Return of the Viscount by Gayle Callen

the glass doors. Penelope smiled, casting sidelong glances at the other ladies for their reactions. Mrs. Webster had her lorgnette closely affixed to her eye again, and Cecilia wondered if it was Lord Blackthorne’s turn to feel as inspected as horseflesh. Lady Stafford just smiled and looked him over, a bit of surprise shown, then hidden away. Miss Jenyns blushed and lowered her face to sip at her tea.
    â€œLord Blackthorne,” Cecilia said, “allow me to introduce my dear friends, Lady Stafford, Mrs. Webster, and Miss Jenyns.”
    He bowed, then sat in a chair across from their little group. Cecilia felt she had no choice but to take the chair at his side. He seemed so very masculine, his hands dwarfing the teacup he accepted from her.
    â€œI fear I know little of your ancestry, my lord,” Mrs. Webster said, peering at him now through her lense. “What part of England do you hail from?”
    â€œBuckinghamshire, Mrs. Webster.”
    â€œAnd your family?” she prodded again.
    â€œMy mother still resides in our country seat, along with my unmarried brother.”
    â€œAnd you never came to London for the Season?”
    â€œNo, madam, and neither has my brother.”
    â€œEligible bachelors, connected to a title, ignoring Society?” Lady Stafford mused, her eyes glinting with humor. “How very rare.”
    Lord Blackthorne said nothing, merely took another sip of his tea.
    Miss Jenyns ogled him with occasional glances from the corner of her eye. Penelope kept looking back and forth from Cecilia to her husband, as if she awaited something really interesting to happen. Cecilia suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
    â€œLord Blackthorne was in the Eighth Dragoon Guards under my father’s command,” she said.
    â€œAh, a cavalryman,” Mrs. Webster said with apparent relief, as if she held to the standard belief that a mounted soldier was far superior to one in the infantry. “And where did you serve, my lord?”
    â€œMost recently in Bombay, India, madam.”
    â€œDid you see much action?”
    He glanced at his leg. “Some, but it is nothing I would discuss in the company of ladies.”
    â€œWar must be . . . quite ferocious,” Miss Jenyns murmured, her eyes wide. “I heard about all those poor soldiers who died in that massacre in Afghanistan.”
    Cecilia watched Lord Blackthorne’s face, and saw the faint touch of sadness like a ghost in his eyes. Thousands and thousands of soldiers, women, and children had died, picked off by Afghani sharpshooters in the mountain passes during the retreat from Kabul. The newspapers had claimed it one of the worst defeats in the history of the British Empire.
    â€œA soldier is trained to handle all manner of tasks,” he said, “and actual battle is only one of them. Often it is more a matter of perfecting skills while simply waiting.”
    He didn’t want to speak of those who’d died—perhaps he’d known too many of them.
    â€œThen patience is important to a soldier,” Lady Stafford murmured. “I imagine that helps when one is newly wed.”
    Cecilia tried not to blush, for that comment could be taken so many ways—as Lady Stafford probably intended.
    Lord Blackthorne only nodded.
    â€œYou must have been anxious to meet your new wife,” Mrs. Webster said.
    It was as if the ladies were taking turns trying to get something—anything—out of him. Cecilia felt tense as thread in a loom, realizing that she and Lord Blackthorne had never discussed how they should explain their marriage.
    â€œBut I understood he had a duty to perform,” Cecilia said, trying not to sound like she’d cut him off before he could speak. “I was content with his letters until such time as we could be together.”
    â€œA good writer is rare,” Lady Stafford said. “Lord Blackthorne, you must be exceptional to win the heart of