Page 19 of Return of the Viscount
“Hey, who’s that attackin’ Fenton?” one of them cried, beginning to push Oliver aside.
She stepped into the light, knowing she looked wrinkled and wild, with her hair falling all around her. The men pulled up in surprise. One of them actually lost his balance and fell backward onto a chair, gaping openmouthed like a fish.
“He’s getting what he deserves,” she said coldly. “He attacked me from behind.”
She saw Oliver’s grin falter and fade, and he glanced again at Lord Blackthorne, who was now dragging the nearly insensible man to his feet. In the shadows away from the door, Lord Blackthorne’s eyes gleamed, but his face remained vague and full of menace. His big body controlled Sir Bevis with ease, his movements precise yet full of power. If his injured leg bothered him, he didn’t show it. She could imagine what his opponents saw on the battlefield: a brutally strong, angry foe, a man who’d show no mercy. He dragged Sir Bevis toward the open doorway, limping slightly, and the younger men fell back.
“I say, who is that?” one of them whispered to Oliver.
“Lord Blackthorne, my sister’s husband.” His voice was wary but laced with more respect than he’d shown so far.
Lord Blackthorne dumped her assailant on a sofa near the door, where the man groaned softly as his head lolled to the side. Her husband turned around and regarded the gathering of a half dozen young men with a cold impassiveness edged with disdain.
“Lord Appertan, this is your home and these”—he nudged the man’s boot with his own—“are your guests. But they abuse their welcome when they dare attackmy wife.”
She wasn’t his possession, but a woman he’d married in name only. Yet hehadsaved her from assault, she reminded herself.
“I’m certain Fenton didn’t realize she was my sister,” Oliver said with a touch of belligerence. “You are well, Cecilia?” he asked belatedly.
She put her hands on her hips, the cane bumping her thigh. “I wouldn’t have been for long. I believe Sir Bevis was expecting other women to this party tonight?”
Silence was her only answer, and she saw the beginning of resistance rise in Oliver’s eyes.
“This is a gentle household,” she continued, “not a bachelor establishment. Surely you gentlemen should meet elsewhere from now on, where you can conduct yourselves as you see fit.”
Oliver’s tension ratcheted another level, and he was close to belligerence. She should never have challenged his authority in front of his friends, but she’d begun to shake with the aftermath of the attack. Oliver might not notice that, but Lord Blackthorne did, approaching her, eyes narrowed. He took the cane from her and leaned against it.
“Madam,” he began, “are you well?”
She found herself looking again at Sir Bevis, who seemed helpless on the sofa but had been very real, very menacing with his arms about her, handling her as he wished. Her lips were trembling now, and she pressed them together. Hearing voices in the corridor, she knew some of the staff had gathered to await orders. She could not appear so weak in front of them.
“I am fine,” she said briskly.
But at least she had Oliver’s attention now, and he was studying her with curiosity. “That’s enough billiards for the night,” he said. “Let’s hie to Enfield and see what entertainment there is.”
Their cheerfulness at his idea seemed forced.
Pointing his cane at Sir Bevis as if it were a sword, Lord Blackthorne said coldly, “Takethatwith you.”
As the men began to file out, he took her arm. “Allow me to escort you to your bedchamber, madam.”
She was still stunned by all that had happened, and could only stare up at him and nod. He gripped her arm firmly, and even though he still limped, he could be menacing and frightening. She was glad of it this night, of course, for something far worse could have happened to her. But for the first time, it made her wonder if he would amicably agree to end the marriage when she insisted.
A footman handed them a candleholder, and Cecilia tried to smile at him but failed. She felt unlike herself, her calm certainty in the world and her place in it as upset as a toy boat in a stormy pond.
Lord Blackthorne remained a silent presence, his grip firm and warm and unsettling. When they reached the door to her bedroom, he opened it and guided her inside as if he had every right. And, technically, she’d given that right to him.
A man had never been in her bedroom before. It felt all wrong—the whole evening felt wrong. One man had tried to drag her off to a darkened corner, and now another man—her husband—had her alone.
“I am fine, my lord,” she murmured, knowing it was a lie.
“You experienced your first battle. It is only right for you to be upset.”
“My first battle?” She stared at him in bafflement.
“You fought for your honor.”
“Well, I may be upset, but you certainly weren’t,” she said.
