by Gayle Callen
But no. Lord Blackthorne was a soldier, not a fool, at least according to her father.
“Cecilia, you seem . . . upset,” Penelope said, worry creasing her brow. “Is there something I can do to help?”
Cecilia studied her friend’s face, and in that moment, she was so tired of bearing the burden of her worries. It was almost a relief to lead Penelope into the small garden behind the shop and quietly tell her about the two accidents that had happened.
Penelope took both her hands and squeezed. “My dear Cecilia, I wish you’d told me sooner! Surely you’re worried for absolutely no reason.”
“I honestly thought I tripped over something going down the stairs, but I couldn’t find it, as if . . . whatever it was had been removed. It sounds ridiculous, I know, and I put it right out of my mind. But then the bust almost hit me—me, not any of the other people in the entrance hall, as if someone had waited for me to be perfectly in place.”
“But everyone loves you, Cecilia! I cannot believe you’d think a servant would want to harm you.”
“Perhaps not a servant,” she whispered, looking over both shoulders. But they were surrounded by bushes and trees, then a high fence. No one could overhear.
“Then who—no!” Penelope reared back in her melodramatic fashion. “You can’t mean—Lord Blackthorne?”
Cecilia sighed. “I know it can’t be true. He has no reason to harm me. He didn’t search for me, I kept writing to him. And he asked nothing of me—which is why I’m even entertaining such foolish uncertainties. What man wants no dowry, no control of his wife’s money?”
Penelope patted her hand. “Not everyone needs to feel so . . . in control, Cecilia. Look at Oliver. I think we suit well because he’s content to bide his time, learning what he needs to from you and his steward.”
Cecilia barely held back a sigh. She wanted to help Oliver, she truly did. But her defensiveness about Lord Blackthorne’s helping him truly bothered her. Was she letting her suspicions cloud her thinking, or was she so afraid of losing control that she pretended Oliver was all right?
She thanked Penelope for listening and reassured the young woman that she was well even though she didn’t quite reassure herself. Together, they enjoyed a very feminine exploration of the millinery, and Cecilia bought a lovely ready-made beribboned bonnet and ordered another, more elaborate one. When they exited the shop, they found Lord Blackthorne and Oliver seated on a bench near the market square and seemingly engrossed in conversation.
Penelope glanced at Cecilia, eyes wide. “Well, well,” Penelope said, beginning to smile.
Cecilia smiled, too, telling herself that Lord Blackthorne was doing what he thought her father wanted, trying to help Oliver. And Oliver was doing as she’d asked, going along with Lord Blackthorne on her behalf. It was all such a muddle.
When Oliver saw both women, he stood up and gave Penelope a grin. “I didn’t know you were in Enfield today.”
She shrugged, her eyes brimming with flirtation and excitement. “Well, I am. Will you walk with me, so that I may display my fiancé?”
He chuckled and held out his arm. Penelope took it and looked over her shoulder at Cecilia, smiling her encouragement, even as she risked a glance at Lord Blackthorne. He was commanding in black, solid and broad to Oliver’s litheness. Cecilia had always thought she should find her own happy young man, but something about them always seemed . . . frivolous. Perhaps she was judging young men on the basis of her brother, which wasn’t fair.
She looked up at her husband. “It seems Oliver had good reason to bring his horse,” she said.
Lord Blackthorne nodded. “Are you ready to return?”
She was, but suddenly she didn’t want to know what might have happened at the inn, and she wanted to delay questioning him as long as she could. So, instead, she asked him to accompany her to the bookshop, then to the grocer’s, where she bought a set of lovely, fragrant soaps, all under the watchful eyes of Lord Blackthorne—who was under the watchful eyes of the townspeople. At last, Cecilia allowed him to call for the carriage. He climbed up and sat beside her, forcing her to slide farther away.
When the coachman closed the door, and the carriage jerked into motion, she faced him with resolution. “What happened at the inn after I left?”
He glanced at her, a brown eyebrow cocked as if in surprise.
“Do not play coy, Lord Blackthorne. It doesn’t become you.”
“Play coy?” he echoed. “Is that not something virginal misses do to intrigue a man?”
“You know what I mean.” She tugged her shawl higher about her shoulders and glared at him. “What did you say to Mr. Rowlandson? You were not resting your leg. You walk for miles every morning, after all.”
“Perhaps I reinjured it on my walk.”
“Or it stiffened in the carriage, another good excuse. I cannot believe it could suddenly be so bad.”
He leaned toward her. “As my wife, it is your right to see my wound, to decide what should be done about its care.”
Her mouth fell open as she had a sudden image of his very naked leg, and how little clothing he would have to wear for her to see it. She’d nursed injuries before, but . . . he was her husband, whom she was keeping from her bed.
Her temporary husband.
She lifted her chin. “Your injury happened months ago, my lord. I imagine your care was adequate since you’re recovering.”
He was watching her mouth as she spoke, and his eyes seemed light with amusement.
She didn’t want to be the source of his humor. “You’re trying to distract me. It isn’t working.”
“Very well, I admit your brother’s behavior at luncheon disturbed me.”
She clutched her skirts in her hands, hoping he couldn’t see.
“He attempted to seem so unconcerned about the attack on the maid. I wondered if he was beyond hope, if our efforts would even matter in the long run.”
“I can’t believe that,” she whispered, feeling tears of despair prick her eyes.
He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes, feeling connected to another person in her misery. She could feel the warmth of him through his gloves.
“I don’t truly believe it either,” he said in a low voice. “Appertan wouldn’t meet your eyes, and that’s the look of a man who feels guilty on behalf of his friend and is trying to pretend it’s fine when he damn well knows it isn’t.”
She searched his face, wondering if he only told her what she wanted to hear. She touched her locket and moved away from him. His hand slowly fell back to the bench.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They were silent for a few minutes, their bodies jostling gently to the same rhythm. It was strangely intimate, riding with this man, when she’d done the same thing with others hundreds of times.
“I did run into Mr. Rowlandson in the taproom,” he admitted.
“Run into? Did you knock him to the ground?”
“I wanted to. And it would have been so easy. But I simply warned him to be on his best behavior since he was your brother’s guest in town. And I might have implied that I would develop a relationship with the innkeeper, who would keep me abreast of any abuse of his servants.”
She slowly smiled at him. “I appreciate your restraint.”
“You’re welcome. I am capable of it, when necessary. Life here is not the same as on a battlefield.”
He studied her from beneath lowered eyelids, his focus once again making her feel like she was the reason for everything he did. Even with daylight streaming in the windows, it was as if they were alone, with darkness enveloping them, hiding them.
“I know you are confused about this marriage between us,” he began in almost a conversational tone, letting their shoulders touch. “How do you expect to make a decision?”
She couldn’t seem to think, so captivated was she by the mysterious depths of his brown eyes. “I . . . imagine by coming to know you better, interacting as we�
�ve been doing these few days.”
“Interacting,” he said dubiously. “Last night was our first time interacting alone.”
“That is not true,” she insisted.
“Alone with you in your bedroom, as a husband should be. I put my hands on you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Though she tried to look away, he touched her chin, tilting her face back up to his.
“We should feel something about each other when we touch,” he said softly. “Indifference would be the mark of people who do not suit. I don’t feel indifferent, Cecilia, and I don’t think you do, either.”
“That is not a reason for marriage.” Her mouth felt so dry she licked her lips, then gave a little start when his eyes seemed to heat.
“Money is your reason for marriage,” he said.
“Yours is duty,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Do you think I want to be a man’s duty? Neither is a motive for a lasting relationship.”
“There are many who would disagree, of course, but you aren’t the type of woman who would settle for those motives. And duty was never my only motive. So can you not explore other reasons to be married? Or are you afraid to?”
She stiffened. “I am not afraid of you.”
“I think you might be afraid of feeling something for me.”
They stared at each other, and she didn’t know how to respond, she who was gifted at handling every difficult situation. She had to look up to meet his eyes, and he seemed to loom over her. For just a moment, she wanted him to kiss her.
Hastily, she turned away and looked out the window. “Believe what you want, Lord Blackthorne, but wishing won’t make it so.”
Michael had pushed too hard with Cecilia, and that had been a mistake, he thought that evening as he watched her dine. She had to be slowly brought along in their marriage, like a new recruit.
In India, he’d remained outside British society, not taking advantage of the dances or dinner parties. He was focused on his regiment. But now he made no secret of his admiration of her fine figure, of the gentle, ladylike ways she comported herself. Staring at his wife made him realize he’d forgotten the softness of a graceful woman, the way just being with her made him ignore everything bad in his life. He frowned and glanced down at his plate. He wasn’t a man who needed to forget the decisions he’d made, the deaths he’d caused. It bothered him that suddenly he wanted to forget.
But he couldn’t stop looking at her whenever they were together. And tonight he could be even more obvious, for they dined alone. She’d retreated to her study after returning from Enfield. Although he could have followed her there, he’d given her some time alone to regroup. She was the kind of woman who preferred to show the world only her strengths and hide her vulnerabilities and emotions.
Part of what would soften her was if he could help her brother, so he let her prattle on about London Society, as if either one of them cared, then interrupted at last.
“Forgive me, but I must cut this meal short.”
The footmen had only just begun serving some kind of tart, and now they froze, looking to Cecilia.
“Do you have an engagement, my lord?” she asked civilly.
“I will be joining your brother in Enfield this night.”
She blinked at him, her only show of surprise. Then she thanked the footmen and dismissed them. “Does Oliver know you’re joining him?”
“No, but since he has previously invited me, and my leg is feeling much better—”
“After your fireside rest at the inn,” she interrupted dryly.
He gave a slow nod. “So I will join him. Since the townspeople had such a reserved reaction to the earl, I decided I should see why.”
“A reserved reaction,” she mused, resting her chin on her palm, a touch of sadness in her eyes.
“If he changes his ways soon, they will attribute his behavior to youth, and forget it.”
“I hope so.” Now she eyed him, wearing the faintest hint of a lovely smile. “Will you be able to tolerate a group of such young men?”
“You forget I am a sergeant in the dragoons. I see such young men every day, and I mold them into the soldiers they need to be.”
“But Oliver doesn’t need to be a soldier.”
“He needs to become a man. There are some similarities.”
She bit her lip, resisting a smile, he knew. She would continue to resist everything about him until he made her see that it was futile. He was ruthless in pursuit of a goal.
“Take care,” she said, when he rose to his feet. “The roads are winding, and you do not know them well in the dark.”
“Concerned for me, Cecilia? You would think if I broke my neck, you would be well rid of me.”
Instead of smiling, she paled and put a hand to that locket she always wore.
“Forgive me,” he said. “That was dark humor of the sort not used among ladies.”
“But used among soldiers,” she murmured.
“We talk often of death, as if we might keep it away with words alone.”
Her gaze remained troubled. He couldn’t put the image of her out of his mind on the ride into Enfield. Was there something wrong he didn’t know about?
He found Appertan and his friends at the same coaching inn taproom, and they were already in full drunken splendor. Several loose women had wisely been brought in to focus their merriment. Michael remained on the fringes, assessing each young man, and several not so young, old enough to know better but obviously hanging on to the coattails of the foolish earl. Michael felt decades older than most of the young pups.
Appertan noticed him at last, and after a weary roll of his eyes, sent over a drink. Soon, he was introducing Michael to the other men, and they all began to ask for bloodthirsty stories of fighting in the mountains of Afghanistan. He obliged them with a few, and even Appertan looked impressed. But it was difficult to talk of that time, when his regiment had been sent back to Bombay after the taking of Kabul, and those left behind were slaughtered a few years later while fleeing Afghanistan through winter mountain passes.
If Fenton, the man who’d attacked Cecilia, had been there, he’d made a quick departure before Michael could see him. As it was, Rowlandson seemed to have forgotten Michael’s threats and acted as if they were old friends.
One by one, Appertan’s compatriots either sank beneath a table or disappeared into a back room, where they gambled over card games and dice. Appertan himself kept studying Michael as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t make up his mind. At last, he brought a brandy to Michael’s table, plopping it down until it sloshed over on his hand. He laughed and licked it off, seating himself as if he were a sack of grain ready to spill open.
Michael silently saluted him with the brandy and tossed it back in one swallow.
Appertan laughed, then rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So did m’sister send you to be my nanny for the evening?”
“No, in fact, she was concerned this might not be a good idea.”
Appertan sipped from his glass, nodding as if in deep contemplation, when he was probably so drunk he had to take time to formulate words. “It’s a good thing you’re here,” he mused, wiping at a spot of port on his chin. “If Cecilia is in fear of her life, I should keep an eye on you.”
Michael reminded himself that the other man was drunk. “What do you mean by that? Is someone threatening my wife?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” Appertan hiccoughed and chuckled.
“Explain yourself.”
He raised both hands. “Calm down! They were just accidents. Cecilia knows that, really.”
“ ‘They’?” Michael stressed the words in a low rumble. “She’s had more than one accident?”
“Penelope said she shouldn’t have told me, but Penelope tells me everything. Seems Cecilia almost fell down the stairs a couple nights ago, caught herself on the balustrade. She probably tripped and doesn’t want to admit that she could be as imperfect as the rest of
us.”
Michael barely resisted taking him by the collar and giving him a shake. “Go on.”
Appertan shrugged. “Penelope said Cecilia thought something actually tripped her, but she couldn’t find it. Of course not, because she just missed a step in the dark.”
Teeth clenched, Michael glowered at the foolish young man. Cecilia never exaggerated or misspoke—he already knew that about her, and if Appertan were sober, he’d remember that as well. So Cecilia felt that she’d been deliberately tripped. “She didn’t fall all the way down the stairs,” Michael said slowly. “Or otherwise . . .” He restrained a rare shudder at the thought of her body broken at the bottom of the stairs.
“Or otherwise . . .” Appertan used his finger to mark a line across his throat. “She only told Penelope. I’m a little offended.” He snorted a laugh into his glass of port. “And, of course, it was an accident. Everyone loves Cecilia.”
He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm—or his jealousy, Michael thought. “And then the bust fell on her in the entrance hall.”
“Another accident. The maid was right there, dusting. Cecilia is just being overly dramatic.”
“And have you ever known her to be overly dramatic?” Michael demanded.
“She’s a woman, after all.” He stood up unsteadily. “I’m tired of talking about her.”
Michael almost pulled him back down, but knew it was pointless to interrogate Appertan when he was drunk. “I’m heading back to Appertan Hall. Would you care to accompany me? Cecilia said the roads are hard to follow at night.”
“You’re so easy to read, Blackthorne,” Appertan said, shaking his head and wearing a foolish grin. “You’re just trying to get me to make an early evening of it. It’s only one in the morning, and there’s more fun to be had,” he added after squinting at the clock on the mantel. He slurped the last of his port before slamming down the glass. “As if a soldier couldn’t find his way back on good English roads,” he muttered, walking away with a noticeable lean to one side.
Michael no longer cared if Appertan made it home. All he could think about was Cecilia alone and unprotected, fearing for her life—and maybe with good reason.
