The Perfect Bride (39 page)

Blanche threw her arms around him. “Sometimes I don't recognize myself,” she whispered honestly. She had never been as enraged as she had just been with Anne. She had never been so happy, either. And at night, in Sir Rex's arms, she was as passionate as a courtesan.

“Then it is fortunate I always recognize you,” he murmured.

Blanche looked into his darkening eyes. She touched his jaw, loving the stubble. “Maybe Meg should take some dinner while we unpack our things.”

“Yes, maybe she should.”

 

A
WEEK LATER
, Blanche sat beside Sir Rex as he halted a one-horse gig on Lanhadron's main street. He had taken her to town for some shopping and a small lunch at the inn. They were on their way home, as it was late afternoon, but he turned to her. “Do you mind waiting a moment while I run into Bennet's to see if my cigars have arrived?”

Blanche smiled at him. “Of course I don't mind,” she said. “When you have patiently let me purchase a dozen flowerpots and vases.”

He set the brake on the gig and stepped down to the street. “I like the changes you are making at Bodenick,” he said. “It now looks like a home.”

Blanche had spent the week planning the decor for the new tower rooms and the expansion of the gardens behind the original tower. Sir Rex had already hired additional gardeners, who were busy planting shrubs and flower beds, and her next efforts would be for the courtyard. “It is a home. It is our home,” she said warmly.

He smiled at her. She watched him cross the nearly empty street, filled with contentment. Who would have ever thought married life to be so pleasing and so fulfilling? And she did not miss town at all.

Her mother's pale image came to mind, tense with fear. Blanche wasn't as afraid of her memories now, because she'd had several headaches, but they had not been accompanied by fits. Her memories appeared as suddenly and as frequently as her grief. Now, she thought about her mother, filled only with sadness.

She thought she heard musical pipes of some kind.

She knew it was her imagination, but she turned, and she heard a violin very clearly. Blanche stared down the street, suddenly seeing several oddly colored wagons approaching, in shades of red, blue and yellow, surrounded by a crowd of people. In that instant, as the jaunty tunes became clearer, Blanche realized a band of gypsies was entering the town.

She forgot about her mother, staring at the approaching crowd. She had never seen genuine gypsies, just the occasional fortune teller at a fair or market.

Men, women and children were walking down the street alongside their bright wagons, colorfully dressed. Villagers came out of their shops and homes to line the street and watch the parade. The women, clad in rainbow-hued skirts and blouses, threw flowers at the men. A tall dark man in their forefront paused to speak with the ladies and children. She saw him sweep two very pretty young ladies a courtly bow. They giggled, blushing.

Blanche hugged herself, glancing toward the store across the street where Sir Rex had gone. She reminded herself that he was a moment away but she couldn't help it, she hated public crowds and being a married woman now wasn't going to change that. Tension stiffened her as the first gypsies approached, led by the swaggering dark man.

He was tall and handsome, clad in high boots, breeches and a white lawn shirt, and he wore a brilliant crimson sash. He saw her and smiled, his manner friendly enough. Blanche didn't smile back. She glanced across the first wagon as it passed by, toward Bennet's. Sir Rex was nowhere in sight.

Her heart was racing with some anxiety, and she told herself, very firmly, that they were harmless enough, by day, anyway, and except for their low station in life, they had little in common with the mob that had murdered her mother. But she was an intelligent woman and she didn't need a gypsy's crystal ball to know that this kind of event might throw her back into the day of the riot. She waited for her head to pound.

The dark gypsy veered in her direction, the second wagon now passing her gig, along with some skipping children. “My lady, you don't seem in a festive mood. Can I possibly change that?” His smile was engaging, as were his blue eyes. He had a cleft chin, deep dimples, bright teeth and curly hair. He was the kind of man most women would swoon over.

Blanche almost smiled back, as his smile was very infectious. “I will be in a festive mood when my husband returns,” she said softly.

He paused, his gaze moving slowly over her face, and a broader grin appeared. “A woman in love is a beautiful sight, indeed. A woman in love with her husband, more so. You must be newlywed.”

“You are very impertinent,” Blanche said, but she smiled. “Yes, I am newly wed.”

“Then congratulations are in order,” he said, and he swept her a dashing bow. “Now, when you are less wed, you might think of me sometime. I shouldn't mind.”

Blanche felt herself relax entirely. “I will never be less wed,” she said softly. “You must flirt elsewhere.”

He laughed, clasping his chest over his heart. “I am distraught, fair lady.”

“Blanche!”

Blanche whirled at the sound of Sir Rex's voice. He was across the street and she instantly knew he was frightened for her. Although some small apprehension remained, she felt a niggling relief, and she waved, to let him know that she was fine.

The dark gypsy turned to follow her gaze. “A strong handsome fellow—undoubtedly possessing both a title and wealth. Clearly a gypsy prince cannot compete.” He swept her another bow and strode off.

Blanche turned to stare after him, amused as he had wished for her to be, and then she glanced at the passing gypsies and their wagons. Through the band, she saw Sir Rex standing, seeming distressed but unable as yet to cross the street. Blanche breathed deeply, allowing her racing heart to subside. The last wagon passed and Sir Rex swung rapidly across the street. He seized the gig door, opening it. “Are you all right?” he asked, pulling himself up to sit beside her.

“Yes, surprisingly, I am,” she said, moving closer to him.

His gaze was searching. Then, “Were you afraid?”

“A little.” She thought about it. “But the fear was softer. I didn't have to fight memories. I thought about the gypsies in comparison to the mob, but that was all.” She finally smiled as a profound realization began. “I was never in danger of slipping away.”

“Good.” He took her hand and kissed it. “You are getting better, Blanche. I can see it in the color in your cheeks, and I can see it in your eyes.”

 

B
LANCHE STARED AT HERSELF
in the mirror. Sir Rex was right, she thought, regarding her reflection very critically. Her appetite had returned and she had gained a touch of weight, enough so that her face did not have such a gaunt appearance anymore. And a soft pink color tinged her cheeks, while her eyes were no longer clouded with fear and despair. In fact, her eyes were shining and bright.

Blanche touched her face.
I am pretty again,
she thought, and she smiled.

She was healing. If a parade of gypsies could not undo her, what would?

Her smile faded as she thought about her husband. She had fallen in love with him months ago as his guest here at Land's End, but she had never thought to adore him to the extent that she did—or to want him so urgently, so often. And he was healing, too.

When she woke up in the middle of the night, he lay soundly asleep beside her, his arm flung over some part of her body. He had not isolated himself from her once to sit and brood with a bottle of brandy. In fact, he no longer took an after-dinner drink at all. But that was undoubtedly because he had repaired his relationship with his son. Yet she also thought it was because of her love and their love for each other.

Blanche smiled, trembling and somewhat faint. It had become an unspoken agreement, but after supper he gave her a quarter of an hour or so and then he would appear at their chamber door and sweep her into his arms and their bed.

He was outside now, speaking with the head groom. Blanche recalled his grim, fearful expression in the village when he had assumed the worst. She thought about the way he looked at her and watched her while they made love, until his own passion erupted.

It was the high afternoon, and her body had become tight and feverish, yearning for his. Blanche turned and walked over to the window overlooking the courtyard and beyond, to the stables and pastures. Sir Rex stood almost directly below with the head groom, Ted, holding a prancing young stallion. Both men were engrossed in a conversation and ignoring the young horse's restlessness.

Her mouth became dry. She was deeply in love with her husband. He had become everything to her—friend, lover, spouse and that anchor she could always reach for. She had survived a brush with insanity, thanks to him, and finally she was on the mend. She was feeling almost normal, except the old Blanche Harrington was gone. Instead, a woman of substance remained—a woman capable of great joy and great sorrow, of great passion and love. And her husband was also in love with her.

Staring down at him, her heart swelling with emotion, Blanche reached up to pull a pin from her hair, at first unthinkingly. Then she pulled another one, realizing she was undressing. She wasn't ashamed—she was intent. She pulled a third and a fourth and her hair began to spill from its coiffure. Silently, she waited. Suddenly Sir Rex looked up.

She stared down at him and their gazes locked. In that moment, she felt his sudden interest. Blanche began removing the last of the pins slowly, one by one, as he stared up at her. She reached up and used her fingers to comb her pale hair into soft, errant, shoulder-length waves. She never took her gaze from the man she had wed.

He finally faced the groom, who led the horse away. Below, Sir Rex moved toward the front door, vanishing from her sight.

Blanche trembled as her flesh swelled with anticipation and need. She undid the top buttons on the back of her dress, and was struggling to reach another one when the bedroom door opened.

Sir Rex paused there, his gaze filled with heat, a very rigid line in his breeches. His gaze moved over her face, her hair, and then to the collapsing bodice of her dress and to her bare shoulders. He closed the door and thudded forward. “I have been helping the gardeners plant that huge tree you insisted upon,” he said softly as she turned her back to him.

Blanche closed her eyes as his hands skimmed her bare shoulders before moving to the remaining buttons on her dress.

“I am hot and I have been perspiring,” he said, as he opened the last buttons, his blunt fingertips deftly skimming her skin as he slid the gown to her waist. He held it there.

Blanche shifted her weight against him and felt a shocking sense of pleasure and even triumph as her buttocks pressed into his hard manhood. In response, his hands closed on her waist. “I don't care,” she said.

Throbbing against her now, he slid the dress and petticoat down her hips and let them pool between them on the floor.

Clad only in a frilly corset, silk chemise and lace drawers, Blanche remained still for one more moment, allowing his huge hardness to continue to swell between them, against her. Then, slowly, she turned and slid her hands into the open neckline of his shirt. His skin was wet and hot. His eyes blazed.

Blanche ran her palms over his hard chest, across his tightening nipples, aware of Sir Rex becoming impossibly tense and still. She pulled the shirt apart, not quite meaning to rip it, and she pressed her mouth to his sweaty skin. He gasped.

Blanche tried to move closer, and as she began kissing his chest, she brushed herself against his manhood. Then she slid her tongue across his skin. It was salty.

“Blanche,” he said harshly, a protest.

Blanche smiled against his flesh. “You have tasted every inch of me,” she whispered, and then she sent her tongue across his nipple.

Sir Rex gasped again, this time closing his hands on her hips and pulling her hard against his arousal.

Blanche scraped her teeth across him and he groaned. She slid her hands lower and seized the waistband of his breeches. Sir Rex became absolutely still, except for his heavy breathing.

She unbuttoned them, whispering, “Come with me to bed.”

“You don't have to do this,” he said thickly.

She smiled as he sprang up against her hand. “I want to love you the way you love me.”

He choked, sitting on the bed. Blanche bent over him and finally tasted his hot, slick flesh. Sir Rex seized a hank of her hair, grunting, and passion blinded her. With her tongue, she scraped and laved his length while she hollowed so greatly, only he could soon fill the empty space.

He cried out and suddenly she was beneath him, in his arms, as he pulled her drawers away. He held her face, kissing her deeply, with the same frenzy she was feeling. Instantly Blanche shifted to welcome him. He slid deep; he slid home.

 

“D
ID THAT GYPSY SAY
something to you to turn you into a shameless hussy?”

Blanche laughed, snuggling in Sir Rex's arms. “I am afraid someone has turned me into a shameless hussy, but it was not a vagrant gypsy.”