Appertan ignored him and stalked to his dressing room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 11
Oliver didn’t often join Cecilia for luncheon—he was usually either still asleep or just having breakfast. She was surprised when he arrived, and relieved, too, so she didn’t have to spend the meal alone with Lord Blackthorne. Her husband watched her too closely, and she kept remembering being alone with him in her bedroom and feeling far too intrigued.
Oliver looked from Cecilia to Lord Blackthorne, then rolled his eyes. “This newlywed shyness is beginning to bother me.”
“Shyness?” she asked archly. “I have never been shy a day in my life.”
“You wouldn’t guess it from the way you behave around Blackthorne. You contracted this marriage, sister dear, so deal with it.”
Affronted and embarrassed by his frank language, she said, “Oliver! This is none of your business.”
“You’re making it my business by having him live in my house.”
“You just haven’t given each other enough time.” Cecilia tried to remind Oliver with her narrowed eyes that he’d promised to help her with Lord Blackthorne.
“We don’t seem to care for the same entertainments,” Lord Blackthorne said, leaning back in his chair to watch Oliver.
“You’re men,” she said. “Do something—manly!”
They regarded each other, Lord Blackthorne impassively, Oliver full of sulky defiance. What had happened between them? Only last night, Lord Blackthorne thought that Oliver might be redeemable. But not if they couldn’t find a way to spend time together.
“A manly sport might do the trick,” Lord Blackthorne said at last, “but I imagine a young man who drinks and socializes has not made the time.”
“I fence!” Oliver practically snarled.
“No sharp weapons,” Cecilia said. “I don’t trust either of you.”
“Do you box?” Lord Blackthorne asked. “My brother Allen and I often passed an afternoon testing each other’s defenses.”
Oliver straightened and slowly smiled, as if he knew the best secret. “It just so happens, I do box.”
“But then again, you are much younger than I am,” Lord Blackthorne continued. “Allen and I were close in age, almost equals. It made for interesting fights.”
“And my youthful energy will negate your experience, old man,” Oliver shot back.
If Oliver thought he could box, let him try, Cecilia thought wearily. “Then your afternoon entertainment is taken care of, gentlemen. I will occupy myself.”
“That’s wise,” Lord Blackthorne said. “Such a sport isn’t for a lady’s eyes.”
His implication that she couldn’t handle it mildly stung. “Indeed? I would faint at the sight of all that blood, is that what you’re saying?”
“I promise not to drain too much from his veins,” Oliver said smugly.
Cecilia wanted to wince at his attitude. Couldn’t he see how much ... larger Lord Blackthorne was? Her husband was a cavalryman—trained to fight!
But the two men both seemed quite pleased with themselves, and she was the irritated one. When at last she finished her sturgeon and peas, she went to her study. Though she tried to concentrate on the projection of sheep to be driven to market this fall, and the eventual profit, she kept speculating about Oliver’s boxing ability. He did spend time in London, and men seemed to enjoy that sort of exercise, or so they often told her when trying to impress her at dinner parties.
At last she gave up any attempt at concentration and left her study. She still felt uneasy roaming the corridors of her own home, but after two “accidents,” she was doubly attentive. She hated feeling vulnerable, nervous, and almost felt like she was skulking from room to room. Or was she just being foolish, as even Penelope thought?
She found the two men in the green drawing room, with ceilings two floors high, just like the entrance hall. She was able to hide within the small curtained balcony overlooking the room. She was relieved that she didn’t hear the sounds of an audience cheering, for it wouldn’t do to have servants watch their master should he lose. The two men had rolled back the carpets and pushed furniture out of the way. They’d already removed coats and waistcoats, even collars and cravats. Lord Blackthorne had tugged his sleeves up to his elbows, and she saw his brawny forearms, which surely were the size of Oliver’s biceps—or so she remembered.
She wanted to groan at the foolishness of men, who couldn’t just have an intelligent conversation to discuss their differences—no, they had to prove it with their fists.
They faced each other, fists raised, Oliver circling, lighter on his feet than her limping husband, who basically stood in place, favoring his wounded leg. How could this be a fair contest? Oliver jabbed with his right, but Lord Blackthorne blocked it easily. Oliver tried a few more punches, and when he couldn’t get past his opponent’s defense, settled back and circled again, obviously waiting to see what would happen.
They were both sweating, their fine shirts beginning to cling. Swallowing, she couldn’t help noticing once again that Lord Blackthorne had a soldier’s body, hewn for combat, all threatening muscle. She wanted to be wary of him, but, instead, she was full of admiration and curiosity and an unsettling almost-ache that she couldn’t define.
