Return of the Viscount (10 page)

“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

T
rue 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 . . .

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.”

M
ichael 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.