“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?”
