Return of the Viscount Read Free

assumptions.”
    Thunder rolled deeply outside, startling her.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œSince I was in England, I wanted to see to your welfare, my lady,” Sergeant Blackthorne said. “I could not in good conscience visit my mother without seeing how you fare first.”
    â€œI appreciate your consideration, Sergeant.” She prided herself on being able to judge a person’s character, but in so brief a time, Sergeant Blackthorne seemed utterly blank to her, except for the very cloak of masculinity that made him so different from her. The letters from him she’d once enjoyed now seemed foreign to her.
    She mustn’t forget his history with her father. He’d opened himself up to her in his letters, granted her request though it had cost him his freedom from a marriage of his own choosing. She should be grateful—but she could not banish her suspicion.
    â€œYou are the daughter of my commanding officer,” Sergeant Blackthorne continued, “a man I held in the highest esteem. His death—” He broke off from whatever he meant to say, and his gaze went to the window, where the rain streaked down in rivulets. “He taught me what it was to be a man and a soldier. I will never forget my debt to him.”
    He’d obviously looked up to her father, as had she. But she’d also resented his dedication to his regiment, the Eighth Dragoon Guards, for the many sorrows it had caused. It had made her mother miserable, and the older Cecilia got, the more her mother had confided that misery.
    â€œSo you consider me a debt,” she said slowly.
    â€œNo,” he said, then spread both his hands. “What am I to you?”
    She stared at him, and was glad when Talbot himself, rather than a gawking maid, came into the room with a tea tray. Cecilia could only imagine how the servants’ hall was buzzing with news of her mysterious husband’s arrival.
    â€œSince dinner is some hours away,” Talbot said to her, “I had Cook prepare sandwiches for Lord Blackthorne.”
    â€œYou are using an incorrect title, Talbot,” she said absently, still obsessed with staring at the sergeant.
    Talbot hesitated. “I have