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A fter the loud crash had settled into a frozen, shocked silence, Miss Jenyns screamed and covered her face. From her place on the floor, Cecilia vaguely heard people beginning to come to life all around her, the rustle of the ladies’ skirts, and the vague cries from other servants nearby, but she could only gape at the ruined bust shattered on the marble floor.

“Lady Blackthorne!” Talbot cried, crouching beside her in an undignified manner for the proper man. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She let him help her to her feet and didn’t protest when he still clutched her elbow. “What happened?”

“I do not know,” he said, looking bewildered. “Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and realized something was falling.”

When he looked up to the first-floor balustrade, she did the same. They both saw the head and shoulders of Susan, one of the upstairs maids, her cap askew as she gaped down at them between the giant potted ferns that framed the opening. Then she promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, Lord Blackthorne, I’m so sorry!” the girl wailed.

Then Lord Blackthorne leaned over the balustrade at her side. “Is anyone hurt?”

Cecilia should have answered at once; she should have reassured him. But she kept staring at him, wondering why he wasn’t out shooting with Oliver.

Lord Blackthorne’s frown could have frozen a winter pond. “Madam? Are you well?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” she said, then cleared her throat. She refused to sound weak although, at that moment, her knees began to wobble. A strange little shiver seemed to work its way up her back until her neck ached. She put a hand there in distant wonder.

“Damn, stay still,” Lord Blackthorne called.

She swayed again, and Lady Stafford surged forward to grab her arm.

Cecilia blinked at her. “I’m all right. Truly I am.”

“You are too pale, Lady Blackthorne,” the other woman said, not releasing her. “I think you should sit down.”

Cecilia had no choice, as Lady Stafford and Talbot guided her backward until she sat on an overstuffed chair. She could hear her husband’s quick, uneven steps as he came down the marble staircase far too fast for a man with a cane.

She looked up as he limped toward her. “I am well,” she said, unable to stop staring into his concerned face.

Why had he been on the first floor near the maid? How could that slip of a girl have knocked over the bust? It had been created in homage to her distant great-grandfather, wreathed in jowls, as the man had been. The maid almost would have had to throw her shoulder against it and push.

“My lady?” Lord Blackthorne said, crouching before her chair. “Are you going to swoon?”

She straightened her spine. “I do not swoon.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said dryly. He glanced at Talbot, who stood on the other side of her. “What did you see?”

Talbot licked his lips and spoke sincerely. “Nothing except the bust falling forward. And Lady Blackthorne—” He broke off, his eyes a bit wide.

Cecilia touched his arm. “I will be fine. I’m simply in shock.”

“Nice of you to diagnose yourself,” Lord Blackthorne practically growled.

Then he lifted up both of her arms and turned them over, examining them as if she were a doll. She tried to pull away, but he ignored her, taking her whole head in his hands and running his fingers along her scalp, dislodging strands of her hair.

“I say!” she cried. “Is this necessary?”

The three older women stood together in a little knot and gaped at Lord Blackthorne’s familiar handling of her.

“I wanted to make sure you’re not bleeding.” He examined his bare hands. “No blood.”

“I could have told you that. I felt nothing.”

Nothing at all, except the surprise of seeing Lord Blackthorne right where the bust had been.

“What did you see, my lord?” she asked.

He grimaced. “Nothing. I’d greeted the maid as I passed, and then I heard the screams below.”

She stared up at him, unable to look away. Twice since he’d arrived, accidents had almost harmed her—almost killed her.

He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. “I must have startled her. It’s not her fault.”

Cecilia realized she could still hear someone sobbing. “Oh dear, I must go to Susan.”

She tried to push past Lord Blackthorne, but he caught her shoulders. “Your devotion to your servants is admirable, Cecilia, but you are as white as a flag of surrender. You should rest.”

Surrender? Hardly. “I’m fine.”

He released her only to take her elbow until she was on her feet.

“Susan?” Cecilia called.

The sound of the maid’s name set off fresh wailing from the far side of the entrance hall. Mrs. Ellison, the tall, thin housekeeper with spectacles perched on her nose, stood beside Susan, the plump maid who huddled on her chair clutching her dust rag. Giant tears seemed to smear the freckles that dotted her face. Mrs. Ellison kept a firm hand on her shoulder, and Cecilia realized with relief that it was meant to comfort.

Susan raised great wet brown eyes as Cecilia approached. On a hiccup, she said, “L-Lady Cecilia, I don’t know what happened. I—I never meant—” Sobs overcame her again.

Cecilia caught her chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “No one blames you, Susan. It was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”

“I didn’t think nothin’ happened!” she cried. “I don’t remember bumpin’ into anythin’. I was dustin’ the railin’, and I heard a man’s voice. I turned around, and there was Lord Blackthorne, havin’ just passed by. And then I heard the shouts.”

Just like her husband had said, Cecilia told herself, trying to calm her own breathing, although her lungs still felt too big for her chest, as if she couldn’t get enough air.

“Maybe your skirt caught on the bust,” Mrs. Ellison said in a kind but firm voice. “Can you remember that, Susan?”

The girl shook her head. “No, mum. It’s all awhirl in me head.”

“It’s all right,” Cecilia said, stepping back. “Why don’t you go have something to eat and drink in the kitchen, Susan? A good cup of tea will calm your nerves. Take the rest of the day off.”

Glumly, she mumbled, “Ye mean the rest o’ me life.”

“Of course not. You are a good maid. This was just an accident.” Maybe if she repeated it enough, she’d believe it herself.

Mrs. Ellison led the stoop-shouldered maid away, and Cecilia watched them retreat down the wide corridor. The quaintly dressed subjects of the portraits seemed to stare down, frozen in time, waiting for what would happen next.

Slowly, Cecilia turned and saw Lord Blackthorne regarding Talbot, who’d brought in the page to clean up the shattered stone. Her husband seemed to feel her gaze, for he met it with his own.

“I only returned because I’d left my pistol in my bedchamber,” he said, shaking his head. “I was on my way when ...” He trailed off, pointing at the mess.

“Oliver and Penelope must be waiting for you,” she finally said. “Go tell them everything is all right before they hear it from the servants and think the worst. I’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Webster, Lady Stafford, and Miss Jenyns then crowded around her, patting her like a lost little girl, leading her back into the drawing room for more tea. She felt like a lost little girl. Her mind was whirling with terrible thoughts, contemplating awful conclusions. It was just another accident, one part of her kept insisting. Another, deeper part of her whispered that she’d had two such accidents since her husband had arrived. But that could only be a coincidence.

The sun was shining in streaks through the French doors, dust motes floating like birthday decorations. The ladies kept up a steady chatter, and things began to seem more normal.

During the first accident, she’d tripped in the dark, she reminded herself. This time, a maid had been right there, dusting up above. These were accidents, they had to be, because it was impossible that her father would have spent years with Lord Blackthorne, in fierce battle and in quiet moments of dreadful anticipation, and not known what kind of man he was.

A fter the ladies had departed, Cecilia retreated to the study—once her father’s domain—and sank down in the leather chair that still smelled faintly of her father’s cologne and snuff. Or so she often told herself. She was surrounded by familiar and normal and comforting, and took several deep breaths, her hands on the ledger she’d been working on that morning.

Her mind felt blank, yet at the same time so full she couldn’t pull anything free. She was almost relieved when the door burst open with Oliver’s characteristic disregard of her work.

“What happened?” he asked brusquely, going straight to the bottle of brandy kept on the sideboard.

She let out a soft sigh. “I imagine you must know since you’re here.”

“Blackthorne went back for his pistol, and when he returned, he said you’d had an accident. The bust of Great-Grandfather Mallory sprouted wings or something. Mentioned it was his fault—something about distracting the maid? Made no sense.” Oliver took a deep sip, then sighed his satisfaction.

She calmly filled in the details, even as her brother collapsed into a deep chair and regarded her.

“Were you frightened?” he asked.

She gave him a faint smile. “Afterward, certainly. It was a close call.”

“Good old Talbot to the rescue.” He saluted her with his glass and took a deep swallow. “Why did you earlier keep Blackthorne from our shooting match?”

“The neighborhood ladies descended.”

“The three witches?”

She tried not to laugh, but it escaped her in a snort. Oliver eyed her with amused satisfaction. In these moments, she could forget her worries about him, the press of duty and responsibility. But he kept sipping his brandy, and her smile faded, knowing how the drink would affect him as the day wore on.

“They wanted to meet my husband,” she said at last.

“Can you blame them? You’d never even met him.”

She sighed. “Did you get in any shooting?”

“A few rounds, but Blackthorne seemed distracted, and after ruthlessly proving his domination, he came back to the Hall. He said he couldn’t concentrate.”

“Did he ... say anything?”

Oliver went to refill his glass, and his movements were already slower. “He said he learned to shoot as a boy, that the army improved him, and I could get better with practice. No need to do that, of course. I have servants to put birds on my dinner table.”

She nodded wryly. “But aren’t you men usually competitive?”

He shrugged. “Why? Too much effort. I have better things to do.”

“Like what?” she whispered.

He didn’t hear her, only saluted her again with his glass and took himself and his drink from the study.

T hat night, Cecilia paced her room, one end to the other, over and over again, trying to exhaust herself so that her mind would quiet and allow her to sleep. She kept replaying the day in her mind, remembering how Mrs. Webster had said the late Lord Blackthorne had been a fortune hunter. Cecilia’s husband hadn’t bought a commission—did that mean his family was short of funds?

But he’d asked for nothing from her.

It didn’t matter. Lord Blackthorne had no access to her funds, and even on her death, nothing would go to him but a small stipend. But does he know that? a voice whispered as if from a quiet hiding place inside her.

She was being foolish. There were many little things bothering her, but none of them added up to the serious crime of attempted murder.

She heard a knock from the dressing-room door and called, “Come in, Nell.”

The door opened, but it wasn’t her maid. Her husband stood there, paused on the threshold, wearing trousers and boots, in shirtsleeves with an open collar. His neck looked so ... exposed, from the deep hollow of his throat, to the bump of his Adam’s apple. And once again, her body reacted with heat, even if her mind told her not to.

“You’re not Nell,” she said dryly, realizing she wore only her nightgown, with a dressing gown belted over it. Her hair was loose in anticipation of a good brushing, and her feet were bare.

He leisurely studied everything she wore. He was her husband—she’d claimed him as such when it suited her but wanted to deny it now that he was here. She’d spent so many years in control of herself and her home that the threat of losing even part of that was so very real.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked quietly. “I could hear you pacing.”

“All the way from your room?”

“No, of course not. I’d come into the dressing room. But I wouldn’t have knocked if I thought you were asleep.”

And he still hadn’t even stepped inside but was waiting there.

“I could tell you to go,” she said.

“You could. And I’d go.” He leaned forward, one hand braced on the cane, the other on the doorframe. “I promised to give you time, and I’m keeping to that. But today ... I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

She gave a sigh. “Come in. But I trust you’ll tell no one you were here.”

He arched a brow as he limped forward and closed the door behind him. “I’m not certain what that would prove one way or the other. I’m your husband, and they’ll all believe—”

She held up a hand. “Stop. I don’t wish to discuss this tonight.”

He paused, as if gaining mastery of himself, but any struggle did not show on his face. It was remarkable how well schooled his features were. She wasn’t used to it, wanted to see every emotion written there—if he even had any deep emotion.

“Then we won’t discuss our marriage,” he said.

“We could discuss my brother. He said you offered to shoot with him, but after my accident—”

He grimaced. “He and I were both distracted. Mistakes happen that way, and I didn’t want to take that chance.”

She leaned both hands against the back of her dressing-table chair, feeling a bit foolish keeping the chair between them. “You have spent some time with Oliver. Do you feel like you’ve helped at all?”

He walked the few paces toward the window and looked out upon the full moon. “He is very young still, and I see his kind often, brash and arrogant, feeling entitled to do as he pleases from position and wealth.”

It hurt to hear his assessment, but she knew it was true—partly. “You don’t yet see the whole picture,” she said. “I’ve told you of the deaths, that Oliver wasn’t even meant to be the earl. Don’t you think that matters?”

“I do. I’m simply telling you the image he projects to the world.”

“Do you know he felt very bad that he wasn’t the one to rescue me from Sir Bevis?”

Lord Blackthorne glanced over his shoulder, surprise widening his eyes. “That is an interesting comment from him. And it shows promise. But he didn’t fling the man from Appertan Hall, and he still left with him.”

She bit her lip. “They’d all been drinking. I wish he’d stop. He uses it to forget.”

“That is part of it—some men would rather forget what hurts, what they can’t change, using alcohol to do so. It is a childish thing, like covering your ears and pretending you can’t hear bad news.”

She sighed. “What do others do to forget?”

“Strong people—like you—do just what you’ve done, go on with their lives. They don’t forget, but they learn to accept and put it in the past, since most things can’t be changed.”

She wondered if he spoke from experience, imagined the horrors he’d seen—maybe even participated in.

“So what do you do to forget?” she whispered. “What are you doing when you’re not with my brother, or not annoying me?”

“Annoying?”

Again, she thought she saw the faintest smile curve his lips, and it caught her breath, making her wonder how truly handsome he might be if he gave in to a softer emotion.

Oh, she didn’t want to think like this about him. He’d promised to stay on the other side of the world, after all. But for the rest of her life, even if they separated and never saw one another again, she’d remember him there in her bedchamber.

“I cannot possibly annoy you like your many suitors used to do,” he said. “Were there dozens of marriage proposals you turned down in your day?”

“You make it sound like I’m ancient.” But she was trying not to smile, even as she took another step closer. “And there were certainly not dozens.”

“A half dozen?”

She didn’t answer. It had been a long time since she’d bantered with a man, a year of mourning, and soon after, her marriage. They were alone in her room, and no one knew. She was surprised at the forbidden pleasure of it, had never imagined that this might attract her.

It was the danger, she realized, and felt a little shiver. He could do ... anything. And yet she didn’t ask him to leave, nor did she flee. A single candle kept him in the shadows, his broad shoulders filling the window frame.

“Tell me, Cecilia,” he murmured.

Again, she felt the lure of the familiar way he said her Christian name. She’d heard him use it just after the accident. It made her feel ... close to someone, not so alone, with the weight of so many responsibilities on her shoulders. Responsibilities she wanted, she reminded herself. And she was strong enough to accept them. But to Lord Blackthorne, she was a woman.

“You don’t want to hear about my suitors,” she said, finding herself at his side. They stared out on the moonlit gardens, where the pale light illuminated the strangest shapes, making it not the grounds she knew so well.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “They are all the men you turned down, so you could choose me.”

She almost choked out a laugh. “Choose” him? She’d turned to him in desperation. “Some were simply too young, others too old. And I loved none of them.”

“I didn’t realize you cared about such an emotion. I thought maybe you didn’t even believe in it, as if you were so very different from other young women.”

She shrugged, still not looking at him. With a prickling awareness, she realized he’d silently stepped behind her, and now she could see his face reflected in the window, above and behind hers.

“Love—love doesn’t matter in the management of great estates,” she said.

“So cynical for one so young.”

He very gently rested his hands on her shoulders. She tensed, but when he did nothing else, she didn’t pull away.

In a soft voice, he continued, “But others obviously believed that you married me because of my letters. Aren’t they misleading themselves into thinking that’s love? Or did you tell them something else?”

“I was vague,” she admitted. “I told them your letters were ... meaningful, and I allowed them to believe what they wished.”

“But I hear I was romantic.”

She was hot with embarrassment, with his nearness, with the crazy feelings that were surging inside her very blood. “You know you weren’t. You’re a practical man, Lord Blackthorne.”

“I’m sure others believe the opposite, that one would have to be very romantic to woo such a sensible woman as you into a wedding ceremony performed on the other side of the world from the bride.”

His hands weighed heavy on her shoulders, and without her skirts keeping them apart, he was able to stand very close behind her. She thought she could feel the brush of her dressing gown against his legs. She almost wanted to sway with abandon.

He was not making love to her with his words, but there was something about being alone with him, on the edge of danger, that made her realize now why good girls didn’t allow themselves to be alone with a man.

“Tell me the things that a romantic man would write,” he said, his voice growing huskier. “I have no experience in courtship, unlike you, with your half dozen suitors.”

He was moving his hands on her shoulders now, very gently squeezing, and it felt ... strangely relaxing. At the same time, she couldn’t imagine being any more awake and aware. His long fingers spanned her collarbones, dangerously close to the rise of her breasts. She could see in the window that his head was bent, as if he watched his own hands upon her. She couldn’t move—the moon and the night and his presence enthralled and held her captive.

She had to speak; surely that would break the spell. “I guess ... you could have written about the moon. That seems to captivate young lovers.”

“The moon,” he mused. “You think imagery would lure you into marriage?”

“Others were ready to believe it so.”

In the window, she could see his head lift as he gazed out on the English moon that loomed over the land with distant benevolence.

“I remember the moon,” he murmured, “shimmering in the night heat, rising over the ruins of a temple that was being swallowed up again by the jungle.”

It was difficult to swallow, difficult to find moisture, when her lips wanted to part. She didn’t remember India that way and didn’t like that he could conjure up such a vision with only words. She cleared her throat. “That imagery ... wasn’t bad.”

She wanted him to chuckle, to keep things light between them, but he didn’t. He was studying her in the window just as much as she was studying him. And then she realized that the dressing gown she’d clutched to her throat had now separated, the belt sagging, her neck revealed, along with the dark valley at the tops of her breasts. It was nothing he wouldn’t have seen as they danced a waltz in a ballroom, but they were so very alone in the night—in the bedchamber that by law he should be able to share with her.

Her trembling started again, and he must have felt it, for his hands slid to her upper arms, and he began to rub up and down, slowly, so slowly.

“Tell me more,” he said. “I want to learn what pleases you.”