by Gayle Callen
She glanced at him, then looked back down at the keyboard. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Appertan will be all right.” He wanted to lift the concern from her eyes, make her happy, but she didn’t want him to do that.
She gave a faint smile. “I hope so.”
“That locket you wear—does it have something to do with Gabriel?”
She looked down at it, then glanced at him, wearing a sad smile. “Each side is a miniature of my brothers just before Gabriel’s death. Although they were identical, I could always tell them apart.”
She opened the locket and held it up to him, displaying the small faces of two laughing boys, both with tousled, lighter blond hair than Appertan had now.
“The artist tried to persuade them to be serious,” she continued, “as the subject of such paintings usually are, but they just . . . couldn’t.”
When she closed the locket, he said, “Does Lord Appertan look at the miniatures?”
“No.”
“I imagine becoming the earl made him relive the death of the brother he’s now replaced. That is only natural.”
“Do you think so?” She sounded hopeful.
“I do. We’ll continue what we’ve been doing. It will help. Will you play another song for me?”
She nodded, and to his surprise, she began to hum and eventually sing, her voice simple and pure, her beauty angelic in the candlelight. Michael let peace wash over him, as if the world’s cares could remain beyond the closed doors. He knew desire could forge a bond between two people, but he’d never imagined that contentment and happiness could be just as seductive. She made him happy, just being with her. But they would be separated soon.
The last notes of the song trailed off, and Cecilia rose to her feet. “I believe I’ll retire for the evening. Don’t let me inconvenience—”
But he’d already arisen. “I’ll escort you.”
She bit her lip but didn’t protest. Will waited in the shadows of the entrance hall with a candleholder, and Michael accepted it. Side by side, they walk up the main staircase, and he wondered if she remembered the terror of beginning to fall just a few days before. Her expression was impassive, showing him nothing.
“I understand you’ve recently hired a watchman,” he said.
“I have. He joins two others. The grounds are extensive, and I don’t want miscreants to assume we are ripe for their mischief.”
“Do they patrol indoors?”
“Patrol? My lord, we are not a regiment stationed near the enemy.”
“Forgive my wording, but you know what I mean.”
She sighed. “Talbot is responsible for locking all the entrances, and he’s spent his life doing exemplary work. The servants know they are not to leave the house during the night. We are secure, Sergeant.”
Though he wanted to chuckle at her use of his rank, he was too concerned about the hours they would spend apart—when she would be alone. Any servant could grant access to the house in the middle of the night, circumventing outdoor watchmen.
At her door, she opened it before he could, murmured a quick “Good night,” and ducked inside, closing it behind her. He heard the key turn in the lock.
He sighed, not expecting anything else, no long kiss or invitation to join her. But he was glad she was safely locked inside and made sure the dressing-room door was locked as well. In his own room, the bed was turned down invitingly, but he wouldn’t be using it although he did disturb it so that the servants wouldn’t realize what was going on. His wife might be in danger. Silently, he entered the dressing room she’d abandoned as some sort of no-man’s-land since his arrival. By leaning his head near the door, he could hear her speak with her maid, and relaxed at their soft laughter.
Then he limped as quickly as he could back downstairs, using only the faint moonlight through the windows to guide him. He checked every exterior door although it took him almost an hour to do so. Talbot was doing his duty, at least.
When he returned to the dressing room, he could no longer hear anyone speaking in Cecilia’s room. He closed his eyes and put his hand on the doorknob, remembering how she’d looked when she slept. After removing his coat and boots without a sound, he lay down on the cot kept there in case the maid needed to remain nearby.
He fell asleep, but in the way of sleeping lightly, he was restless, with dreams invading his mind. His dead friends returned to him again, as they’d begun to do every night. In some ways, seeing their deaths over and over again would be easier than imagining their lives if they’d lived, but tonight his dreams gave him the future that might have been. He saw the late earl in command of his estates, guiding his son, allowing Cecilia peace of mind. His two dead friends returned to England, one to a wife and child, the other to see his sister settled before embarking on his own search for a wife.
Michael forced himself to awaken. They were dead—many men had died in the empire’s endless quest to remain strong. And he was alive. He didn’t feel guilty about things that couldn’t be changed, so what were his dreams trying to make him see?
It was still several hours before dawn, but after listening at Cecilia’s door again, Michael did another slow patrol through the castle. The doors were still locked, but that didn’t mean he could relax.
Cecilia awoke just before dawn, when the world was gray with the promise of a new day. But she felt sluggish rather than energized. She’d heard footsteps several times outside her door and had tensed with fear, but no one had tried the knob. Surely it was a servant passing by in the night, seeing to Oliver.
Or a restless Lord Blackthorne. She was surprised he hadn’t insisted on escorting her directly into her room. Since their kiss, she felt like he hadn’t left her alone, and that was making her even more nervous because of the way he drew her to him.
She was already dressed by the time Nell arrived and had even pulled her own hair back. The maid tsked at her.
“I have so much to do today,” Cecilia insisted. “Do I look presentable?” She took a piece of toast from the tray, slurped her hot chocolate, and started for the door, determined that she was not going to alter her life because of fear.
“Ye didn’t even let me reply!” Nell cried, hands on her hips.
“Sorry!” She opened up her door—and found Lord Blackthorne seated on a bench beneath a wide landscape painting.
“I thought I’d accompany you on your walk,” he said, standing up.
He was so overpowering, even in the high-ceilinged ornate corridor. She glanced behind to see Nell looking past her, full of interest and approval. Since when had Lord Blackthorne begun to win over her servants, even her own lady’s maid? She frowned at Nell, who quickly busied herself in the wardrobe.
Cecilia wanted to refuse him but knew that would make him suspicious, and even more insistent about accompanying her. So she smiled tightly, tossed her piece of toast back on its plate, and allowed him to fall in beside her. He was carrying a basket that bumped rhythmically against his good leg.
“What is that?” she asked with suspicion.
“Breakfast. It seems your cook has heard you are not eating enough. I believe I saw a simple piece of toast in your hand—and you didn’t finish it.”
“Are you spying on me?” she demanded, coming to a stop.
He pivoted about the cane and looked down at her. “Your cook came to me, the man you’ve proclaimed as your husband—although you’ve not convinced yourself.”
She flushed. “We’ve discussed this. It’s only been a few days. I haven’t decided.”
“And now that I’ve kissed you, you seem even more against the idea of spending time with me.”
She swept past him. “Just because you wish to remain married doesn’t mean I do.”
“The longer you take, the more scandal it will be.”
He was right—she hadn’t been thinking deeply about it, weighing her options. She was too concerned with her brother’s future—and with the “accidents” that had plagued her
.
“Lord Blackthorne, I don’t even know how to begin to trust you!” They were near the balustrade that wound about the entrance hall, and her voice echoed. She winced and looked about but didn’t see any servants nearby. “Yet denying this marriage means becoming a ward again, and I don’t want that.”
“When I meet Lord Hanbury, perhaps I’ll see your problem.”
“Lord Hanbury was my guardian. Lord Doddridge is Oliver’s. Oliver . . . chose him when he inherited the earldom.”
Lord Blackthorne went still. “Excuse me?”
“Lord Doddridge was a friend of my father’s, but a man more prominent in London. Oliver chose him as someone who would understand what a new earl was going through. Regardless, this doesn’t matter to me right now.”
“Of course it does. Appertan will turn twenty-one within the year, and no longer need a guardian at all. But if you’re under guardianship, you will not be able to so easily control him or the estate—your reasoning for our marriage, I believe. That—and access to your funds. You may do as you please financially, yet I will keep you from scandal, keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he answered back, just as softly.
Then he touched her arm, and she flinched.
“What do you need protection from, Cecilia?”
She pulled away from him. “You’re being ridiculous. I am perfectly safe. Now let’s walk if we’re going to do this.”
To her relief, he remained silent, both of them inhaling the autumn scents of harvested grains and the richness of the earth being plowed for the spring wheat crop. He didn’t try to come up with awkward conversations, for which she was grateful. Gradually she relaxed, letting the peace of the countryside soothe her as it always did. Her tenants were growing used to them both and no longer sent him suspicious glances—although they should, she reminded herself.
When they crested a low hill, they could see the New River winding its way toward London, and the windows of Appertan Hall glittering in the rising sun, as they’d done for hundreds of years. Cecilia looked upon it all and knew that her family had taken good care of it, encouraged growth, and protected its people. And within the year, Oliver could change all that if he didn’t mend his ways.
Lord Blackthorne said, “Let us have our picnic here.”
From within the basket, he removed a blanket and awkwardly tried to spread it out himself.
“I might have overdone it boxing yesterday,” he said ruefully.
She straightened out the blanket, surprised he would admit any kind of weakness to her. “Shall I help you to sit?”
He arched a brow. “I am not in my dotage yet, Cecilia.”
She raised both hands in surrender even as she knelt. “You’re the one who said you were feeling stiff today.”
He smoothly lowered himself to the ground with the aid of the cane. “Shall we see what Cook prepared?”
It was a feast of sliced ham, bread with butter and jam, several apples, and cider in a corked bottle. Cecilia was glad to have something with which to busy her hands. Lord Blackthorne watched as she unbuttoned and removed her gloves, as if even such innocent skin fascinated him. The wind caught her hair, loosening the occasional curl, and she kept impatiently tucking each behind her ear. Then, to her surprise, Lord Blackthorne caught her hand, and with the other, he slowly slid the hair behind her ear, letting his bare fingers linger. She shivered, and had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered, imploring him.
“Don’t what?” he answered in a husky voice. “Touch my wife? We are in public, in the middle of the façade you created.”
She stiffened. “That is unfair.”
“I know, but it’s the truth. Now you say we are to hold a dinner party tomorrow. Like the ladies from Enfield—”
“Who will be there,” she interrupted glumly.
“—will others believe you were enraptured by my way with the written word?”
She looked down at her knees almost touching his thigh. He leaned back, bracing himself on one hand, the better to see into her face, she knew.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How shall I behave? What would you like me to do? And don’t say ‘disappear,’ because that will not happen.”
She tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. She saw his expression relax, those dark brown eyes softening. She felt trapped there, trying to see into his soul.
“Behave as you wish,” she said simply. “I cannot tell a grown man what to do. I only ask that you not . . . ingratiate yourself with everyone.”
“You fear I am so quick with conversation and friendship?” he said dryly.
“I have put you in a terrible position, I know.” She covered her face and sighed before looking at him again. “It isn’t fair, this marriage I asked of you. You should go now, before my demands get worse. When I decide, I’ll . . . send word. Surely your family misses you.”
“Go now, so you can deny that I’m your husband?” he said gently.
“I haven’t let you be my husband. I probably won’t.”
“In the eyes of the law—”
“We don’t know what the law truly says!”
“In the eyes of Society—”
“Stop!”
She put her hand over his mouth, a childish move, but it suddenly felt very adult. He caught her hand and briefly held it there, and when she felt the touch of his tongue tasting her bare palm, she gave a shudder as the sensation burned a path clear into the depths of her stomach. She caught her breath.
He let her go, and when she clasped her hand back against her chest, he leaned toward her. “Has any man made a simple kiss on your hand feel like that?”
“That wasn’t a kiss! It was—it was—” What was it? She couldn’t even describe it.
“I want to taste even more of you,” he said hoarsely, cupping her face with one hand.
Her mouth fell open as she imagined his lips on hers again, parting, and the taste of his tongue. She’d been imagining that taste ever since their first kiss. His palm was hot on her cheek, his face so close she thought he might kiss her again, right there in the open, where anyone could see.
“I won’t be a—a thing you owe my father,” she whispered.
“Though I never saw it coming, what’s between us is so much more than that—can’t you tell?”
“No, I can’t!” She broke away. “Now stand up so I can fold the blanket. I must get back.”
He remained silent on the walk back to the house, and she kept in front of him, not wanting to look at his face, to remember the burning intensity he’d shown her.
Talbot met them in the entrance hall. “Lady Blackthorne, Lord Doddridge has arrived and is already in your study.”
Relief swept over her like cool water over a burn. “Thank you, Talbot, I will go to him.” She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Blackthorne, not meeting his eyes. “Have a good morning, my lord.”
He bowed, the picnic basket in one hand, the cane in the other, studying her with too knowing a gaze. She hurried off to meet with Lord Doddridge, feeling herself again, calm and in control in her study, not like that windswept girl on a hill who didn’t know what she wanted.
Chapter 13
Michael watched her flee, noticed that even Talbot almost arched a brow at the last twitch of her skirts.
“May I take the basket from you, my lord?” Talbot asked smoothly.
“I’ll accompany you to the servants’ wing,” Michael said, handing over the basket.
If that made Talbot curious, he would never reveal it. Together, they walked through the older section of the castle, into the servants’ wing that had been built in the eighteenth century for more modern times. They passed a wine storage room, beer cellar, and the plate scullery.
“What can you tell me about Lord Doddridge?” Michael asked.
Talbot answered promptly. “He has been
a gracious guardian to Lord Appertan.”
“But a recent one, according to my wife.”
“I do believe that is so, my lord.”
Michael felt a pinch of frustration, but he’d known it would be difficult to discover things from such a loyal employee. “And the first guardian?” he asked.
Talbot waited for a maid to pass, her eyes downcast, then he gestured for Michael to enter a small room, obviously his office, with a desk, sideboard, and several chairs. A small window looked out on the garden, surely a sign of his respected position in the household to have such a view.
“My lord, I am not certain what you require of me—”
“Some help, Talbot. Your mistress asked for my assistance with Lord Appertan and his behavior. But if I don’t know everything that is going on, how can I help her? It’s obvious she is worried about her brother, and if I can do anything to ease her mind, I want to do it.”
Talbot hesitated, and in that moment, Michael realized that if Talbot knew the strained status of the marriage, he would never help Michael at all. But at last he gestured to a chair, and instead of walking behind his desk, pulled up another chair next to Michael.
“My lord, I am only the butler,” he said quietly. “But I have been with this household my entire adult life, as has Mrs. Ellison. We both want his lordship and Lady Blackthorne to be content with their lives. But do I know things of a personal nature? Perhaps some, most of which I would not dream of sharing with anyone, even my lady’s husband. I would not long be trusted as a butler if I betrayed confidences that I overheard in the course of my duties. But as to their guardians, I might be able to briefly converse although I don’t believe what I know is of much benefit.”
“That’s a fair answer,” Michael said, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied the other man. “So tell me about the first guardian, the one they both shared.”
“The guardianship was arranged long ago with a cousin of their mother’s, someone who would not be in line to inherit any part of the earldom. But he was a country cousin who seldom went to London. Young Lord Appertan chafed almost immediately, for their guardian never went to Town, and only made rare appearances at Appertan Hall. I do believe that Lady Blackthorne concluded they felt it difficult to properly chaperone an heiress, and did not wish to deal with Lord Appertan’s . . . high spirits.”