Return of the Viscount (5 page)

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

He tilted his head. “Did I say something amusing?”

“Forgive me. I am trying to imagine you with Oliver's fellow young bucks.”

His lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile, and he relaxed back in his chair. “I am well aware of the mentality.”

“Are you? Does that mean you went through such a period yourself?”

“Not a very long one. I enlisted at eighteen, and although men off duty often embarrass themselves in drink, that did not appeal to me.”

“I am not surprised,” she murmured, studying him just as intently as he liked to study her. “Are you and your brother close?”

His eyes seemed to focus inward. “We are. Although it has been twelve years since I've been able to spend much time at home, we were always playmates as children, and our letters have deepened our friendship as adults.”

“I find myself envious,” she murmured, her eyes stinging.

“It is not too late, madam.” He hesitated. “You can have such a relationship with your brother. With your parents gone, you need the closeness of family.”

Her throat was tight with the emotions she didn't want to reveal. His kindness had shown through in his letters, and now, seeing it in person, made her feel so very confused.

“So I have your approval?” he urged.

“Are you asking for it?” She spoke softly, wondering about the kind of husband he'd be.

“He is your brother.”

“So if I asked you to leave him alone, you would?”

He regarded her solemnly. “He is in need of an older male influence, but yes, I would abide by your wishes.”

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and she let it out slowly. “Very well. You have my permission to attempt the battle of Oliver.”

His head tipped back as if in surprise. “He's been as bad as all that?”

“No, no, but it is you who make it seem like he's your new campaign.”

“I am a soldier; I see much of life like a battle to be mastered and won.”

“And do you often win, my lord?” she asked softly.

“Almost always, my lady.”

He'd lowered his voice until it was a deep rumble that reverberated through her. Again, she felt a twinge of intriguing danger, which she would do her best to ignore. She was responsible for Oliver, and she'd vowed never again to fail a member of her family.

The door swung open, and Penelope entered like a floral spring breeze. “Hello, Cecilia!” she trilled, then came to a stop upon seeing Lord Blackthorne, her happy smile fading to pleased curiosity. “Oh, I am interrupting you.”

Lord Blackthorne rose stiffly to his feet. “Good morning, Miss Webster.”

“You are always welcome, Penelope,” Cecilia said, finding herself relieved.

Hesitantly, the young woman said, “Did you remember that we were going to paint the autumn colors of your garden after luncheon? But we don't have to, of course. Circumstances have obviously changed.” She gave Lord Blackthorne a bright smile.

Cecilia knew Penelope was thrilled with the revelation of Lord Blackthorne. But then she was very much like her sister, Hannah, who'd been a firm believer in true love. For a moment, melancholia rose inside her at the senseless drowning of her dear friend. Every death seemed to buffet Cecilia in a new direction.

“Of course we'll still paint,” she said, grateful that she had the other woman to remind her that there was more to life than business.

“Oh, I'm glad,” Penelope said. “Talbot asked me to tell you that luncheon will be served in half an hour.”

Cecilia glanced at the mantel clock in surprise. The morning had passed swiftly. “We'll be there.”

She expected Lord Blackthorne to follow Penelope out of the study, but after a couple limping steps, leaning heavily on his cane, he turned back to her.

“Miss Webster was introduced to me as Appertan's fiancée. For a young man still living wildly, the engagement seems unusual.”

“They grew up in constant contact, as the Websters have long leased a manor from the estate.”

“And Miss Webster was determined she would be the next countess?” Lord Blackthorne asked.

“I never had that feeling,” Cecilia said, blinking in surprise.

“Then whose idea was it?”

She rose to her feet. “When my brother announced the engagement, I did not question what had gone on privately between them. I trusted their feelings. Oliver plans to wait until at least his twenty-first birthday to set a wedding date, which will give them time to decide if such a match truly suits.”

“He is not certain of that yet he already asked for her hand in marriage?”

“You make quick judgments, my lord,” she said coolly. “I wrote to you about Penelope's sister, my dearest friend, who drowned in a pond near their home. Such tragedy often brings people together, and they no longer want to waste time alone.”

“Then it is good that I know these circumstances, madam. They might affect how I deal with your brother.”

“Be compassionate with him, Lord Blackthorne,” she said in a quieter voice, sinking back down into her chair.

“I do not believe compassion has helped him much, but I won't forget that you requested it of me.”

He limped away before she could respond, closing the door behind him. She finished filling out her report to Oliver's guardian about the daily management of the estate. But it wasn't easy to think of business. Lord Blackthorne's belief he knew what was best for her brother disturbed her. Was it that she herself should be able to help Oliver and couldn't seem to find the way? Or was it that she found herself attracted to such a strong-willed man?

Chapter 4

L
uncheon was a grim affair. Cecilia watched Lord Blackthorne study Oliver's slow recovery from a night of drinking and waited for her new husband to change his mind. But he didn't, only kept talking to Oliver about upcoming issues for the next session of Parliament, as if Oliver knew or cared.

But he should care, Cecilia reminded herself. There was no use being upset at Lord Blackthorne because he was right. Yet she wanted to believe her brother would overcome the tragedies of his young life eventually. Lord Blackthorne had obviously kept abreast of political issues through his family and friends while on the other side of the world. Oliver should be able to do the same.

After the meal, Penelope met Cecilia's gaze and gestured with her head toward the windows, where a rare sun was shining.

“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Cecilia said, coming to her feet.

It was obvious Lord Blackthorne had to struggle to stand, and Oliver seemed to do so reluctantly. She imagined his pounding head made movement painful. Why would one self-inflict such suffering? Except, perhaps, to forget for a while . . .

“Penelope and I have an engagement in the garden,” Cecilia continued. “Do not let us keep you from your discussion.”

Oliver's brows lowered disapprovingly over his bloodshot eyes, but she ignored him.

Outside in the formal gardens, Cecilia found easels already waiting for them, and they placed them near a stunning view of the gurgling fountain in the foreground and autumn-tipped trees swaying behind in the park. They mixed the ground powder of their chosen paint cakes in water, chatting about color and detail and nothing in particular. But once they were briefly quiet in concentration on the scene, Penelope seemed to start speaking as if she'd been awaiting the right moment.

“Cecilia, Oliver told me he spent an evening out with his friends again last night.”

She couldn't tell from his bloodshot, wincing eyes? Cecilia wondered.

“We'd had an engagement to walk this morning, but he slept through it. I am . . . concerned about him.” She gave Cecilia the pained yet eager look of a puppy hungry for a treat.

“I know,” she answered on a tired sigh, gazing unseeing on the colors she was mixing on her palette.

“We had discussed waiting at least a year to marry, but perhaps . . . setting an earlier date would help.”

Cecilia glanced at her in surprise. “You and he have discussed this? It is after all a personal matter between the two of you, and perhaps your parents.”

“I know, and no, we have not discussed it. I wanted your opinion first.” Penelope bit her lip and looked away. “I thought perhaps marriage would help him to . . . settle down.”

It was as if she'd heard the discussion between Lord Blackthorne and Cecilia. Or perhaps Oliver had forgotten one too many “engagements”—as if he'd forgotten their engagement to marry.

She wondered if Penelope was clinging to her fiancé, soon to be her husband, desperate to be with him, to change him. Cecilia felt a momentary twinge of dismay at the thought of Penelope's becoming like Lady Appertan.

“Although my opinion doesn't count—” Cecilia began.

“But you're his sister! Of course anything you say counts!”

Cecilia smiled and touched her arm. “Thank you. But you know what I mean. Only the two of you can decide what's best. But . . . I don't believe marriage will help settle Oliver. Only maturity, and the realization that other things are more important than his pleasure, will truly help him. You have to trust that he will gradually come to this conclusion. Most men do.” She hoped. Although she was afraid to trust Lord Blackthorne regardless of her father's praise, she found herself saying a silent prayer that he could help her brother be a better man, a better husband.

Penelope kept her eyes downcast as she nodded. “I appreciate your opinion.”

“But regardless, I'll stand by whatever the two of you decide.”

“Just like you stood by us when we became engaged.” Penelope smiled.

“You didn't need my support. Your mother was happy for you.”

Penelope giggled. “Thrilled, you mean. She always hoped I would catch the eye of a peer.”

“What mother doesn't wish that?” Cecilia said with a chuckle.

“Surely yours wanted the same for you? And you've succeeded.”

Cecilia hid a wince. “My mother . . . yes, you are right, she wanted the best for me.”
Was that even true?

“Lord Blackthorne is a knowledgeable man of the world.”

Cecilia eyed her with faint amusement. “Are you saying you think Oliver should become such a man?”

“Oh, no! Oliver is a man comfortable in England, at ease in drawing rooms or in the countryside. I think he still fights the memories of his time in India but wants to overcome them.”

“And Lord Blackthorne? Tell me your impressions of him.”

“I think you were very brave and in love to marry a man you'd never met.”

“You may say it without hurting my feelings, Penelope—you wouldn't have done the same.”

“I am not brave like you. Lord Blackthorne . . . he seems a stern man, with a strong feeling of duty to his country. He will go wherever his regiment sends him, and you'll be separated once again. Have you ever thought of traveling with him?”

Cecilia's eyes widened. “No, my dear, my place is here. I had enough of India.”

“Then you will be separated much of the time.”

“He writes compelling letters. We will get by.” If she even stayed married to him.

L
ate that night, Michael came awake with a start. He didn't know where he was at first until the shadowy gloom revealed the bedroom where his wife had banished him.

His very skittish wife.

But he couldn't fault thoughts of his wife for why he awoke in the middle of the night. It had been happening long before he met her. Dreams clung to the corners of his mind like cobwebs. He saw his friends, the three his military decision had doomed to death. In his dreams, they were alive again, even Lord Appertan, taking his son in hand and making a man of him.

With a sigh, Michael slid his legs to the side and sat on the edge of the bed. These dreams weren't nightmares. No one haunted him, or berated the decisions he and his superiors, the Duke of Rothford and the Earl of Knightsbridge, had made in all honor.

But the sadness of those lives cut short could not be denied, and he felt a debt of honor—not one of guilt, as Rothford and Knightsbridge foolishly insisted on feeling—to try to help those left behind. Guilt had no place, once a battlefield decision had been made to the best of one's knowledge and ability. And he would never allow himself to be ruled by emotion.

Lady Cecilia's family had been altered by a decision he'd help make: Three men had died because Michael and his fellow soldiers had thought it was noble and humane to release prisoners—including women and children—about to be tortured for information in a secret encampment. He, Rothford, and Knightsbridge had turned their backs while their prisoners slipped into the jungle, and thought themselves making the honorable choice.

But their regiment had been attacked by the prisoners they'd released, and three soldiers—good friends and mentors—had died. Rothford and Knightsbridge had returned to England to make amends to the families of the other two dead soldiers. Young Appertan was too soon the earl, without his father's guidance and knowledge. Michael could help make that right.

Lady Cecilia had written that the new earl had left Cambridge University to assume his duties. Like a man, Michael had thought at the time, now realizing he'd only made assumptions without knowing the facts. The young Lord Appertan seemed to be a spoiled, arrogant boy who put his own pleasures above duty and responsibility. Weak and selfish, he left the burdens of the earldom on his sister, enjoying all the money and the pleasures for himself.

Michael could see what kind of woman Cecilia was: hardworking, selfless, beloved by her servants and tenants. And if he worried it was love of power that drove her to exercise control over the estate, he'd soon been able to tell that she was just as open to suggestions from the people below her and would change her mind. She wasn't afraid of stepping in something unpleasant in a barn or taking a laborer's dirty hand. He'd watched everyone on the estate consult her even as they praised her to him, her new husband. He'd almost felt proud, as if he'd had something to do with it. In one sense he had: he'd enabled her to have access to her own funds, to do as she needed to guide the earldom. He long ago heard of the late Lord Appertan's pride in her, and now he knew it was justified.

And he was still astonished by her range of knowledge about every aspect of the estate. She must have been tutored at Appertan's side in mathematics and even agriculture rather than simply learning the feminine studies of languages, domestic skills, and artistic endeavors like painting. Although she'd probably mastered those as well from what he'd been able to observe so far. Their written conversations could lead to even better discussions—if she allowed it.

But there was a sadness deep within her that surprised him. Did others see it, or did they simply want to believe that she was content with her life?

First, he would make her life easier by teaching her brother to be a man. This should help her soften her regard for him and hasten a more normal marriage. He hoped it would happen quickly because sleeping so near Cecilia might surely destroy his peace of mind.

M
ichael awoke in the morning, feeling tired from his restless night. He'd bathed the night before, so he dressed for the day, looking out the window. He knew who he was looking for: his wife. Perhaps she thought of him, even longed for a man's touch. He knew what
he
was missing, after all. He might not be reckless, but he'd had the occasional night with a willing woman. Of course, he had no idea how far things had gone with her suitors before she married him . . .

Hearing a knock on the door, he went to answer it. Cecilia stood there, hands linked together with casual elegance, fresh as sunshine in her cream-colored gown. He wanted to bask in the warmth of her, and his body, long starved for a woman's attention, flared to uncomfortable life once again.

She didn't cross the threshold. “I thought I would accompany you to the breakfast parlor.”

“Very well.” Picking up the book he intended to return to the library—the nights were long with Cecilia so nearby—he limped into the corridor, and she walked at his side. Her floral scent drifted to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, silently, half closing his eyes. But when she glanced at him, he regarded her impassively. In the breakfast parlor, he placed his book on the dining table.

She glanced at it. “You enjoy reading, my lord?”

“It is a comfort to me in the field, when there are few others.”

“Military history,” she mused, studying the title. “Oliver does not read. He had access to the best education, but he treated it lightly, squandered it.” She turned away and helped herself to eggs and toast.

He heard the envy and frustration in her voice and wondered if she sometimes wished she'd been born a man and the heir. He certainly did not; her beauty was a soft grace on a tired morn. He thought of waking up at her side and reminded himself that he'd never needed soft comforts; he could wait for them now.

He filled his plate with fried trout, along with the eggs and toast. Their gazes met, and he saw the clear, intelligent blue of her eyes. Did she guess his thoughts? If she did, she would run away.

“You have offered your help with my wayward brother,” she continued, carrying her plate toward the table. “And you're dealing with me, a reluctant wife. Why?”

He came to a stop across the table from her. “Your father earned my loyalty every day, Lady Blackthorne. He taught me strategy and ruthlessness; he taught me patience. He guided me in the ways of diplomacy and negotiation, helping me to understand the dark hearts of men.” Except that last time, when Michael had missed the signs, been fooled so utterly. Through a clenched jaw, he finished, “He saw in me a worthwhile soldier when my own father thought my calling was a mistake. I will not forget Lord Appertan's belief in me.” Feeling that he'd revealed too much, he tried to lighten the mood. “Perhaps he was preparing me all along to come home to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “That is not true.”

“How do you know? He talked about you constantly, and your brother, of course, but the focus was always you. It was as if he knew we would suit each other.”

She bit her plump lip, and he almost forgot the point he was making, so instantly did he wish to lean across the table and steal a kiss.

“Now you are deluding yourself, hoping to persuade me to change my opinion of our marriage. My father and I often discussed my various suitors, and never once did he show a preference. He trusted me to make my own decision.”

“Believe what you will.”

“However he trained you to be a soldier,” she said, going back to the original, safe topic, “he didn't give that to Oliver.”

“He never got the chance. He was about to come home when he died.”

He heard her gasp, saw her eyes moisten as she sat down heavily. In that moment, she was a vulnerable daughter, not a commanding woman.

“I—I didn't know,” she whispered.

“It was to be a surprise.” His voice was gruff in memory as he took his seat. He hadn't wanted his commander to retire, felt he could still learn from him. Those choices were taken away by one battlefield decision—a wrong one, made in good conscience. But Lord Appertan had always taught him to move on, that the past was the past.

“Thank you for telling me that,” she said softly.

She searched his face for a moment, and he kept his expression impassive, a lifelong study and so easy now, he didn't have to think about it. They silently ate their breakfast.