Return of the Viscount (17 page)

Nash looked at him at last, and his brilliant smile faded at the edges, as if Michael's familiar use of her Christian name had at last penetrated.

“Mr. Nash, allow me to present my husband, Lord Blackthorne.”

Chapter 15

C
ecilia felt almost nauseous with fatigue and sadness as she watched Mr. Nash's happy expression fade into confusion and disbelief. He hadn't known she was married, that much was evident. He'd been an ardent suitor, but had dutifully gone to travel the Continent because his parents thought him too young to pursue a wife.

He must have heard she'd gone into mourning and just assumed he had plenty of time to return and pick up where he had left off courting her.

And there was Michael, one hand on his cane, the other tucked behind his back, his posture proud with military bearing, his expression cool and sober, his very maturity making Mr. Nash look like an exuberant boy. If Michael cracked a smile, maybe this would be easier on the young man—or maybe worse, she suddenly realized. Michael's very look seemed challenging, as if Mr. Nash could compete for Cecilia's hand, and Michael would have to accept the challenge.

None of that was true. Mr. Nash was a distant memory of her youth, when young men pursued her, and she was half-flattered, half-exasperated. Michael now seemed all that was dangerous and threatening, not to her person but to her ability to remain aloof, to be herself. He was drawing her in, luring her to risk everything for the chance to be . . . intimate with him.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Mr. Nash now said stiffly. He gave a cool nod to Michael. “I ask the same if I have offended you, Lord Blackthorne. I did not know that Lady Blackthorne had married.”

“Understandable,” Michael said. “I was in India when the marriage was performed there.”

Cecilia wanted to wince at the confused look on Mr. Nash's face, as if he couldn't understand why she'd marry that way when there were so many local young men to choose from. Several of her former suitors were in attendance. They'd all been neighbors—she could hardly invite their parents and not them.

Mr. Nash gave a clipped bow to Cecilia. “My felicitations, Lady Blackthorne.” And then he escorted his mortified mother away.

“Are you well?” Michael murmured.

“I am.” Cecilia stifled a sigh.

He leaned over her almost protectively—or possessively. It might look many ways to her guests. But she heard the concern, felt the steadiness of his solid arm within hers. She remembered with a flash looking up from that muddy pit just that morning, and seeing his wet face staring down at hers with determination. She'd never been so happy and grateful to see anyone in her life.

“There are several men here who seem to regret our marriage,” he said, frowning.

She attempted a smile for the benefit of their curious guests. “Perhaps. But there are also many women here, who upon meeting you, now think our marriage makes sense.”

He looked truly baffled, and she found herself shaking her head ruefully.

“My lord, you are a handsome man—and a viscount. I am the daughter of an earl, an heiress. Both of us could have married far more conventionally than we did.”

“I am handsome?” His brow wrinkled.

“Are you looking for a compliment?” she asked. “It is simply that now that they've seen you, my neighbors think I am not so . . . eccentric.”

Again, he offered the faint smile that hinted at more. “It was eccentricity that brought us together?”

“No, it was about control,” she whispered, looking away and blinking at the sudden moisture in her eyes. “I thought I could control a husband from halfway around the world, just like I guess I control Oliver, even though I never meant that to happen.”

He said nothing, only watched her with intensity, as if she were a laboratory experiment.

“But I'm not in control of anything, am I?” she asked, pasting a bright, practiced smile on her face.

“That's not true,” he answered solemnly. “You are the master of an entire earldom. I wonder how many men here realize that.”

She shrugged, but something inside her felt a touch of pride.

“But as for this mystery that has upset the household, we will solve it, so that you'll no longer feel so unsettled.”

“ ‘Unsettled,' ” she echoed. “What an understatement.” Then she stiffened as she saw someone approach. She held Michael's arm even closer as she murmured, “Now here is a suitor who often wouldn't accept no. Perhaps you will be handy to have around tonight.”

Michael's dark eyes glinted. “I don't mind being used by a beautiful woman.”

She arched a brow. “ ‘Used'? What a wicked word.”

“And it has very many meanings of which I will be pleased to show you.”

She didn't quite understand what he meant, but it felt decidedly wicked, and to her surprise, that felt decidedly . . . good. Heavens, she didn't even understand her own thoughts on that crazy day.

For the half hour before dinner, she treated Michael's arm as if she needed it to stand, drawing Oliver's tipsy, amused regard and Penelope's curious smile. Michael was large and threatening, but under a very civilized veneer that seemed a touch thin. She felt glad of his dangerous air, surrounded by all these people she no longer knew if she could trust.

These were her neighbors—was one of them trying to kill her? Perhaps she should hope they were, so it wouldn't be her brother.
Oh please, God, not my brother.

Oliver was standing near his guardian, Lord Doddridge, who still had the same bewildered, concerned look on his face he'd worn from the moment he'd heard about her rescue. He was speaking in low tones to her brother, who kept nodding absently, while staring down into his drink. Was Lord Doddridge concerned about what would happen if she no longer had control of the estate? Surely, that would make things
worse
for him if he had to oversee Oliver closely.

Unless he and Oliver already had some sort of furtive agreement. Oh, she wished she could just shut off her mind.

At last, Talbot announced that dinner was served. She tried to concentrate on her food and not look at Michael, who, although seated with Penelope on one side, seemed to be talking intently across her to Lord Carrington, another man who'd once fancied himself Cecilia's suitor.

Last year, she would have seated Hannah at Michael's side, the better to ease his transition into their small society. She'd never imagined how easily Penelope would fill her sister's role in their parish, in Cecilia's heart. Sometimes, she could almost pretend the worst hadn't happened.

But Cecilia couldn't hear their conversation. Instead, she listened to two of her father's old friends, who might have thought they were speaking in controlled tones but who were really talking loudly about the letters her father used to send.

“He's not what I imagined,” Sir Eustace Venn was saying, his voice tremulous with age, along with his jowls.

Then Cecilia realized that he glanced at Michael, and she tried to pretend she was studying the menu as the footmen began to ladle soup into a bowl before each guest.

“He seems so young,” answered Mr. Garnett, his muttonchop sideburns emphasizing the lean boniness of his face. “Not at all the seasoned, talented soldier Appertan proclaimed him.”

More than one nearby guest glanced at her, but no one stopped the old men from conversing, and she wasn't about to embarrass them. Frankly, she wanted to hear what they had to say.

Sir Eustace slurped a spoonful of soup, then thankfully used a napkin. “Ruthless, that's what Appertan called him. Said he always went beyond anything asked of him. Deadly with a gun and sword.”

“Not afraid to use them,” Mr. Garnett answered. “Once, when his gun had been discharged, he used his bayonet on one man, his sword on another almost simultaneously. Not a scratch on him, eh? Wonder how he got the limp.”

She winced at their vivid descriptions, then stared again at her husband, who although dressed in elegant evening clothes, seemed as sober as a magistrate. There might be some who did not want to hear of their husbands' having to kill—but part of her was satisfied that he would never give up until he knew who was trying to harm her.

Then he glanced at her with eyes that seemed briefly warm with understanding.

For just a moment, she felt almost . . . safe.

But she wasn't safe, she reminded herself, gazing again at all her dearest neighbors and wondering if one of them was a killer.

A
ll through dinner, Michael did his best to get an understanding about Lord Carrington, seated on the other side of Miss Webster. She eagerly attempted to facilitate a conversation between both men, but he could hardly tell her to be quiet so that he could get a measure of the man who'd once courted Cecilia. After dinner, he made sure to play cards at the same table as the man, understanding his very arrogance, as if he could have anything within his grasp.

But Carrington hadn't won Cecilia, Michael thought with satisfaction, then almost had to smile at himself.
He
hadn't won Cecilia either—she'd come to him in desperation.

But he ruled Carrington out as a suspect when someone else told him his lordship had already proposed to a girl he'd spent a year pursuing.

At one point, he heard Cecilia explaining the rumors neighbors had heard, about her falling into the poaching hole. She made it sound so amusing, as if she were in no danger at all. If the villain were in attendance he would surely believe he was as yet undiscovered.

At last, the guests began to dwindle away as, one by one, Talbot announced the arrival of their carriages. When the last guest had departed, and Oliver had gone off to meet up with friends, Michael watched Cecilia's shoulders slump, as if it had only been sheer will keeping her upright. Several maids moved silently through the drawing room, beginning to collect glasses.

He put his arm around Cecilia's waist. “Do you need help to your room?”

The fact that she didn't even shake him off attested to her exhaustion.

“I could sweep you right off your feet,” he added.

That succeeded in coaxing a smile from her. “No, my limbs are working.” But she didn't protest when he took her arm and led her toward the double doors.

At the stairs, they took a candle from Will the footman and ascended to the family wing. In Cecilia's bedroom, Nell was dozing by the fire but came to her feet with a smile. Michael left them and found Tom the footman waiting in his room. He'd begun to take turns with his brother acting as Michael's valet. But Michael only removed his coat, waistcoat, and white cravat before dismissing Tom. He paced his room impatiently, then opened the door at a knock.

“I'm done for the night,” Nell told him.

He wished her a good night, then went through the dressing room and knocked on Cecilia's door.

There was a long pause, long enough that he wondered if she would ignore him. His hand was already on the knob when he heard her call, “Come in, Michael.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, feeling compelled to take hold of his restraint. Cecilia wore a dressing gown, which only emphasized how small and defenseless she really was. Then he remembered the marks on the side of the dirt hole, where she'd tried to claw her way out. She was stronger than she appeared.

But now that she'd washed away the concealing powder, the bruise on her cheek looked stark and ugly, a reminder of someone's cruelty.

She stood in the center of the room and gracefully tilted her head. “Did you forget something, Michael?”

“Perhaps you did, if you think I'm going to allow you to be alone tonight.”

Cecilia felt a frisson of excitement that didn't bode well for her vaunted mastery of any situation. Michael walked toward her out of the shadows, his shirt gleaming white, the collar open to display his tanned throat. His dark eyes beheld her as if they had the power to coerce her into . . . anything.

“Michael, you sleep right next door. I think—”

“The past two nights I slept on the cot in the dressing room.”

Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.”

“But that didn't help protect you, did it? From now on, either the most trusted servants or I will be with you at all times.”

She wanted to object, feeling as if her life was no longer her own. But it would be foolish to risk death because things were spiraling out of her control.

“I can call Nell back,” she began.

“That won't be necessary.”

She could not help but glance at the bed.

“You have a chaise longue.” He gestured to the long reclining chair she kept near the window for better reading light. “I would never force you to do something you're not ready for.”

They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills, one she should not even try to win.

“Very well,” she murmured. She went to the bed and removed the counterpane, taking it to the chaise, along with a pillow.

When he tried to lay the bedding out, she wouldn't allow it, doing it herself while he clenched his cane.

“This isn't about your being unable to help yourself, you know,” she said, feeling the presence of him behind her even though she wasn't looking. “This is about my obligation.”

“ ‘Obligation,' ” he said, drawing it out. “What an interesting choice of word.”

She winced. “I didn't mean—”

“Cecilia,” he said softly, putting a hand on her arm. “You take everything so seriously.”

“And you don't?” She regarded him over her shoulder as she straightened the pillow for a second time.

“I can be too serious, which is perhaps why I recognize a fellow sufferer.”

“You know,” she said, walking away from the chaise with an attempt to appear casual, “two of my father's old friends were talking about you at dinner tonight, and I think they could be counted on to believe you far too serious.”

He said nothing.

“You're not curious?”

“You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't mean to tell me.”