by Gayle Callen
“He’ll have to eventually.” And Appertan would be far easier for an employee to manipulate. “Any close friends besides Miss Webster?”
“Penelope’s sister, Hannah, died last year. She was Cecilia’s closest friend. She wasn’t a strong enough swimmer, and all those clothes women wear . . .” He shrugged.
“So you were there for Miss Penelope Webster in her grief.”
Appertan came to his feet with surprising speed. “Are you saying I took advantage of her?”
Michael looked down upon the shorter man. “Strange that you would interpret my words that way.”
“I’m done with this foolishness—I’m done with you. You can leave now.”
“And I don’t receive any thanks for improving your head and stomach this morn?”
Appertan ignored him and stalked to his dressing room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 11
Oliver didn’t often join Cecilia for luncheon—he was usually either still asleep or just having breakfast. She was surprised when he arrived, and relieved, too, so she didn’t have to spend the meal alone with Lord Blackthorne. Her husband watched her too closely, and she kept remembering being alone with him in her bedroom and feeling far too intrigued.
Oliver looked from Cecilia to Lord Blackthorne, then rolled his eyes. “This newlywed shyness is beginning to bother me.”
“Shyness?” she asked archly. “I have never been shy a day in my life.”
“You wouldn’t guess it from the way you behave around Blackthorne. You contracted this marriage, sister dear, so deal with it.”
Affronted and embarrassed by his frank language, she said, “Oliver! This is none of your business.”
“You’re making it my business by having him live in my house.”
“You just haven’t given each other enough time.” Cecilia tried to remind Oliver with her narrowed eyes that he’d promised to help her with Lord Blackthorne.
“We don’t seem to care for the same entertainments,” Lord Blackthorne said, leaning back in his chair to watch Oliver.
“You’re men,” she said. “Do something—manly!”
They regarded each other, Lord Blackthorne impassively, Oliver full of sulky defiance. What had happened between them? Only last night, Lord Blackthorne thought that Oliver might be redeemable. But not if they couldn’t find a way to spend time together.
“A manly sport might do the trick,” Lord Blackthorne said at last, “but I imagine a young man who drinks and socializes has not made the time.”
“I fence!” Oliver practically snarled.
“No sharp weapons,” Cecilia said. “I don’t trust either of you.”
“Do you box?” Lord Blackthorne asked. “My brother Allen and I often passed an afternoon testing each other’s defenses.”
Oliver straightened and slowly smiled, as if he knew the best secret. “It just so happens, I do box.”
“But then again, you are much younger than I am,” Lord Blackthorne continued. “Allen and I were close in age, almost equals. It made for interesting fights.”
“And my youthful energy will negate your experience, old man,” Oliver shot back.
If Oliver thought he could box, let him try, Cecilia thought wearily. “Then your afternoon entertainment is taken care of, gentlemen. I will occupy myself.”
“That’s wise,” Lord Blackthorne said. “Such a sport isn’t for a lady’s eyes.”
His implication that she couldn’t handle it mildly stung. “Indeed? I would faint at the sight of all that blood, is that what you’re saying?”
“I promise not to drain too much from his veins,” Oliver said smugly.
Cecilia wanted to wince at his attitude. Couldn’t he see how much . . . larger Lord Blackthorne was? Her husband was a cavalryman—trained to fight!
But the two men both seemed quite pleased with themselves, and she was the irritated one. When at last she finished her sturgeon and peas, she went to her study. Though she tried to concentrate on the projection of sheep to be driven to market this fall, and the eventual profit, she kept speculating about Oliver’s boxing ability. He did spend time in London, and men seemed to enjoy that sort of exercise, or so they often told her when trying to impress her at dinner parties.
At last she gave up any attempt at concentration and left her study. She still felt uneasy roaming the corridors of her own home, but after two “accidents,” she was doubly attentive. She hated feeling vulnerable, nervous, and almost felt like she was skulking from room to room. Or was she just being foolish, as even Penelope thought?
She found the two men in the green drawing room, with ceilings two floors high, just like the entrance hall. She was able to hide within the small curtained balcony overlooking the room. She was relieved that she didn’t hear the sounds of an audience cheering, for it wouldn’t do to have servants watch their master should he lose. The two men had rolled back the carpets and pushed furniture out of the way. They’d already removed coats and waistcoats, even collars and cravats. Lord Blackthorne had tugged his sleeves up to his elbows, and she saw his brawny forearms, which surely were the size of Oliver’s biceps—or so she remembered.
She wanted to groan at the foolishness of men, who couldn’t just have an intelligent conversation to discuss their differences—no, they had to prove it with their fists.
They faced each other, fists raised, Oliver circling, lighter on his feet than her limping husband, who basically stood in place, favoring his wounded leg. How could this be a fair contest? Oliver jabbed with his right, but Lord Blackthorne blocked it easily. Oliver tried a few more punches, and when he couldn’t get past his opponent’s defense, settled back and circled again, obviously waiting to see what would happen.
They were both sweating, their fine shirts beginning to cling. Swallowing, she couldn’t help noticing once again that Lord Blackthorne had a soldier’s body, hewn for combat, all threatening muscle. She wanted to be wary of him, but, instead, she was full of admiration and curiosity and an unsettling almost-ache that she couldn’t define.
At last Lord Blackthorne punched Oliver, but even she saw it coming, and her brother blocked it easily, grinning. Then Lord Blackthorne hit Oliver in the ribs, so quickly she barely saw the blur of his arm. Oliver grunted and danced back out of reach. Lord Blackthorne didn’t grin or taunt or do anything other than look focused and intent—deadly.
She remembered the story her father had written, about Lord Blackthorne’s ordering his men to fire although a woman might die. He’d honed himself into a weapon on behalf of England. He was dedicated to guarding the lives of his men. Her father’s daughter, she knew the costs of war, even in her own family.
Let the men play their little games; she enjoyed her work. Lord Doddridge, Oliver’s guardian, would be arriving the next day, and there were preparations to see to for the dinner party. Searching for the housekeeper took her down a floor, into the main public rooms—past the door to the green drawing room.
To her surprise, she heard the voices of two footmen and the new page as she approached.
“—a lot of blood,” one of them said, followed by the boy’s snicker.
“Blood?” she cried, glancing into the now-open doors of the drawing room and seeing that Oliver and Lord Blackthorne had gone.
The two footmen, Tom and Will, brothers alike in height, blond good looks, and gold-buckled livery, exchanged a glance even as they straightened like soldiers to attention. Francis, smaller and darker, copied their behavior, sticking out his chest.
“Who was bloody?” Cecilia demanded, staring each of them down.
“Lord Blackthorne had a lot covering his shirt, milady,” Tom volunteered. “He and Lord Appertan helped each other off to their rooms—we think.”
Helped each other? she thought, aghast. Had Oliver somehow hurt Lord Blackthorne? How much blood were they talking?
And then she saw red droplets scattered on the floor, and for just a moment, she remembered the crash of m
arble, and how close she’d come to having her own blood seep onto that floor.
“Lady Cecilia, are you well?” one of them asked.
She didn’t answer, could only think of blood. And then she started running.
She practically flew up the stairs, through corridors that seemed endless, to the family wing, where she passed her own door and the dressing-room door, before flinging open Lord Blackthorne’s.
Standing in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his cane, he seemed to move so slowly as he faced her. And then she saw all the blood staining his shirt, could see nothing else.
“Oh, God, oh, God, where are you hurt?” she cried, running toward him.
She felt frantic as she pulled at his shirt, heard a button pop.
“Cecilia,” he murmured, trying to cover her bare hands.
She pushed him away, pulled his shirt apart, imagining a terrible wound to cause so much blood. This time, her husband trapped her hands flat against his warm chest, then spread them wide so that she could see.
“I’m not injured,” he said quietly. “Your brother had a bloody nose.”
She blinked at his chest, still feeling shocked rather than relieved. Beneath her hands, she felt the contours of muscle, the faint brush of chest hair. This was what a man’s chest really looked like beneath his garments? She’d never visited museums in London, but Hannah used to write of such things to her, and Lord Blackthorne’s chest seemed to match those long-ago descriptions.
“Cecilia, why are you so upset?”
He pulled her closer, her hands still spanning his chest, her body pressed against his.
He whispered, “Tell me what is wrong.”
And in that moment she almost confided everything in him, that someone might be trying to kill her. Everything would change then. He’d never leave her alone, and she’d be trapped in this marriage for all time.
She raised her gaze from his chest and up to his face. He was leaning over her, holding her against him, closer than a waltz, so imposing and dangerous, but she didn’t want to run away. She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her palms, the rise and fall of his breath. Her own breath was coming too quickly, her lips parted. He was staring at her mouth, his gaze full of a stark hunger that shocked even as it lured her.
And then he leaned closer, until their lips almost touched, and his whispered words mingled with her own breath.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
She had a moment to stop him, knew he was giving her that choice. But she didn’t turn away, only trembled as his mouth gently touched hers, soft kisses that dampened her lips, explored them, but never frightened her. She swayed into him, and he pulled her even harder against him until she was standing between his spread thighs, her skirts all tangled about them.
The kiss’s very restrained gentleness drew her more than wild passion, as if this strong soldier reined himself in just for her because she was precious to him. It was she who couldn’t seem to get close enough, she who began to part her lips, not knowing if she wanted to taste him or devour him.
And that very feeling of wildness shocked her back to herself. She broke the kiss to stare up at him, breathing hard, feeling faint. This was all wrong; it couldn’t be natural.
“Release me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He did so at once, and she took several steps away. He stood still, as if she were a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten, his bloody shirt ripped open as if she truly were an animal.
“Oh God,” she breathed, covering her mouth with both hands.
“Cecilia, that was a kiss, not a defiling,” he said with the soft tones used to calm someone out of control.
Like her. She didn’t know herself anymore.
“It doesn’t mean you’ve decided anything about our marriage,” he continued. “But how will you know what we can share if you don’t try the occasional kiss?”
“Share?” She almost choked on a laugh. “That sounds . . . too gentle for”—she gestured toward him with a fluttering hand—“that.”
Once again, she drew out of him the faintest of smiles.
“I’ve not heard my kiss described in such a way.”
“And have you kissed that many women in your soldier’s life?” she demanded.
“A few.”
“Did they all throw themselves at you, maybe even ripping open your shirt?” She groaned and briefly closed her eyes. What kind of woman was she becoming?
“I was not so lucky. In India, one could have an Indian mistress, but I chose not to. Too many soldiers left illegitimate children behind, who fit into neither parent’s world. I couldn’t do that to a child. Of course, there are plenty of British women who come looking for husbands, but a man should be serious if he dallies with one of them.”
“And you don’t dally.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice softened. “But I would kiss my wife every day.”
“And I’m supposed to enjoy feeling so . . . reckless, so swept away?” she demanded.
His eyes suddenly seemed to darken, and his voice grew husky. “I would make certain you enjoyed it.”
Just the sound of him sent a shiver of need twined with pleasure through her. “But I don’t want that, Lord Blackthorne,” she whispered, feeling helpless next to the desire he evoked in her. “I’ve told you so.”
“I can wait until you change your mind.” He straightened and put his hands on the ruined shirt. “I’m going to change now, but you don’t need to leave.”
He shrugged the shirt down his shoulders, and she gaped a moment too long, seeing the ridges of his abdomen and the faintest line of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. She turned and fled, silently insisting she wasn’t a coward, that she didn’t want to tease him when they had no future.
After Cecilia slammed the door behind her, Michael leaned one arm against the mantel and squeezed his eyes shut. The tender kiss was all he’d imagined it might be, full of her sweet breath and gentle yearning. It had taken every ounce of control honed over years of warfare to stop himself from taking more, from plundering her mouth to explore. Those brief tastes only hinted at what they could share. He knew that going too fast, showing her his powerful desire, would only scare her off. Gentle kisses had frightened her, but she hadn’t left immediately, had gifted him a few more minutes of time alone with her. Somehow, he would win her trust.
Because she was so frightened by her fears of attempted murder, she’d panicked when she heard what happened at the boxing match. And it was all his fault—he’d deliberately lured her to the fight, implying that, of course, as a lady, she couldn’t handle the sight of a boxing match. He’d had two reasons, only one of which was to keep her nearby; the other was so that she would look at him as a man. Sometimes it was difficult to remember he would eventually be free of the cane.
From the moment she’d entered the balcony up above, he’d known she was there, feeling her presence and her gaze so vividly, he’d momentarily lost track of what he was doing. He’d punched Appertan harder than he’d meant to, bloodying his nose. And while he forced Appertan to stand still while he made sure it wasn’t broken, blood had soaked both of them.
Michael rang for a bath. He’d started out living in this castle trying to be his own man, without needing a valet. But he’d definitely succumbed to the luxury of having a bath brought to him instead of submerging himself in a cold river.
He had a new purpose for every servant he encountered—finding out something about his wife, and if there might be someone within the household who wished her harm. So when the footmen carried in the bathing tub, he began what might be a long attempt to win their favor.
When the two of them returned with the first pails of water, he commented that they must be brothers, and they sheepishly nodded agreement, admitting that they were named Tom and Will. Practically the only way he could tell them apart was a faint scar on Tom’s cheek.
“Weren’t the both of you outside the green drawing
room?” he asked, when they’d brought in the last buckets to fill his tub.
They glanced at each other. “Yes, milord,” they said in unison.
“I hope you do not think I deliberately tried to harm your master.”
“No, milord,” said Tom.
And Will added, “ ’Tis none of our business, milord.”
“You live in this household; it would seem all its residents are your business. But then again, I imagine it is Lady Blackthorne who is more the mistress of the house than her brother is the master.”
They said nothing, just exchanged uneasy glances.
“It must have been quite frightening for the staff when she was nearly injured by that falling bust.”
“Susan didn’t mean to—” Tom began.
Michael held up both hands. “I know she didn’t. And it was all my fault for distracting her; I told Lady Cecilia that.”
“And we’re grateful, milord,” Will said, giving his brother a warning look. “We’re her only family, our sister she is, and if she was to be dismissed . . .”
He let his words die off, and Michael well understood the plight of servants. “Does Lady Blackthorne let servants go?”
“Oh, no, milord, never,” Tom said, ignoring his brother’s frown. “She’s fair to everyone, and has even added to the staff.”
“How long have you both been here?”
“Five years, since we were pages,” Will quickly said, perhaps attempting to control his brother’s side of the conversation. “We’ve lived in Enfield our whole lives.”
Then they knew Cecilia’s family well, perhaps even down through generations. Hopefully, that made them trustworthy. “So who are the new servants? I will make certain to appreciate their work.”
Will’s smile was faintly suspicious but grateful. “Our sister, Susan, o’ course, and the new page, Francis, and another watchman for the grounds.”
“Name’s Parsons,” Tom supplied.
“I hope the new servants enjoy working here.”
“Oh, they do, sir,” Tom gushed.
