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C ecilia spent the morning with her head in a whirl, finding it difficult to concentrate on her daily tasks. Even her walk brought her no relief. Lord Blackthorne was so difficult to read, his eyes calm rather than snapping with whatever emotion he felt. In such an offhand manner, he’d revealed that her father had been on his way home to them.

It hurt deep in her stomach to imagine that by one extra day, he’d lost his life, his chance to retire from the army. She wanted to be angry at God for such cruel fate, but every day, people suffered life’s traumas. She was no different.

Lord Blackthorne had surely acted out of honor and duty by marrying her; she should be grateful, and she was. But for the first time, it bothered her that she was someone’s idea of a debt, she, who’d been the toast of London her first Season, who had already been proposed to several times. Ah, she was a vain creature after all, that she’d want a convenient husband to confess he’d fallen in love with her letters, like the fictitious story she told others about their relationship. She’d boasted they’d debated books and art, that they’d even shared amusement over the mundane topics of raising sheep versus cattle. In reality, she’d told him about her life on the country estate, just hoping to have him keep writing more about the military world that her own father chose over his family.

At luncheon, there was a strained tension coming from Oliver toward Lord Blackthorne, whose topic of conversation left Parliament behind and switched to horses. Oliver reluctantly told him about several new additions to the stables, and they discussed the breeding of horseflesh for a while, from the demands of a military horse all the way down to what a lady required. Cecilia contributed where she wanted to, for she knew all about the cost of Oliver’s new horses.

“Lord Appertan, would you show me about the estate by horseback?” Lord Blackthorne asked. “I would like to continue this discussion and see more of the land your father described to me in such detail.”

Cecilia saw the suspicious glance Oliver gave him, as if Lord Blackthorne shouldn’t be curious. He was her husband, after all.

Her temporary husband, she reminded herself.

“Of course, Lord Blackthorne,” Oliver said at last. “I have time to ride this afternoon.”

He sounded as if he had a rigorous schedule that he could hardly interrupt, Cecilia thought, briefly lowering her gaze to hide her amusement.

“Cecilia,” Oliver said, “I will be having several friends over tonight for an evening of cards. Would you speak to the housekeeper and make whatever arrangements are necessary?”

She withheld a frown as she considered him. He’d always met his friends elsewhere for whatever drunken fun they had. Was the sudden change due to the arrival of Lord Blackthorne?

“Oliver, I will see that you and your friends have whatever refreshments you need.” She barely knew his friends, only one or two of whom were from local families, and the others up from London on occasion.

“We’ll use the billiard room. Oh, and you might have the maids prepare several guest rooms, just in case.”

She nodded, not wanting drunken young men falling from their horses. He did not ask Lord Blackthorne to join them, and Cecilia gritted her teeth at his rudeness. She was about to speak, when she could have sworn Lord Blackthorne almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if he had other plans for her brother.

She’d agreed to this, she reminded herself. She’d wanted Lord Blackthorne to focus on someone other than herself. When the men left on their ride, she told herself she was relieved to be free of the both of them.

T hat night, well after midnight, Cecilia could hear the drunken laughter of Oliver’s friends echoing through the castle. She was in her room but not undressed; servants kept sending messages via the new page, Francis: “Are you certain we should provide more brandy, Lady Blackthorne?” “They are roaming the corridors, Lady Blackthorne, making a terrible mess in more and more rooms!”

She had greeted their guests earlier in the evening, of course. They’d grinned as they each bent over her hand, eyeing her too boldly, making her feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. They made what they thought were sly jokes about her as if she were too simpleminded to understand the crude references. They’d already been imbibing and were hardly witty as a result.

Strangely, she’d found herself wishing Lord Blackthorne had been present, as if she needed to remind the men that she had a husband who might take offense. But her “husband” had spent the evening in the library after his long ride with Oliver. She’d seen him limping stiffly away from the stables, wondered if perhaps he’d overexerted his injured leg. But one could never tell a man so.

Oliver’s friends had been upsetting the household more and more as the evening advanced. Susan, the upstairs maid, had heard something crash, and when she went inside the billiards room to investigate, she’d been indecently handled by one of the guests. That was the last straw, as far as Cecilia was concerned. If Oliver didn’t see that his friends were abusing his hospitality, then she would make them understand.

After sending Susan to bed, Cecilia moved through the darkened house, carrying a candleholder, the sounds of revelry growing louder and louder as she descended to the first floor. Something else crashed, and she could hear a roar of laughter.

She approached the billiard room from the rear of the house rather than the front public rooms. The way was darker, and to her surprise, lamps were once again extinguished, which made her progress slow. With her candle, she could see a short distance before her, but every alcove or corridor became a gaping hole of darkness once she passed. She shook off her uneasiness—she was only reacting this way because she’d tripped at the top of the stairs the other night.

Just as she reached the closed double doors to the billiard room, she heard a rush of air behind her, then a man’s arms closed around her. She cried out, but the sound was lost against the loud voices from the billiard room, even as the candle fell from her hands and went out before it hit the floor.

Stunned, she felt the man’s hot breath against her ear, his moist lips moving. “We’ve been waiting for you. But maybe you’d like to play a bit first.”

And then he was dragging her away from the billiard room. She struggled, appalled and offended and a little bit frightened that she could be overwhelmed so easily—that decent men could lose their heads like this under the influence of strong drink. And these were the kinds of men who befriended Oliver? He was so gullible that perhaps he gave them whatever they wanted, money, liquor, his influence.

Not loose women, surely, she thought, not in this house. She opened her mouth to demand her release, but he clamped his damp palm over her mouth as if he sensed her intent. The lit edges of the billiard-room door receded into the darkness, and she had her first moment of real fear. If she could not make this drunken brute realize his error, she wasn’t sure what might happen.

She tried to bite his hand, but he gave her a tight squeeze around the ribs that made her groan instead.

“Be a good girl, now. You’ll get your money at the end of the night.”

Then she heard the strangest sound, a growl of rage from nearby that made her assailant pause. They weren’t alone anymore.

“Unhand my wife !” barked a voice in the commanding tones of a man used to being obeyed.

Lord Blackthorne, she thought with relief. She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but neither could her captor.

The man laughed. “She’s no one’s wife, except one for hire. Wait your turn.”

She felt the rush of air beside her, heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh, then a man’s grunt. The hold on her loosened, and she ducked away, crying out as her hair, brushed out for the night, was caught from behind.

“Damn you!” Lord Blackthorne grunted.

She felt him lunge past her. She flung back the door to the billiard room, and yellow, flickering light spilled out into the corridor, illuminating the shadows. She whirled about and saw Lord Blackthorne in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and boots. He knelt above her assailant, pummeling him. The man—she now recognized him as Sir Bevis Fenton from London—threw a couple punches of his own, but Lord Blackthorne had him pinned to the floor. Helplessly, Cecilia picked up his cane, not knowing what else to do.

Oliver staggered to the doorway and was bumped from behind by several other curious men, who stood on tiptoes to see past him.

“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 attack my wife. ”

She wasn’t his possession, but a woman he’d married in name only. Yet he had saved 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, “Take that with 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.

“I was sixteen when a thief attacked me with a knife as I rode my horse, not far from my home. The world seemed a much darker place after that.”

“At least you rescued yourself. I could do nothing. I am not used to feeling ... helpless.” She looked away from him, hating that she couldn’t stop trembling.

“Yet you must have felt that last year, after it was apparent your brother was not up to managing the Appertan estates. You found a solution and triumphed.”

“Triumphed?” she echoed, glancing at him.

He was staring at her intently, the shadows flickering over half his face. She couldn’t place why her stomach fluttered and her pulse raced.

“You found a solution to your problems,” he replied. “You did it yourself.”

“With your help,” she said dryly.

He briefly bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Why were you downstairs tonight?” she asked.

He looked grim. “To see what happened with your brother’s friends.”

“Did you think I should not have permitted the event?”

“Was that your decision?”

“No.” She sighed. “He is the earl. I fear I antagonized him in front of his friends tonight.”

“He deserved it.” He practically growled the words. “I regret that I was not close enough to intercept that fool who frightened you.”

“You stopped him. I am truly grateful. I’m sorry I did not yet say those words to you.”

Michael stared at her, masking his surprise. She’d suffered a trauma, yet she still tried to be polite, as if he were a stranger rather than her husband. He was both, he realized. “I did not take offense.”

And still he stared at her, this woman who was his wife yet not his wife. In the candlelight, her hair gleamed like a beam of moonlight, cascading down her back and around her shoulders like a cape. She was made to be worshipped, and, out of honor, he could do nothing.

And he could do little to comfort her either. He saw that she kept touching the locket she always wore around her neck, like a touchstone that helped orient her.

He needed to focus his mind back on his mission. “Will Lord Appertan be affected by what happened here tonight? Or will he take it in stride like a child who always wants what he wants?”

He saw her back stiffen, even as she turned away to pour herself a glass of water. Her hands still shook, and he yearned to hold her.

“You don’t understand him,” she said softly. “He has seen too much death at too young an age.”

Michael frowned. “Your mother didn’t die all that many years ago.”

“No, but Oliver’s twin, the first heir, was only ten when he died.”

Startled, Michael stared at her somber profile. “I did not know you had another brother. How did he die?”

“An accident, in India.”

He wanted more details but did not press her. There were things he didn’t choose to discuss either. Yet it surprised him that her father had not confided in him.

“Oliver was close to Gabriel, and when he died, Oliver ... changed. My mother became even more possessive of him, and my father thought it was time Oliver went to Eton, to ... get away. In some ways, I think my father should have waited a year, given Oliver time to grieve. He thought the change would do him good.” She glanced at him with faint amusement. “I think that is a male trait. A woman will usually let herself experience the grief until it lessens, while a man wants to forget it.”

But she wasn’t letting go of the grief, he saw that now. The sadness he’d sensed wasn’t just about her father, but the deaths of her family one by one. She didn’t want to control so much as to protect. She nourished a deep love for them, and the only one she had left was Appertan.

“It doesn’t mean a man forgets the tragedy itself,” he said.

“Oliver’s behavior is his own reaction to everything that’s happened,” she continued, “his own kind of grief.”

Michael arched a brow. “So selfishness and immaturity should be excused?”

She frowned at him. “He’s only twenty.” She held up a hand before he could speak. “And I know what you were doing at twenty, a man’s work in the army. But ... Oliver isn’t you.”

“You are being too lenient with him,” Michael said in a sober voice. “You expect nothing of him, so he gives you nothing.”

“He is still practically a boy,” she insisted.

He realized she was going to continue to protect her brother because of the death of Appertan’s twin. She was a woman of many layers, and, for the first time in his life, he wanted to see beneath, to find out everything about her.

“Appertan is your brother,” he answered, giving her a brief bow. “You know him best. I’ll take my leave.”

And he walked out of her room before he did or said something he’d regret.