Return of the Viscount (8 page)

He caught her gloved hand and didn't let go when she tugged.

“Madam, you have made certain I don't know what my true status is.”

He leaned over her now, his voice a deep rumble. She could feel his breath on her face, and the broad outline of his body seemed to cast a shadow over her. They were in full view of anyone in the garden, but Lord Blackthorne behaved as if they were alone.

She found her voice. “Lord Blackthorne, I have been honest with you about everything. And if your pride is causing you to have doubts—”

“
My
pride? Madam, it is becoming clearer every day that I am not the only one who's proud in this marriage.”

“It's not a true marriage,” she said between gritted teeth, still trying to pull free.

But he didn't allow it.

“No? It was a marriage when you wanted access to your money.”

“I know!” She felt confused and guilty and flustered. “But now—I don't know what I want.”

Her breathing was erratic, and to her surprise, his gaze suddenly dipped to her breasts. For a just moment, she could have sworn his dark eyes actually smoldered with heat. He let her go, and she took two fast paces away.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

He spoke as if he'd never allowed her the briefest glimpse of . . . something.

“For right now, you meet our guests.”

“Perhaps you should take my arm. I am a wounded soldier of the queen.”

She rolled her eyes at his repetition of her own words. When she would have walked past, he stuck out his elbow, almost catching her in the chest.

“My lord!” she fumed.

“Yes, I am. Please take my arm and help me inside. I am feeling the need for some feminine sympathy, and I'm not finding it out here.” He added the last with a touch of humor in his voice.

She pressed her lips together and slid her arm through his, waiting as he adjusted his cane to the other hand. She only realized she'd become cold in the shade of the ancient castle when his body seemed so very hot near hers.

Together, they walked through the glass doors. Penelope smiled, casting sidelong glances at the other ladies for their reactions. Mrs. Webster had her lorgnette closely affixed to her eye again, and Cecilia wondered if it was Lord Blackthorne's turn to feel as inspected as horseflesh. Lady Stafford just smiled and looked him over, a bit of surprise shown, then hidden away. Miss Jenyns blushed and lowered her face to sip at her tea.

“Lord Blackthorne,” Cecilia said, “allow me to introduce my dear friends, Lady Stafford, Mrs. Webster, and Miss Jenyns.”

He bowed, then sat in a chair across from their little group. Cecilia felt she had no choice but to take the chair at his side. He seemed so very masculine, his hands dwarfing the teacup he accepted from her.

“I fear I know little of your ancestry, my lord,” Mrs. Webster said, peering at him now through her lense. “What part of England do you hail from?”

“Buckinghamshire, Mrs. Webster.”

“And your family?” she prodded again.

“My mother still resides in our country seat, along with my unmarried brother.”

“And you never came to London for the Season?”

“No, madam, and neither has my brother.”

“Eligible bachelors, connected to a title, ignoring Society?” Lady Stafford mused, her eyes glinting with humor. “How very rare.”

Lord Blackthorne said nothing, merely took another sip of his tea.

Miss Jenyns ogled him with occasional glances from the corner of her eye. Penelope kept looking back and forth from Cecilia to her husband, as if she awaited something really interesting to happen. Cecilia suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for him.

“Lord Blackthorne was in the Eighth Dragoon Guards under my father's command,” she said.

“Ah, a cavalryman,” Mrs. Webster said with apparent relief, as if she held to the standard belief that a mounted soldier was far superior to one in the infantry. “And where did you serve, my lord?”

“Most recently in Bombay, India, madam.”

“Did you see much action?”

He glanced at his leg. “Some, but it is nothing I would discuss in the company of ladies.”

“War must be . . . quite ferocious,” Miss Jenyns murmured, her eyes wide. “I heard about all those poor soldiers who died in that massacre in Afghanistan.”

Cecilia watched Lord Blackthorne's face, and saw the faint touch of sadness like a ghost in his eyes. Thousands and thousands of soldiers, women, and children had died, picked off by Afghani sharpshooters in the mountain passes during the retreat from Kabul. The newspapers had claimed it one of the worst defeats in the history of the British Empire.

“A soldier is trained to handle all manner of tasks,” he said, “and actual battle is only one of them. Often it is more a matter of perfecting skills while simply waiting.”

He didn't want to speak of those who'd died—perhaps he'd known too many of them.

“Then patience is important to a soldier,” Lady Stafford murmured. “I imagine that helps when one is newly wed.”

Cecilia tried not to blush, for that comment could be taken so many ways—as Lady Stafford probably intended.

Lord Blackthorne only nodded.

“You must have been anxious to meet your new wife,” Mrs. Webster said.

It was as if the ladies were taking turns trying to get something—anything—out of him. Cecilia felt tense as thread in a loom, realizing that she and Lord Blackthorne had never discussed how they should explain their marriage.

“But I understood he had a duty to perform,” Cecilia said, trying not to sound like she'd cut him off before he could speak. “I was content with his letters until such time as we could be together.”

“A good writer is rare,” Lady Stafford said. “Lord Blackthorne, you must be exceptional to win the heart of our practical Lady Cecilia—pardon me, Lady Blackthorne.”

“So romantic,” Miss Jenyns said.

Lord Blackthorne glanced at Cecilia, and with the slight arch of his brow, it was as if she could read his thoughts:
I wrote romantic letters?

“And there were so many men she could have chosen from,” Penelope spoke earnestly. “She's been sought after since she came out of the schoolroom at seventeen. Oh, the proposals from besotted men—”

She broke off when Cecilia stared pointedly at her. Lady Stafford lowered her amused gaze to the cake she nibbled, while Mrs. Webster regarded Penelope with fond exasperation.

“Then I am lucky to have won Lady Blackthorne's regard,” Lord Blackthorne said, setting down his teacup. “Ladies, I must take my leave. Lord Appertan is waiting for me in the park.”

“He told me you're shooting together,” Penelope said. “He is quite the shot.”

Lord Blackthorne nodded at her pleasantly enough, but Cecilia could only imagine that a trained soldier would be far superior. With the aid of his cane, he rose to his feet, then surprised her by lifting her hand to his lips.

“Have a pleasant afternoon, my lady wife.”

He spoke the words so close to her gloved hand that she could swear she felt the warmth of his breath through to her skin. His dark eyes met hers, and she couldn't decide if he laughed at her or was trying to please her.

She watched him as he limped across the room and out onto the terrace. When she turned back, all four ladies' gazes were fixed on her with varying degrees of interest.

“I knew he was romantic,” Miss Jenyns murmured.

They only stayed for another half hour, but it felt interminable. Even Penelope abandoned her, saying she wanted to watch Oliver and Lord Blackthorne shoot. Her grandmother gave her permission, after reminding her they would be leaving soon.

At last, Mrs. Webster said they had other calls to make and rose stiffly from the sofa, turning down Cecilia's offer of assistance. Cecilia accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Talbot waited with their bonnets and wraps. He stood patiently as they adorned themselves, his gaze turned away with respect.

Cecilia saw the change come over Talbot's normally impassive face as he glanced up to the first floor, open to the hall below. To her shock, he cried, “Watch out!” dropped the garments, and launched himself at Cecilia, pushing her backward. She fell onto her backside and he tripped over her legs just as a bust that had sat upon the balustrade fell and cracked into a thousand pieces.

Right where she'd been standing.

Chapter 7

A
fter the loud crash had settled into a frozen, shocked silence, Miss Jenyns screamed and covered her face. From her place on the floor, Cecilia vaguely heard people beginning to come to life all around her, the rustle of the ladies' skirts, and the vague cries from other servants nearby, but she could only gape at the ruined bust shattered on the marble floor.

“Lady Blackthorne!” Talbot cried, crouching beside her in an undignified manner for the proper man. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I'm fine.” She let him help her to her feet and didn't protest when he still clutched her elbow. “What happened?”

“I do not know,” he said, looking bewildered. “Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and realized something was falling.”

When he looked up to the first-floor balustrade, she did the same. They both saw the head and shoulders of Susan, one of the upstairs maids, her cap askew as she gaped down at them between the giant potted ferns that framed the opening. Then she promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, Lord Blackthorne, I'm so sorry!” the girl wailed.

Then Lord Blackthorne leaned over the balustrade at her side. “Is anyone hurt?”

Cecilia should have answered at once; she should have reassured him. But she kept staring at him, wondering why he wasn't out shooting with Oliver.

Lord Blackthorne's frown could have frozen a winter pond. “Madam? Are you well?”

“I'm—I'm fine,” she said, then cleared her throat. She refused to sound weak although, at that moment, her knees began to wobble. A strange little shiver seemed to work its way up her back until her neck ached. She put a hand there in distant wonder.

“Damn, stay still,” Lord Blackthorne called.

She swayed again, and Lady Stafford surged forward to grab her arm.

Cecilia blinked at her. “I'm all right. Truly I am.”

“You are too pale, Lady Blackthorne,” the other woman said, not releasing her. “I think you should sit down.”

Cecilia had no choice, as Lady Stafford and Talbot guided her backward until she sat on an overstuffed chair. She could hear her husband's quick, uneven steps as he came down the marble staircase far too fast for a man with a cane.

She looked up as he limped toward her. “I am well,” she said, unable to stop staring into his concerned face.

Why had he been on the first floor near the maid? How could that slip of a girl have knocked over the bust? It had been created in homage to her distant great-grandfather, wreathed in jowls, as the man had been. The maid almost would have had to throw her shoulder against it and push.

“My lady?” Lord Blackthorne said, crouching before her chair. “Are you going to swoon?”

She straightened her spine. “I do not swoon.”

“I didn't think so,” he said dryly. He glanced at Talbot, who stood on the other side of her. “What did you see?”

Talbot licked his lips and spoke sincerely. “Nothing except the bust falling forward. And Lady Blackthorne—” He broke off, his eyes a bit wide.

Cecilia touched his arm. “I will be fine. I'm simply in shock.”

“Nice of you to diagnose yourself,” Lord Blackthorne practically growled.

Then he lifted up both of her arms and turned them over, examining them as if she were a doll. She tried to pull away, but he ignored her, taking her whole head in his hands and running his fingers along her scalp, dislodging strands of her hair.

“I say!” she cried. “Is this necessary?”

The three older women stood together in a little knot and gaped at Lord Blackthorne's familiar handling of her.

“I wanted to make sure you're not bleeding.” He examined his bare hands. “No blood.”

“I could have told you that. I felt nothing.”

Nothing at all, except the surprise of seeing Lord Blackthorne right where the bust had been.

“What did you see, my lord?” she asked.

He grimaced. “Nothing. I'd greeted the maid as I passed, and then I heard the screams below.”

She stared up at him, unable to look away. Twice since he'd arrived, accidents had almost harmed her—almost killed her.

He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. “I must have startled her. It's not her fault.”

Cecilia realized she could still hear someone sobbing. “Oh dear, I must go to Susan.”

She tried to push past Lord Blackthorne, but he caught her shoulders. “Your devotion to your servants is admirable, Cecilia, but you are as white as a flag of surrender. You should rest.”

Surrender? Hardly.
“I'm fine.”

He released her only to take her elbow until she was on her feet.

“Susan?” Cecilia called.

The sound of the maid's name set off fresh wailing from the far side of the entrance hall. Mrs. Ellison, the tall, thin housekeeper with spectacles perched on her nose, stood beside Susan, the plump maid who huddled on her chair clutching her dust rag. Giant tears seemed to smear the freckles that dotted her face. Mrs. Ellison kept a firm hand on her shoulder, and Cecilia realized with relief that it was meant to comfort.

Susan raised great wet brown eyes as Cecilia approached. On a hiccup, she said, “L-Lady Cecilia, I don't know what happened. I—I never meant—” Sobs overcame her again.

Cecilia caught her chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “No one blames you, Susan. It was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”

“I didn't think nothin' happened!” she cried. “I don't remember bumpin' into anythin'. I was dustin' the railin', and I heard a man's voice. I turned around, and there was Lord Blackthorne, havin' just passed by. And then I heard the shouts.”

Just like her husband had said, Cecilia told herself, trying to calm her own breathing, although her lungs still felt too big for her chest, as if she couldn't get enough air.

“Maybe your skirt caught on the bust,” Mrs. Ellison said in a kind but firm voice. “Can you remember that, Susan?”

The girl shook her head. “No, mum. It's all awhirl in me head.”

“It's all right,” Cecilia said, stepping back. “Why don't you go have something to eat and drink in the kitchen, Susan? A good cup of tea will calm your nerves. Take the rest of the day off.”

Glumly, she mumbled, “Ye mean the rest o' me life.”

“Of course not. You are a good maid. This was just an accident.” Maybe if she repeated it enough, she'd believe it herself.

Mrs. Ellison led the stoop-shouldered maid away, and Cecilia watched them retreat down the wide corridor. The quaintly dressed subjects of the portraits seemed to stare down, frozen in time, waiting for what would happen next.

Slowly, Cecilia turned and saw Lord Blackthorne regarding Talbot, who'd brought in the page to clean up the shattered stone. Her husband seemed to feel her gaze, for he met it with his own.

“I only returned because I'd left my pistol in my bedchamber,” he said, shaking his head. “I was on my way when . . .” He trailed off, pointing at the mess.

“Oliver and Penelope must be waiting for you,” she finally said. “Go tell them everything is all right before they hear it from the servants and think the worst. I'll be fine.”

Mrs. Webster, Lady Stafford, and Miss Jenyns then crowded around her, patting her like a lost little girl, leading her back into the drawing room for more tea. She
felt
like a lost little girl. Her mind was whirling with terrible thoughts, contemplating awful conclusions. It was just another accident, one part of her kept insisting. Another, deeper part of her whispered that she'd had
two
such accidents since her husband had arrived. But that could only be a coincidence.

The sun was shining in streaks through the French doors, dust motes floating like birthday decorations. The ladies kept up a steady chatter, and things began to seem more normal.

During the first accident, she'd tripped in the dark, she reminded herself. This time, a maid had been right there, dusting up above. These were accidents, they had to be, because it was impossible that her father would have spent years with Lord Blackthorne, in fierce battle and in quiet moments of dreadful anticipation, and not known what kind of man he was.

A
fter the ladies had departed, Cecilia retreated to the study—once her father's domain—and sank down in the leather chair that still smelled faintly of her father's cologne and snuff. Or so she often told herself. She was surrounded by familiar and normal and comforting, and took several deep breaths, her hands on the ledger she'd been working on that morning.

Her mind felt blank, yet at the same time so full she couldn't pull anything free. She was almost relieved when the door burst open with Oliver's characteristic disregard of her work.

“What happened?” he asked brusquely, going straight to the bottle of brandy kept on the sideboard.

She let out a soft sigh. “I imagine you must know since you're here.”

“Blackthorne went back for his pistol, and when he returned, he said you'd had an accident. The bust of Great-Grandfather Mallory sprouted wings or something. Mentioned it was his fault—something about distracting the maid? Made no sense.” Oliver took a deep sip, then sighed his satisfaction.

She calmly filled in the details, even as her brother collapsed into a deep chair and regarded her.

“Were you frightened?” he asked.

She gave him a faint smile. “Afterward, certainly. It was a close call.”

“Good old Talbot to the rescue.” He saluted her with his glass and took a deep swallow. “Why did you earlier keep Blackthorne from our shooting match?”

“The neighborhood ladies descended.”

“The three witches?”

She tried not to laugh, but it escaped her in a snort. Oliver eyed her with amused satisfaction. In these moments, she could forget her worries about him, the press of duty and responsibility. But he kept sipping his brandy, and her smile faded, knowing how the drink would affect him as the day wore on.

“They wanted to meet my husband,” she said at last.

“Can you blame them?
You'd
never even met him.”

She sighed. “Did you get in any shooting?”

“A few rounds, but Blackthorne seemed distracted, and after ruthlessly proving his domination, he came back to the Hall. He said he couldn't concentrate.”

“Did he . . . say anything?”

Oliver went to refill his glass, and his movements were already slower. “He said he learned to shoot as a boy, that the army improved him, and I could get better with practice. No need to do that, of course. I have servants to put birds on my dinner table.”

She nodded wryly. “But aren't you men usually competitive?”

He shrugged. “Why? Too much effort. I have better things to do.”

“Like what?” she whispered.

He didn't hear her, only saluted her again with his glass and took himself and his drink from the study.

T
hat night, Cecilia paced her room, one end to the other, over and over again, trying to exhaust herself so that her mind would quiet and allow her to sleep. She kept replaying the day in her mind, remembering how Mrs. Webster had said the late Lord Blackthorne had been a fortune hunter. Cecilia's husband hadn't bought a commission—did that mean his family was short of funds?

But he'd asked for nothing from her.

It didn't matter. Lord Blackthorne had no access to her funds, and even on her death, nothing would go to him but a small stipend.
But does he know that?
a voice whispered as if from a quiet hiding place inside her.

She was being foolish. There were many little things bothering her, but none of them added up to the serious crime of attempted murder.

She heard a knock from the dressing-room door and called, “Come in, Nell.”

The door opened, but it wasn't her maid. Her husband stood there, paused on the threshold, wearing trousers and boots, in shirtsleeves with an open collar. His neck looked so . . . exposed, from the deep hollow of his throat, to the bump of his Adam's apple. And once again, her body reacted with heat, even if her mind told her not to.

“You're not Nell,” she said dryly, realizing she wore only her nightgown, with a dressing gown belted over it. Her hair was loose in anticipation of a good brushing, and her feet were bare.

He leisurely studied everything she wore. He was her husband—she'd claimed him as such when it suited her but wanted to deny it now that he was here. She'd spent so many years in control of herself and her home that the threat of losing even part of that was so very real.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked quietly. “I could hear you pacing.”

“All the way from your room?”

“No, of course not. I'd come into the dressing room. But I wouldn't have knocked if I thought you were asleep.”

And he still hadn't even stepped inside but was waiting there.

“I could tell you to go,” she said.

“You could. And I'd go.” He leaned forward, one hand braced on the cane, the other on the doorframe. “I promised to give you time, and I'm keeping to that. But today . . . I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

She gave a sigh. “Come in. But I trust you'll tell no one you were here.”

He arched a brow as he limped forward and closed the door behind him. “I'm not certain what that would prove one way or the other. I'm your husband, and they'll all believe—”

She held up a hand. “Stop. I don't wish to discuss this tonight.”

He paused, as if gaining mastery of himself, but any struggle did not show on his face. It was remarkable how well schooled his features were. She wasn't used to it, wanted to see every emotion written there—if he even had any deep emotion.

“Then we won't discuss our marriage,” he said.

“We could discuss my brother. He said you offered to shoot with him, but after my accident—”