“When I meet Lord Hanbury, perhaps I’ll see your problem.”
“Lord Hanbury was my guardian. Lord Doddridge is Oliver’s. Oliver ... chose him when he inherited the earldom.”
Lord Blackthorne went still. “Excuse me?”
“Lord Doddridge was a friend of my father’s, but a man more prominent in London. Oliver chose him as someone who would understand what a new earl was going through. Regardless, this doesn’t matter to me right now.”
“Of course it does. Appertan will turn twenty-one within the year, and no longer need a guardian at all. But if you’re under guardianship, you will not be able to so easily control him or the estate—your reasoning for our marriage, I believe. That—and access to your funds. You may do as you please financially, yet I will keep you from scandal, keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he answered back, just as softly.
Then he touched her arm, and she flinched.
“What do you need protection from, Cecilia?”
She pulled away from him. “You’re being ridiculous. I am perfectly safe. Now let’s walk if we’re going to do this.”
To her relief, he remained silent, both of them inhaling the autumn scents of harvested grains and the richness of the earth being plowed for the spring wheat crop. He didn’t try to come up with awkward conversations, for which she was grateful. Gradually she relaxed, letting the peace of the countryside soothe her as it always did. Her tenants were growing used to them both and no longer sent him suspicious glances—although they should, she reminded herself.
When they crested a low hill, they could see the New River winding its way toward London, and the windows of Appertan Hall glittering in the rising sun, as they’d done for hundreds of years. Cecilia looked upon it all and knew that her family had taken good care of it, encouraged growth, and protected its people. And within the year, Oliver could change all that if he didn’t mend his ways.
Lord Blackthorne said, “Let us have our picnic here.”
From within the basket, he removed a blanket and awkwardly tried to spread it out himself.
“I might have overdone it boxing yesterday,” he said ruefully.
She straightened out the blanket, surprised he would admit any kind of weakness to her. “Shall I help you to sit?”
He arched a brow. “I am not in my dotage yet, Cecilia.”
She raised both hands in surrender even as she knelt. “You’re the one who said you were feeling stiff today.”
He smoothly lowered himself to the ground with the aid of the cane. “Shall we see what Cook prepared?”
It was a feast of sliced ham, bread with butter and jam, several apples, and cider in a corked bottle. Cecilia was glad to have something with which to busy her hands. Lord Blackthorne watched as she unbuttoned and removed her gloves, as if even such innocent skin fascinated him. The wind caught her hair, loosening the occasional curl, and she kept impatiently tucking each behind her ear. Then, to her surprise, Lord Blackthorne caught her hand, and with the other, he slowly slid the hair behind her ear, letting his bare fingers linger. She shivered, and had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered, imploring him.
“Don’t what?” he answered in a husky voice. “Touch my wife? We are in public, in the middle of the façade you created.”
She stiffened. “That is unfair.”
“I know, but it’s the truth. Now you say we are to hold a dinner party tomorrow. Like the ladies from Enfield—”
“Who will be there,” she interrupted glumly.
“—will others believe you were enraptured by my way with the written word?”
She looked down at her knees almost touching his thigh. He leaned back, bracing himself on one hand, the better to see into her face, she knew.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How shall I behave? What would you like me to do? And don’t say ‘disappear,’ because that will not happen.”
She tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. She saw his expression relax, those dark brown eyes softening. She felt trapped there, trying to see into his soul.
