Return of the Viscount (12 page)

“If it wasn't you or me,” Michael continued, “and perhaps not a servant, although I'll look into that, who else?”

“We can't even come up with names! Of course no one's trying to kill Cecilia.”

Michael leaned over the bed and pointed his finger at Appertan's face. “She's almost died twice! I will damn well keep looking into this until I'm satisfied that they were both accidents.” And how suspicious was it that Appertan was trying to talk him out of the investigation. “Now
think,
man!”

The earl swung his legs off the bed and sat up, briefly holding his head in his hands. “Oh, very well, give me a minute to do all this thinking. Too bloody early,” he added in a mumble.

“Any suitors?”

“Dozens of those. Could have beaten them off with a stick and hit several at once.”

Michael eyed him. “Violent image.”

“Oh please,” Appertan said with a grimace. “You know what I mean. Stupid men fawning all over her, begging for a dance, begging to be noticed. I would never do that to a woman.”

“You don't have to. You're an earl. The women must have come begging to you.”

“True.”

“Is that why you became engaged at such a young age? To avoid debutantes and their annoying mothers?”

Appertan shrugged again and dropped his head back in his hands as if he didn't want to meet Michael's gaze. “Not really. Knew Penelope would do and saw no reason to wait.”

“What an ardent declaration of love,” Michael said dryly.

“None of your business, Blackthorne.”

His voice had the sharp ring of command, sounding much like his father, and Michael was reluctantly impressed. If only the pup would mature into a man who could use such strength of command wisely.

“And I never heard of you declaring your love for my sister.”

“That's because I didn't.” Michael kept his voice mild. “She asked for my help to access her funds, and I gave it to her.”

“So selfless.”

The sarcasm in Appertan's voice wearied Michael rather than offended. But Michael wasn't about to confess his growing feelings for Cecilia to her brother. “You keep veering off track. Her suitors? I need a list.”

“I can't keep them all straight. But several live nearby and most certainly will come to our monthly dinner.”

“We have a monthly dinner?”

“
We
have a monthly dinner, not you. My guardian visits us—tomorrow, incidentally—and he enjoys the camaraderie of our neighbors. Several local men thought they had a chance with Cecilia, and one or two even proposed.”

“I hear there were six,” Michael said, unable to keep the antipathy from his voice.

Appertan fell back on his elbows to look up at him. “Six? You should feel honored that she settled on you in her desperation.”

Michael gritted his teeth, surprised to find it was difficult to ignore the provocation. “So these suitors will be here soon.”

“Yes. And besides, what will it get them to harm her now, when she's already married?”

“Revenge?”

“There are other heiresses.”

“None like Cecilia.” Had he actually spoken those words aloud?

He must have, because Appertan gaped at first, then chortled. “You've only been here a few days, and already you're under her thumb. Pathetic.”

Michael ignored him. “What about
your
friends? I already know that two of them are men who think nothing of harming women they deem beneath them.”

Appertan's head sank between his shoulders. “Their behavior was unconscionable—they know it. They've learned their lesson.”

He spoke meaningfully, as if the behavior of his friends really did bother him.

“But what motive would they have to harm Cecilia?” Appertan continued.

“She's spoiling their amusements, after all, controlling your money, restricting their use of the house.”

“She's not controlling my money, only that of the estate,” Appertan growled, obviously offended.

He would only keep defending his friends, so Michael altered tack. “What about her steward? He works closely with her.”

“And with my father beforehand. Why would he want to deal with me?”

“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

O
liver 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 marble, 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.

A
fter 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.