by Gayle Callen
Appertan turned to Miss Webster. “Forgive me, Penelope. I was seeing to my estates and attending the magistrate’s petty session in Enfield.”
She nodded. “It is your duty, of course.”
“Next time I will consult with my secretary first.”
Michael felt like rocking back on his heels. That would be an improvement. One afternoon watching a father’s irresponsibility had been some kind of last straw? It seemed hard to believe.
Appertan turned to him. “My thanks for your assistance today, Blackthorne. And now, Penelope and I would like to speak alone.”
“Of course,” Michael said, holding out his arm to Cecilia.
She looked as if she would balk but finally linked her arm with his and left. “We’ll leave the door open for Penelope’s sake,” she said quietly.
And then Appertan closed the door behind them.
Cecilia whirled around, outraged that Oliver would be so thoughtless on Penelope’s behalf. She’d just spent an hour consoling the crying girl, and her foolish brother might just make everything worse.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Michael said softly. “Come to the study, where I can tell you what happened today.”
She hesitated, then followed him, gritting her teeth. Once they were alone, she erupted. “You should have seen that poor girl’s face when I said Oliver was gone. Her father is threatening to call off the engagement, even though Oliver is an earl! He spends no time with her—why did he even become engaged?”
Michael sighed. “He might want what every young man wants, Cecilia, which with a proper young woman, he can’t have without marriage.”
She winced. “Surely he’s had women before. If he has urges—he could have quietly taken care of that.”
“Rowlandson says he doesn’t regularly patronize the women of the demimonde, or even the loose women he was going to bring into the house last week.”
“So you’re saying he might simply want to be with Penelope, and couldn’t find a way to do so without making a formal offer?”
Michael shrugged. “Many men have done the same.” He glanced in the direction of the drawing room. “I’m glad Talbot is still nearby. I feel better about Penelope’s safety.”
Cecilia flinched as if he’d struck her. “I hope you don’t expect me to . . . warn her about something I don’t believe is true!”
“We can’t go on like this, my sweet. I’m going to need to talk to him honestly, and not just ask if he’s having a problem.”
“You want to tell him you think he’s trying to kill me?” she cried, backing away.
“His behavior is suspicious. He had decent ideas and questions when we were with his steward, but at court this afternoon, he couldn’t control himself enough to remain still. We left early. Something is very wrong, and we need to know.”
“You really think he’s the culprit?” she whispered, hugging herself, feeling a wave of despondency. “Did you ever think it’s not so much about me as it is the money and power of the estate that’s tempting someone to do these awful things? Oliver doesn’t need me out of the way to have any of it.”
“But he might think so.”
“You don’t have proof! Let’s—let’s see what happens if I back away completely, let it seem as if you’re taking my place in influence with my brother.”
He hesitated, then said slowly, “A brilliant idea. And there’s a chance it will lessen the danger for you.”
“That’s not why I’m suggesting it! I don’t want you in any danger either. But if I can prove to you it’s about the money and power, rather than about me personally, then perhaps we can find a way to prove it’s not Oliver. We can find the person trying to control the earldom, and then—and then—” She broke off, staring at Michael and realizing what was different. “You’re not using your cane at all anymore.”
“No,” he said quietly.
She straightened her shoulders. “Things can go back to normal.”
“What’s ‘normal,’ my sweet?”
She could have cried at the tenderness in his voice.
“Is it you helping your brother rather than being a wife to me?”
“You married me knowing we’d never have a real marriage, Michael,” she said desperately.
He gathered her into his arms. “This is real to me, Cecilia, you’re real. My wife, my responsibility.”
“You’ll return soon to India. Many people only see each other once or twice a year,” she insisted. Was she trying to convince herself?
“And that will be good enough for you? What if you’re carrying my child?”
She stared up at him, not knowing what to say. She wanted to beg him to stay, even if it meant giving up the career he found the most rewarding. And, eventually, he might begin to resent her for making the choice.
Was she supposed to make the choice? Any choice seemed unfair to someone.
He slid his hand to her stomach. “There might be life here, Cecilia, our child. We didn’t intend to feel anything for each other, but we do.”
“We respect each other,” she said at last. “Please respect me enough to know that I can’t talk about this while our family is in turmoil.”
He sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. “Our family. It sounds good to hear you say that.”
They stood holding each other for a long time. She listened to the reassuring beat of his heart, wondered if there was already another heart beating between theirs, nestling inside her body. She felt . . . altered by the thought, by knowing they had responsibilities beyond themselves. That might change everything.
Chapter 20
Cecilia never imagined how difficult it was going to be to abruptly step out of the life of command she’d been living for two years. For two days, Michael dealt with Oliver, who seemed restless and distracted, while she arranged flowers, oversaw menus and the redecorating. She couldn’t remember needlework stitches and would have gladly thrown the handkerchief across the room. She felt . . . useless. Of course, she was confined to Appertan Hall and couldn’t invite visitors. That made it worse, for she was used to being out among people every day. A servant followed her everywhere she went, making her feel twitchy.
In her obsession with guarding her father’s legacy, she’d let her close friends fall away. Now she wrote several letters, hoping to renew old ties. She had no close cousins, and Oliver’s precarious place in her life frightened her, and Michael would eventually return to India. She could easily be all alone in the world. Was that what she wanted?
When she first took on Oliver’s duties, she’d given no thought to the future, to what she would do when all the responsibility was taken from her. It seemed so foolish now.
As she stood at the French doors overlooking the terrace late in the day, she put a hand on her stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t be alone. She hadn’t thought about children before Michael, never considered she’d have the time. She’d never felt drawn to be a mother, the way some women did. But now . . . just the thought gave her hope, another person to love and cherish, a connection to Michael.
She could see Oliver and him riding in the distance, coming toward the stables. Their heads were turned as they talked to each other, and she found herself praying that Michael would have words of wisdom for Oliver, something that would help him on his path to maturity.
Then, suddenly, Michael pitched sideways and fell from the horse, the whole saddle sliding off with him. She cried out and flung open the door.
Talbot was beside her in an instant. “Lady Blackthorne, you cannot go outside.”
“My husband just fell,” she insisted, flinging an arm toward the park. “He might be injured.”
Talbot squinted into the distance where she pointed, then sighed. “Very well, I shall accompany you.”
They set off across the terrace, practically running down the marble steps that widened out onto the expanse of lawn. Cecilia hastened through the gravel paths of the garden, no longer able to see Michael and Olive
r through the shrubbery.
When they emerged once more onto the lawn, her husband was on his feet, bracing himself with an arm around Oliver’s shoulders. The rush of relief overwhelmed Cecilia with a sting of tears.
“Michael!” she cried.
His head swung around toward her, and even with some distance between them, she could see his frown. She didn’t care. The closer they got, the more she had to tell herself not to fling her arms around him like a foolish girl.
Oh, God, am I falling in love with him?
She could see a bruise on his jaw as she stopped before him but no other damage.
Oliver spoke before she could. “Cecilia, you should have remained inside,” he said with exasperation. “You’re the one who’s a target.”
“Apparently not just me,” she said between gritted teeth. “Michael, I imagine it’s been a long time since you fell from a horse.”
He sighed. “Someone cut the girth almost all the way through. My weight eventually completed the deed.”
“And you’re not hurt?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly weak.
Michael took her hand. “Reinjured my leg,” he said grimly. “Just when I’d stopped using the cane, too.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said—and meant it deeply. It had been her idea to turn the focus off herself, just to prove it wasn’t about her.
He gave her a tight smile. “Let’s get you out of the open.”
Talbot took the horses back to the stables, so Oliver could help Michael back to the castle. Once Michael was settled on a sofa, his leg propped up, Oliver brought him a brandy, clinked it with his own, and downed his. Cecilia stared from one man to the other in confusion.
“Are we done for today?” her brother asked impassively.
Michael grimaced. “We are.”
Oliver glanced at Cecilia. “Then I’m off to Enfield for the evening.”
Michael watched Cecilia’s crestfallen expression as her brother left, then the way her wide eyes came back to him. He hastened to reassure her, patting the sofa beside him.
“Truly, I’m all right, Cecilia.”
She sank down beside him, then leaned against his shoulder as if in defeat. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” she whispered. “I wanted to prove this villain was after money and power, not just me.”
“And you’ve been proven brilliant,” he said, chucking her under the chin.
She touched his thigh. “Should we call the doctor?”
“I didn’t break it, only aggravated it. I know how to take a fall. It only means a few more weeks with the cane.” A few more weeks in her company, he thought, grateful.
She straightened up, as if it were weak to lean against one’s own husband. “We must talk to the head groom and the stableboys.”
“I’m sure Talbot already is. But I imagine whoever did this took care not to be seen.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said, her chin jutting forward defensively. “And yes, Oliver could have done this, or had someone do it. But why? He certainly knows you don’t stand between him and control of his money, whereas someone else might believe you’re starting to influence Oliver too much.”
“True, but perhaps this person thinks I’m beginning to control you.” He held up both hands before she could speak. “But you could be right. Perhaps.”
The hope on her face was almost painful to him. He could only imagine how it would feel if people assumed something terrible about his own brother, Allen.
Michael certainly didn’t want Appertan to be a villain. Or was that his own guilt talking? Regardless of Cecilia’s forgiveness, Michael still felt responsible in some ways for Appertan’s plight. Consequently, was he trying to help the young man too much, just like Cecilia was?
“I know you’ve spoken to some of Oliver’s friends,” she was saying with animation. “There are so many others who might want to keep a hold on Oliver’s old free-spending ways.”
“I think you were right last night. We need to talk to your brother. And though you may wish otherwise, I plan to be with you. He’s intelligent, and certainly not a fool. If there’s manipulation involved, let’s see him try it on the two of us.”
Cecilia took a deep breath, then let it go. “Very well.”
“Good,” Michael said, leaning back on the sofa. “Shall we try to catch him before he leaves?”
She nodded, beginning to stand, but Michael didn’t release her hand.
“Send one of the footmen, my sweet.”
“I feel like such a prisoner,” she said in disgust. “I know it’s only been days, but I can’t remember what it feels like to walk my own home in freedom.”
“And now I have to be just as cautious,” he said. “Are you glad to have company?”
She frowned at him over her shoulder as she went to the drawing-room door. When she returned, he drew her into his arms and simply held her. Soon, he wouldn’t have this, only his memories. He understood everything about her now, the doubts she’d overcome because of her mother’s neglect, the trauma of her brother’s death, and her self-blame. Yet she’d risen above it all, becoming a wise, good woman who loved her brother regardless of what he’d done.
Michael wanted her to come with him to India, but was that fair? He could be the one to make the choice, to give up the career that gave him the most fulfillment and the pride of being an independent man. He could stay here as Cecilia’s husband, with little to do for his small family manor and no way to provide for his wife in the life she was used to except through her own dowry, however much supporting the estate had left of that.
Michael would be . . . a shell of a man, dishonorable. He knew the truth of guilt now. He was not used to feeling like a failure, but he could no longer deny the mistakes he’d made. He had to support his wife and family, and the best way was in India. His estate simply did not yield enough revenue on its own.
He would never force her to follow the drum, after what she’d experienced as a child. So they’d live separately, except for a brief month or two each year.
And his own child, if she conceived? Michael would barely know him or her.
Cecilia spent an hour in the drawing room with her husband, awaiting Oliver. Her brother had been taking a bath in preparation for the evening and agreed to give them a half hour of his time with great reluctance, if the footman Tom’s hesitant explanation could be understood.
Cecilia had wanted to pace her frustrations away, still full of nervous energy that her plan had caused Michael injury. But he had drawn her into his arms until her head settled on his chest. They rested together for long minutes. She should not feel peaceful, but in that moment, she did, and looked up at him in wonder. He kissed her gently, over and over again, soothing her until she thought she could do this forever.
“You don’t look like you need to talk to me.”
Cecilia jumped and turned to see her brother standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, glowering at them.
“You made us wait,” Michael said simply. “We’re newly wed—what else should we do?”
Oliver grimaced and turned as if to go.
“No, Oliver, please come talk to us,” Cecilia called. “This is so very important.”
He trudged toward them like a martyr, taking the seat opposite their sofa, with a low table between them. He couldn’t seem to sit still, crossing his lower leg over his knee, then changing his mind, restlessly lacing his hands together over his stomach, then playing with the fringe that decorated the armrest. And through it all, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
She studied him, feeling a sudden calm come over her. He was in trouble, and only she could help him. Something had changed for him these last few days, and this restless nervousness of his was only a symptom. “Oliver, you know someone has been trying to harm me.”
He sighed. “I didn’t want to believe you at first, but now . . . the evidence is convincing.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
He glanced at Michael. “I’m sure you’ve given this much thought, being a soldier. But even you haven’t come up with an answer. And I did think you had the best motivation to harm Cecilia when you first arrived.”
“But now this person is targeting me,” Michael said softly.
“You can take care of yourself.” Oliver’s tone was dismissive.
She stiffened but felt the pressure of Michael’s hand on hers as if to calm her. She tried to relax.
“But Cecilia,” Oliver said, turning back to her, “you don’t know how to protect yourself. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe the attacks were real because there’s still a part of me that thinks all this”—he gestured at the room, but seemed to mean the castle—“has some kind of power to protect us. But I guess that was only true when Father was alive. He would have protected you. I’ve failed you, just as I failed—”
And then he broke off, staring almost bleakly into the distance. He couldn’t mean Gabriel; he wasn’t even with them when their brother died.
“You haven’t failed me,” she said quietly. “Neither Michael nor I has been able to stop these attacks.”
“I should have,” he said in a hoarse voice. “But I didn’t want to see it. I thought . . . if I focused on myself enough, I could forget anything unpleasant. It didn’t work.”
“What are you trying to forget, Oliver?”
He opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out. Cecilia kept herself from leaning forward, unwilling to break the moment. Then his face wrenched into an awful grimace, and to her shock, a tear slid down his cheek.
“I did something terrible,” he whispered, then rubbed the heels of his palms hard into his eyes.
Feeling ill, she told herself to be patient. She thought she might have to restrain Michael, but he was so calm as to be a statue. He radiated acceptance and ease, as if he were leaving the connection between her and Oliver alone.
“Can you tell me what you think you did?” she asked her brother.
“Do you remember the upstairs maid, Jennette, who used to work for us a few years ago?”