are not a woman who easily admits defeat.”
“I never have to,” she said with indignation.
To her surprise, he lightly touched her ungloved hand with his own. “I like that you are a decisive woman, that you don’t wait for things to happen but take charge.”
She could read nothing in his face, not even this “admiration” he professed. He continued to touch her unexpectedly, and it troubled her that he knew how it would affect her. “Most men would not prefer such a woman.”
“Which is why you turned down so many proposals.”
She shook her head. “You think you know me, my lord, but that is only part of it. There are not many men who want a woman to so actively involve herself in her family estates.”
“Which is why we suit,” he said. “I need a woman who’s not afraid of doing things on her own. A wife cannot always be at a soldier’s side.”
“And there’s where we don’t suit. I never promised to be at your side, especially overseas.”
He studied her. “I know. Once I met you, I thought I might change your mind.”
Now it was her turn to lean toward him. “That will never happen, my lord. Understand that.”
He didn’t answer, and she now knew she had another reason for ending this marriage. She was never returning to India, to the place where her family had fallen apart.
The serving maid arrived with their next course of food, and Cecilia noticed that the young woman’s cap was askew and her sleeve torn.
“Is something wrong?” Cecilia asked.
The girl met her eyes with her own full of tears. “I’m sorry, milady. I . . . displeased a gentleman. ’Twas me own fault.”
Cecilia didn’t recognize this girl, but a pang of foreboding chilled her. “What happened?” she demanded in a quiet but insistent voice. “I’d like to help.”
“Oh no, milady, you mustn’t,” the girl cried.
The door opened, and Oliver walked in. Cecilia’s stomach seemed to rise into her throat as she prepared herself to handle a terrible confrontation, but the girl actually relaxed when she saw it was Oliver. Cecilia felt Lord Blackthorne watching her, knew that he’d been thinking everything she had. But they were both wrong—of course they were. But she couldn’t stop feeling terribly ill that she’d believed the worst of Oliver. The maid finished refilling their glasses with a trembling hand, then bobbed a curtsy and left.
“Something dreadful happened,” Cecilia said to Oliver.
Her brother drained his glass of wine and refilled it himself. “Rowlandson is still down from London, and his night of drinking isn’t over yet.”
“But it’s the middle of the afternoon!” she cried, looking to Lord Blackthorne as if one of the males in the room had to make sense.
Her husband was studying Oliver, absorbing everything without interfering. “What did that maid have to do with it?” he asked in a voice that portrayed indifference.
But she didn’t believe it. He’d taken on Oliver as his project, and from her father’s letters, she knew that Lord Blackthorne never backed down from a challenge.
She was his challenge, too.
Oliver shrugged. “Rowlandson tried for some enjoyment with the maid. She didn’t take kindly to it.”
“Like your sister didn’t take kindly to Fenton?” Lord Blackthorne demanded. “What kind of friends do you have?”
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “My friends are none of your concern, Blackthorne. Remember that you are only in my home because I allow it. Do not cross me.”
She was about to dress down her brother when she felt her husband grip her knee, hard enough to make her round on him. But he wasn’t looking at her, only at her brother. He didn’t want her interference, but Oliver was her responsibility.
“I am not crossing you, Appertan,” her husband said. “But it is my right to keep Cecilia safe, especially after what Fenton did.”
“Rowlandson would never do that,” Oliver said dismissively. “He’s down on his luck and wanted a little fun. When the girl refused, he backed off.”
“Down on his luck?” Cecilia whispered. “And that gave him the right to . . .” She couldn’t even finish her sentence, as the memory of her fear at the hands of Sir Bevis returned to her. It was rare for her to experience such helplessness—and this poor maid must feel it often.
“No, he stopped it,” Oliver insisted forcefully. “Nothing happened.”
Except that a young girl’s confidence in herself and the world had been shaken. And that didn’t seem to matter to Oliver. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“He’s my friend, and he asked me for help,” he continued between bites of his beef pie. “Needs a place to stay. I told him it wouldn’t work at Appertan Hall.”
She silently let out a shaky breath.
“Rowlandson was upset, of course,” Oliver continued, “but I made him understand that you wouldn’t have it.”
She was practically a target again because of his thoughtlessness in blaming her. Lord Blackthorne stiffened, and now it was her turn to touch his leg although she did so only briefly.
“I offered him a few nights at the inn at my expense,” Oliver said, “until his monthly allowance was released. Everything is fine now.”
He
seemed pleased with himself, convinced that he had handled the situation, and she didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t like his “friends” so close—and was dismayed that Oliver didn’t seem to understand why. Or he didn’t want to understand. Would he feel any different if Penelope had been the one attacked by these friends of his? Maybe not, Cecilia thought sadly.
Her brother briskly finished eating, and all she could do was push her food around on her plate. At last she gave up.
“Since we’re nearby, I’d like to visit the milliner.” She tried to sound more enthused than she felt. “I’ve had nothing new since I emerged from mourning.”
Lord Blackthorne pointedly rubbed his leg. “I fear I need to rest. Lord Appertan, would you mind escorting your sister? I will join you soon.”
Oliver sighed and agreed, but Cecilia looked over her shoulder as they left the private dining parlor, knowing that her husband wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Chapter 9
True to form, Oliver stepped one foot into the milliner’s shop, saw the display of dozens of hats and many pairs of interested feminine eyes, and turned around to wait outside. Cecilia hid a smile, but she did feel some relief. She needed a moment to herself, surprised that the maid’s dilemma brought back all her uneasiness, even her worry over the accidents that had happened to her.
She strolled through the displays, trying to picture the gowns she wanted new hats made for, but it wasn’t working.
“Cecilia!”
Startled, she turned and saw Penelope coming toward her, dressed in a smart shawl and matching bonnet, towering over the other customers. They held hands briefly.
“Did you see Oliver outside?” Cecilia asked.
“I did not.” Penelope glanced out the window but didn’t rush away.
Cecilia appreciated that. “He must have returned to the inn.” She hid her worry, hoping that Lord Blackthorne had finished whatever he needed to do before Oliver arrived. If there was a confrontation . . .