Page 32 of Return of the Viscount
Disappointed, Michael went into the dressing room and closed the door behind him.
Cecilia didn’t even bother climbing into bed. She practically ran to her writing desk and began to search the little drawers until she found what she’d been looking for: the letters her father had written from India.
She hadn’t read them since he’d died, tying them away with ribbon because it was too painful to see his sloppy cursive, realize that the faint scent of his snuff was gone.
But she could no longer delay. Today had shown her too many things about Lord Blackthorne: the ridiculous, momentary thought that he might be trying to harm her, then that his voice and his presence could make her forget everything else except her longing to succumb to his touch.
She put her hot face in her hands and groaned aloud. What had she been thinking? The moon? Dancing girls? Where had all that come from, and why hadn’t she simply asked him to leave?
But no, apparently she had a weakness she’d never guessed. She’d spent so many months as almost the master of Appertan Hall and all of the earldom’s lands that she’d never realized she hadn’t thought of herself as a woman.
Lord Blackthorne made her remember what it felt like when she’d first come out and experienced the admiration of a man. She didn’t want to feel like this, disturbed and intrigued and strangely languorous all at once. And maybe, regardless of what he’d led her to believe, he might not like that she was in control of her own life, that she no longer needed him.
Her father managed to mention Lord Blackthorne in almost every letter. “Blackthorne was a good sounding board today,” “Blackthorne’s bravery is never rash,” “Blackthorne should have left the wounded enemy behind, but wouldn’t.” Her husband sounded like a saint, she thought with exasperation. Then she found an incident where her father didn’t envy Lord Blackthorne’s decision, and she forced herself to slow down. An enemy was running at them, firing, using a woman as a shield. Lord Blackthorne reluctantly ordered his men to fire in order to save the company, and the woman ultimately died. When her father counseled Lord Blackthorne on how to handle his guilt, he said that although he regretted the action, he felt no guilt. He had to save his men and would have made the same decision all over again.
Cecilia stared down at the words, rereading them. Yet Lord Blackthorne was also a man who tried to help a wounded enemy. He was a contradiction, and the letters only made her even more frustrated. She got the sense that her father respected Lord Blackthorne’s abilities as a soldier. In the last one she read, her father mentioned that he’d never met a man more trustworthy, so she eased her misgivings with those words.
Sleep proved elusive, leaving her to pen invitations to the dinner party she would host when Oliver’s guardian arrived—and the first that Lord Blackthorne would attend at her side.
The next morning, Cecilia had to wonder if Lord Blackthorne had deliberately waited for her to go on her walk because he caught up to her before she’d even left the terrace.
“Cecilia,” he called.
She was forced to stop, surprised to find herself most reluctant to face him after their encounter in her bedroom. Under an overcast sky, he was still a dark presence in his sober garments. He walked with a cane and didn’t even have a smile for her. All those things should have kept her removed from him.
Instead, she could only remember the way he’d stood so close behind her in the night, the gentle way he’d touched her without pressing her too far, how he’d left when she asked him to. In the light of day, she shouldn’t be thinking those things, knowing she’d blushed more in the last few days than ever in her life. She’d had a wealthy duke pay her homage, not to mention a foreign prince. But her husband, a cavalryman and a viscount, left her flustered.
He stopped before her, so tall and commanding that she kept her shoulders back, as if to measure up to him. “Yes, my lord?”
“It’s a blustery day.” He squinted out over the gardens. “I took my walk as dawn broke and was almost blown off course.”
“I’ll remember to clutch a tree when I need to.”
A corner of his mouth turned up—was that his version of a smile? For a moment, she felt pleased with herself.
“I was wondering if I could have your permission to rouse Lord Appertan from his bed at a more decent hour.”
“That would be quite a feat,” she said dryly. “But I don’t understand why.”
“I would like him to accompany us into town this morn.”
“ ‘Us’?” she echoed. “Why do you need me? You insist that Oliver isyourmission while you’re here.”
“Frankly, he will be more likely to accompany the both of us than me alone. I will have a better understanding for how others see him, and what I might do to make him see the same.”
She considered only briefly, knowing she could not refuse if she wanted Oliver to improve.
“Very well. Do what you wish,” Cecilia said. “I will be very curious to see if you can persuade him.”
To her surprise, when she returned to Appertan Hall an hour later, Oliver stumbled out of the breakfast parlor, shadows under his eyes, his lips shaping a sulky pout.
“I can’t believe you’re insisting I attend you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
She was about to protest that it wasn’t her idea when she noticed that his hands were trembling. She bit her lip, then glanced at her impassive husband, now limping into the corridor.
“It will do you good to get out during the day,” she said. “We could eat our luncheon at the old inn, just like we used to.”
“You’re living in the past,” Oliver grumbled. “Since the railway came, that old coaching inn has seen better days.”
