“Perhaps if you spend time with him, you could help me make the decision about my marriage.”
“That’s easy. Annul the thing.”
“You know it’s not that easy. I like being an independent woman rather than a ward to my guardian, which I’ll be once again if my marriage is ruled invalid. Surely you can understand that since you’re about to reach your own majority.” Then a guardian wouldn’t be the one giving Cecilia permission to manage the estates—it would be Oliver. He could take it all away from her even if he wasn’t ready for the responsibility. She thought she had time, but truly, it was less than a year. Lord Blackthorne’s concerns about Oliver were valid.
Oliver frowned, then said reluctantly, “I do understand. But if he stays here, you won’t be independent for long.”
“That won’t happen,” she said quickly. “He’s a career man, Oliver. The only thing keeping him in England is his injury.”
“And perhaps you, Cecilia,” Oliver said, narrowing his eyes. “You have much to interest such a man, and not just your money. I’ve seen him looking at you.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, her voice suspiciously weak.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “You know you’re comely, Cecilia. Don’t make me compliment you.”
She almost smiled.
Someone knocked on the door to the family dining room. She gave a start, and Oliver called for the person to enter.
Talbot stepped inside and bowed. “Lady Blackthorne, you have visitors, several ladies of the neighborhood and Miss Webster. I have escorted them to the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Talbot,” she said. “I’ll be there momentarily. Please send tea and whatever cakes Cook has made today.”
He bowed again as he left the room.
Cecilia found herself watching Oliver’s face and felt relieved when his smile seemed to relax on hearing his fiancée’s name.
“I could tell Penelope you’d like to see her,” she said.
He shook his head and grimaced. “Wish I could, but I promised Blackthorne I’d shoot with him.”
She smiled. “Thank you for keeping the peace, Oliver. I knew you would.”
He shrugged and left, and she followed him out, listening as the footmen filed in behind and began to remove the dishes.
Cecilia followed the wide corridor to the public drawing room at the front of the castle. She heard the ladies even before she arrived, their voices carrying out into the entrance hall, echoing up the two floors. She smiled, feeling calmer than she had that morn.
As she entered, all four ladies looked up with varying expressions. Mrs. Webster was Penelope’s white-haired grandmother, a formidable woman who’d made herself important in the town social life by sheer will. She never let the lack of a title in the family impede her. Miss Jenyns was Mrs. Webster’s constant companion, plump and reticent and on the shelf for decades, who took her social cues from the other two ladies. Lady Stafford was far more congenial, with a twinkle in her eye that suggested one was in on her little jokes. She was just reaching her middle years, her dark hair glinting with strands of gray that she swore came from trying to find a husband for her daughter.
“Ladies, how nice of you to call,” Cecilia said.
Miss Jenyns blushed furiously and couldn’t meet her gaze. The spinster was able to compose herself when a maid entered the room pushing a tea cart, where iced cakes were displayed to entice.
They made small talk about parish events while Cecilia poured the tea and handed out refreshments, but she couldn’t help noticing that Penelope seemed ... nervous. Or maybe she was just distracted. After all, her beloved was somewhere on the premises, and perhaps she wished to be there.
But then she realized the cause of Penelope’s tension, when her grandmother set down her teacup and fixed Cecilia with a pointed gaze.
“Lady Blackthorne,” Mrs. Webster said, “I must admit, when I first heard several months ago that you had married a soldier who was still in India, I was ... surprised at your choice.”
Miss Jenyns watched her mentor with earnestness, while Lady Stafford gave Cecilia an encouraging smile, as if they both realized it was none of their business, but even she would like to hear the details. Cecilia had been permitted to get away with vague answers before, but now the actual man had arrived.
She sipped her tea and debated how to respond. “Mrs. Webster, after the tragedy, Lord Blackthorne’s letters gave me comfort. He had been with my father at the end and could explain so much. We shared sympathy and temperament, and I found I could write my feelings to him in a way I’d never cared to express with another man.” And that wasn’t a lie, she reminded herself.
Penelope was watching her with a soft expression, as if she hoped to share even a part of such wonder with Oliver.
Lady Stafford leaned forward. “That is a noble sentiment, my dear, and one we all can understand. But we’re so curious—what was it like when you finally met him? He just ... arrived at your door unannounced!”
Cecilia kept her smile relaxed and confident, knowing that her next answer would make its way about Enfield, and even into London itself. But she felt anything but confident, a new experience for her. She explained about Lord Blackthorne’s injury and his need to recover. “Surely he shouldn’t have languished in London, in pain, waiting for a letter from me?”
