“I don’t know what I believe.” To her dismay, her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cover the weakness. Was she really like her mother? Cecilia had tried so hard to be confident in her own worth, but her mother could never trust in that, could never trust the men in her life. Maybe Cecilia was the same way, and she’d never realized it. She didn’t trust Oliver to manage the estate; she didn’t trust Michael to be a husband to her. Those fears had made her mother a miserable, clinging woman who’d destroyed every small happiness that came her way.
It all came down to trust, and Cecilia didn’t know how to trust anyone but herself. How could that be, when she’d had such a wonderful father? Perhaps she thought no man could ever compare. Was a lack of trust the reason she never wanted to marry, why she was so content to take over the estates herself? Putting herself in someone else’s hands seemed like the worst mistake imaginable. It was better to be alone.
“We need to cancel this dinner,” he suddenly said.
He was standing near the window, looking out on the park, his expression cool and composed. Appertan Hall was just a place to him, but to her, it was an integral part of her life, as necessary as her blood. And somewhere out there was a person who wanted her dead.
“This dinner might have suspects,” she said. “You’re a soldier—isn’t it your duty to investigate?”
“I’ve already begun.” He glanced at her pointedly.
“You have? What have you learned?”
“I don’t have time to lay it out for you today—unless you’re canceling the dinner.”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
Then he came to her, so swiftly she almost fell back a step. He caught her as she began to sway, his hands cupping her waist, his face leaning toward her.
“I will keep you safe, Cecilia,” he whispered with urgency.
How could he? If someone who knew and loved her wanted her dead...
But no, that was a fatalistic attitude. The villain didn’t have to be Oliver. Perhaps there was someone else.
She stepped back, and Michael’s warm hands fell away from her waist. “Then I’ll see you for dinner,” she said.
He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then he pressed his lips in a straight line, nodded, and limped toward the dressing-room door.
He suddenly stopped, and said over his shoulder. “Don’t mistake a simple limp for weakness, Cecilia. I will ensure your safety, whatever I have to do.”
And then he left, and all she could do was hug herself. Sometimes she wished she were the type of woman who would fling herself into a man’s arms and beg to be rescued.
But she would never let that happen.
Cecilia spent much of the day in her bedroom, where Mrs. Ellison came to consult her about the seating for the dinner party and a problem with the menu. Cecilia was glad to think about something other than the suspicions buzzing endlessly around in her brain. When Mrs. Ellison hinted that they could still cancel because of the unfortunate accident, Cecilia firmly refused.
Late in the afternoon, Talbot informed her that Penelope and Oliver were awaiting her in the library. She would have preferred to talk to them at dinner, where she wouldn’t have to relive the accident again. But she had no choice. She went downstairs, glad for Talbot’s escort, and entered the book-lined room, with its leather furniture. She saw the way that Penelope glanced worriedly at the plain gown Cecilia was wearing, and Oliver stared at her over his brandy glass.
As Talbot pulled the door shut behind him, Cecilia looked down at herself, and said lightly, “You caught me before I could prepare for dinner.”
Penelope rushed to hug her, then gripped her upper arms and stared into her eyes. “You look as if nothing has happened!”
Cecilia felt as ancient and tired as a god who’d lost his powers. “Believe me, my aches and pains tell me otherwise.”
“There’s a bruise on your cheek,” Oliver said.
Cecilia touched it with her fingers. “I thought Nell did an admirable job hiding it.”
“But I know you too well,” he said, turning to refill his glass.
The tightness in her throat threatened to choke her, to cause a terrible waterfall of tears.
“Do you know who dug the hole?” Penelope asked.
She shook her head.
“Do you think someone meant to take down a deer?” Oliver tilted his head as he studied her.
