At last Lord Blackthorne punched Oliver, but even she saw it coming, and her brother blocked it easily, grinning. Then Lord Blackthorne hit Oliver in the ribs, so quickly she barely saw the blur of his arm. Oliver grunted and danced back out of reach. Lord Blackthorne didn’t grin or taunt or do anything other than look focused and intent—deadly.
She remembered the story her father had written, about Lord Blackthorne’s ordering his men to fire although a woman might die. He’d honed himself into a weapon on behalf of England. He was dedicated to guarding the lives of his men. Her father’s daughter, she knew the costs of war, even in her own family.
Let the men play their little games; she enjoyed her work. Lord Doddridge, Oliver’s guardian, would be arriving the next day, and there were preparations to see to for the dinner party. Searching for the housekeeper took her down a floor, into the main public rooms—past the door to the green drawing room.
To her surprise, she heard the voices of two footmen and the new page as she approached.
“—a lot of blood,” one of them said, followed by the boy’s snicker.
“Blood?” she cried, glancing into the now-open doors of the drawing room and seeing that Oliver and Lord Blackthorne had gone.
The two footmen, Tom and Will, brothers alike in height, blond good looks, and gold-buckled livery, exchanged a glance even as they straightened like soldiers to attention. Francis, smaller and darker, copied their behavior, sticking out his chest.
“Who was bloody?” Cecilia demanded, staring each of them down.
“Lord Blackthorne had a lot covering his shirt, milady,” Tom volunteered. “He and Lord Appertan helped each other off to their rooms—we think.”
Helped each other? she thought, aghast. Had Oliver somehow hurt Lord Blackthorne? How much blood were they talking?
And then she saw red droplets scattered on the floor, and for just a moment, she remembered the crash of marble, and how close she’d come to having her own blood seep onto that floor.
“Lady Cecilia, are you well?” one of them asked.
She didn’t answer, could only think of blood. And then she started running.
She practically flew up the stairs, through corridors that seemed endless, to the family wing, where she passed her own door and the dressing-room door, before flinging open Lord Blackthorne’s.
Standing in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his cane, he seemed to move so slowly as he faced her. And then she saw all the blood staining his shirt, could see nothing else.
“Oh, God, oh, God, where are you hurt?” she cried, running toward him.
She felt frantic as she pulled at his shirt, heard a button pop.
“Cecilia,” he murmured, trying to cover her bare hands.
She pushed him away, pulled his shirt apart, imagining a terrible wound to cause so much blood. This time, her husband trapped her hands flat against his warm chest, then spread them wide so that she could see.
“I’m not injured,” he said quietly. “Your brother had a bloody nose.”
She blinked at his chest, still feeling shocked rather than relieved. Beneath her hands, she felt the contours of muscle, the faint brush of chest hair. This was what a man’s chest really looked like beneath his garments? She’d never visited museums in London, but Hannah used to write of such things to her, and Lord Blackthorne’s chest seemed to match those long-ago descriptions.
“Cecilia, why are you so upset?”
He pulled her closer, her hands still spanning his chest, her body pressed against his.
He whispered, “Tell me what is wrong.”
And in that moment she almost confided everything in him, that someone might be trying to kill her. Everything would change then. He’d never leave her alone, and she’d be trapped in this marriage for all time.
She raised her gaze from his chest and up to his face. He was leaning over her, holding her against him, closer than a waltz, so imposing and dangerous, but she didn’t want to run away. She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her palms, the rise and fall of his breath. Her own breath was coming too quickly, her lips parted. He was staring at her mouth, his gaze full of a stark hunger that shocked even as it lured her.
And then he leaned closer, until their lips almost touched, and his whispered words mingled with her own breath.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
She had a moment to stop him, knew he was giving her that choice. But she didn’t turn away, only trembled as his mouth gently touched hers, soft kisses that dampened her lips, explored them, but never frightened her. She swayed into him, and he pulled her even harder against him until she was standing between his spread thighs, her skirts all tangled about them.
The kiss’s very restrained gentleness drew her more than wild passion, as if this strong soldier reined himself in just for her because she was precious to him. It was she who couldn’t seem to get close enough, she who began to part her lips, not knowing if she wanted to taste him or devour him.
