Page 36 of Return of the Viscount
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.”
