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’dnever 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.
That 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.”
