Talbot closed the door behind Sergeant Blackthorne. “Shall I send a tea tray, Lady Cecilia?”
She cleared her throat. “To the drawing room, Talbot. Thank you.”
With his hat off, she could see Sergeant Blackthorne more clearly, brown hair disheveled and damp. His face was broad and harsh, stark cheekbones beneath intelligent, impassive brown eyes. He had a square chin and jaw, and eyebrows that seemed like slashes on his skin. With his cane against his thigh, he swept off his wet cloak and handed it and his hat to Talbot, who then silently melted away into the gloom.
Sergeant Blackthorne had a soldier’s body, none of the lean grace of the refined men she was used to. She could see the expanse of muscles in his arms and thighs, as if his civilian clothes no longer fit quite properly. Heat rose into her cheeks with her unusual awareness of him.
And then she remembered she’d invited him into the drawing room. She turned, her skirts swirling, and led the way. The drawing room had once been the great hall of the ancient castle, but over the years, her ancestors had refined it, with clusters of sofas and chairs scattered about, and a pianoforte in one corner. But there was no civilizing the massive fireplace as tall as a man, and no one had ever suggested removing the swords and shields dominating the high expanses of the walls although large landscapes and portraits hung below.
To ward away the autumn chill, she’d been sitting near the coal fire in the hearth, and she led him there.
“You must be damp from your journey,” she said, trying to find polite conversation when her mind was racing.
He stood near the coal grate for a moment, both hands braced on the cane, his head lowered to the warmth. Then he glanced at her from beneath his dark, heavy brows, and she felt as if a thread went taut between them, connecting them there, alone together in the storm-darkened room.
“Forgive me for arriving unannounced,” he said in a low voice. “A letter would have traveled at the same speed. I did not intend to return to England anytime soon, but then I was injured, and ordered home until my health improves.”
“You are recovering, Sergeant?” She clasped and unclasped her hands while she studied him too closely.
“I am.”
He did not elaborate, so she continued on, “I hope your wounds were not serious.” For a man who could write interesting letters, he did not speak easily although she didn’t need the sound of his voice to feel his very presence taking up the space all around her.
“Shrapnel. There were several pieces they could not remove from my leg without risking further damage. The cane will become unnecessary soon enough, then I will be able to return.” He paused and slanted a look at her. “Normally, such a wound would not merit this much recovery time, but my superiors knew of the circumstances of our marriage and insisted.”
She bit her lip, then sat down at last, smoothing out her skirts with trembling fingers.Thecircumstances of our marriageindeed. He’d gone along with the marriage—at her request, of course. She’d desperately needed access to her funds. Sergeant Blackthorne had seemed like the perfect solution in those desperate, sleepless hours when she’d paced the nights away. She hadn’t wanted to marry, couldn’t risk being controlled by any of the men of her acquaintance. They’d all seemed so eager when they saw the riches of Appertan Hall—or when they’d admired her form rather than shown interest in any conversation. With Sergeant Blackthorne, she’d thought she was marrying an elderly compatriot of her father’s, one who would die sooner rather than later, to be blunt about it.
But, this ... this healthy, intimidating, overpowering man upset every decision she’d made for herself. She couldn’t stop staring at him, and he seemed to be feeling the same way. It heated her skin, sweeping up from her chest to flood her face. She’d never blushed so much in her life.
Why had thisyoungman so easily agreed to marry her?
She gestured to the chair across from her. “Please sit down and rest, Sergeant.”
He did so, very slowly, as if the ride there had stiffened his leg, and she regretted his discomfort. But at least she could breathe again, now that there was a small table between them.
Except that he stared at her so very intently. “Your miniature does not do you justice, my lady,” he said softly, as if he did not often make such a statement.
“You are too kind.” Her fingers clenched in her skirts. She didn’t want him to admire her face or form, to assume ... oh, she couldn’t even think it. “But I have never seen a portrait of you, sir. I must confess, I thought you much ... older.”
He arched one dark brow. “Did I do something to give that impression?”
“My father’s letters about you made you seem such a close friend. I made assumptions.”
Thunder rolled deeply outside, startling her.
“You wanted to marry an elderly man?” he asked. “I did not know anything more was required of me than my very presence releasing you from your guardianship. I wanted nothing of you but the chance to help. I asked for no dowry, no control of your finances.”
“And I thank you again for your generosity and discretion.”
She’d been picturing an older man at the twilight of his life, wanting only to assist the daughter of his late close friend. A young man in his prime, without title or fortune, could very well have other motives.
She always prided herself on her intelligence and sensible nature, but she was as flawed as any other desperate woman. And she’d given this stranger power over her.
Or had she, she thought, swallowing back a desperate hope. Marriages by proxy were risky and were sometimes invalidated. But she didn’t want to go back to being a woman under a guardian’s control, her money withheld as if she were a child, all say in her own life restricted.
She would have to consult her lawyers—but how to explain herself to her relatives and friends? She’d already said she’d fallen in love with the sergeant’s letters. It would be fickle to say that now that she’d met him in person, she’d changed her mind.
His expression remained impassive. She was used to men who showed their emotions freely—her father’s happiness and passion for life, she remembered sadly; her brother Oliver’s moody outbursts. But, of course, he hadn’t always been like that, she thought, stark, sad memories teasing the edges of her mind. She could remember playing games as she chased him through the gardens of their bungalow in India, their footsteps on the crushed shell path, their laughter.
