The Perfect Bride (7 page)

“Do you think Sir Rex is fond of her?” And even as she asked, she knew it was not her concern, but she was rather dismayed by the notion.

Meg stared. “I don't know, my lady.”

Blanche walked away thoughtfully. “Sir Rex is a war hero and a gentleman, Meg. I have known him for many years now. He is one of the most courteous and respectful men I know and I do not care what the gossips say. But his behavior is unusual.”

Meg bit her lip.

“What do you think?” Blanche asked, wishing Bess were present to tell her exactly what was happening with Sir Rex and Anne even though she should not be giving the incident another thought. Bess wouldn't—and neither would Felicia. They would laugh about it and then forget about it. Blanche hoped she would soon forget what she had seen, too.

“You want my opinion?” Meg gasped, her gray eyes wide.

“I do.”

Meg hesitated. “He's lusty, my lady, that's all.”

Blanche stared.

“It's lonely out here,” Meg continued. “Look around. We passed the village hours ago. Of course a handsome man like that would have a woman in his bed.” She added, “When he tires of this one, there will be someone else. That's how these lords are. And, my lady? I don't know if he cares for her or not. He isn't bedding the maid because he cares for her.” She blushed.

Blanche stared. Leave it to her maid to comprehend the situation, she thought. Sir Rex lived alone, in the middle of nowhere, and he was virile. Anne could ease his needs and it was as simple as that. She knew she was blushing now. And one day, he would take a new lover. His affair was not about affection, it was about passion. She felt more heat gather in her cheeks.

Bess fell in and out of
love
on a monthly basis. But she also freely admitted that her needs had nothing to do with love. The parade of men in her life was a parade of men Bess lusted after. The ton was filled with frenzied affairs. Sir Rex was having a passionate affair, as well. And now that she understood, she must stop thinking about it.

“Should I unpack your things? And what will you wear to supper?”

Blanche tensed. They had barely gotten past a terrible beginning, and as long as she kept a grip on her memory, as long as she remained composed, supper would be manageable, she thought. Perhaps by the evening, she could forget what she had seen, or dismiss it, and enjoy the evening. It was not her place to approve or disapprove of his choices, and she had always thought him an interesting man.

“Can you press my gray taffeta gown, Meg?”

Meg nodded. Blanche hadn't worn anything but gray since coming out of mourning. It didn't seem right to strut about like a fancy peacock.

As Meg began to unpack a trunk, Blanche walked over to a window. She faced the ocean below, pale gray now and sweeping into the horizon so it seemed to go on for an infinity, but directly below, violent, frothing waves now pounded the rock beaches. As magnificent as the scene was, there was no question now that she stood at the very tip of the realm, and she was acutely aware of it. An extreme sense of isolation swept her. Land's End was isolated, she thought. And with such awareness, she felt the enormity of the solitude.

The scene of endless ocean and dark rock, of pale beaches and towering cliffs, was stark, desolate and magnificent, very much like her host. And if she, one of society's great hostesses, felt such separateness upon gazing out at the view, if she could be so conscious of being so far removed from everyone and everything, what did Sir Rex feel when he went to his window? Could anyone live this far from society, on the edge of the world, so to speak, and not feel detached and alone?

Was Sir Rex lonely?

More unease crept over her, and with it, a sense of confusion. Blanche decided she was a bit too intrigued with her host. Still, she was a close family friend, and even his family was concerned about him. And she did not think Sir Rex could outmaneuver the countess, his sister and his three sisters-in-law, which meant his bachelor days were numbered.

He was hardly a perfect man. This afternoon had proven that. But he deserved more than a solitary existence on his Cornish estate, just as she deserved more than the Harrington fortune. Being kind and fond of his family, she wished him the very best. And she had not a doubt that when the day came that Sir Rex wed, he would give up his preference for housemaids. Somehow, she knew he would be a good, kind and loyal husband. All the de Warenne men were that way.

She didn't want to think it, but she did. He needed a wife, and she needed a husband. However, she had meant it when she said he would make a terrible husband for her. They were far too different, like night and day, and she sensed grave complications beneath his dark exterior. And his masculinity was far too overpowering for someone like herself. She didn't know why she had even thought about his future in the same breath as she had thought about hers.

She turned. Meg was shaking out the dove-gray. “Meg? I've changed my mind. I'll wear the green silk with my emeralds.”

H
E HAD TWO SERVANTS
in his employ. Frugal of nature, with no great economy to spare, he preferred to keep his household staff minimal. Now, Rex wished he had a chef. He wanted supper to be perfect. But Anne prepared his meals, while his manservant served as butler, majordomo and valet. Unfortunately, Fenwick had been attending to his errands that afternoon, preventing him from welcoming Lady Harrington properly and thus avoiding the fiasco of her stumbling in on him and Anne.

Rex never bothered himself with the day's menu. He did not care what was served—he never entered the kitchen. He could not even recall if he had ever done so. Now he swung in, perspiring with anxiety. Anne's meals were fair. And Anne was now bustling about frantically. Pots simmered on the stove. He could smell roasting lamb. He instantly noted a stable boy stirring one pot, and he was pleased she'd had the initiative to order young Jon to her side. He saw cold pheasant pies on the sideboard. “Anne.”

She whirled, flushed from the kitchen's heat, never mind the two widely opened windows. “Sir!”

“Is everything in order for supper?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, wringing her hands and appearing anything but calm.

“Where is Fenwick?” He somehow managed to sound calm, but he'd had no help with his tie and cuff links and he'd been royally annoyed. And now, it appeared that Anne was in over her head.

When he'd had the countess as a guest, an elderly woman had been his housekeeper and she had been a good cook. There had been no other visitors since.

“I sent him to the village for a pie.”

His tension did not ease. It was an hour to the village, another hour back, and he was afraid that Fenwick would not return in time to serve them. “When will he be back?”

Anne seemed nervous. “By eight, I think.”

He just stared at her, wishing she hadn't sent the manservant to the village and that she'd planned to serve up custard instead. He could not imagine Anne serving them and hovering about while he attempted polite conversation now. It would be impossibly awkward. His temper sparked, rekindling the frustration he'd felt all day. It was as if one rotten incident after another was destined for him. However, Lady Harrington had agreed to spend the night and tonight they were dining together. His heart slammed. One good thing had happened after all. He prayed he'd seen the last of all disaster. He wanted to
impress
her.

“We will be dining à la Française,” he said softly.

Anne looked helplessly at him, and he realized she was near tears.

He softened. “You will leave every course on the table. We will help ourselves.” Then, “Do not worry. The lamb smells wonderful.”

Relief covered her features.

Just then, Blanche's maid stepped into the kitchen. He was surprised; she curtsied properly at him. “Why are you not with your lady?” he asked, far more sharply than he intended.

“Lady Harrington is in the hall,” she said softly.

His heart turned over, hard. He was going to have to control his anxiety and his excitement, he thought grimly, or she would realize he had an inappropriate attraction to her. He nodded at her and swung out, tugging at his necktie as he did so. He had almost donned tails, but that would have been absurd. Instead, he'd chosen pale breeches, a silver waistcoat and a fine, dark brown jacket. At least his appearance was impeccable, he thought.

He stepped into the great room and faltered.

Blanche stood by a window, gazing out at the night sky, which shimmered with stars. Clad in a silvery moss-green gown, with a low-cut bodice and small chiffon sleeves, her pale hair curled and swept up, she was impossibly delicate and impossibly beautiful. He was going to have to face the fact that he had always thought her beautiful, but he had done so in a very respectful way—most of the time. Now he simply stared, because they were alone in the great hall of his home. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms, cover her mouth with his own, and damn, taste her very thoroughly. But that was never going to happen. Unfortunately, in that moment, the events of that afternoon entirely forgotten, his body betrayed him and he felt his loins stir.

She turned, smiling.

Her composure seemed to have entirely returned. His admiration for her increased. He would give anything if she had truly forgotten about his rendezvous with Anne—and if she thought it irrelevant to his character.

“Good evening. You look as if you have rested.” He bowed very slightly.

Her cheeks were slightly pink, as if rouged, but he knew she used no artifice. “I did nap a bit. Am I early? I see your other guests have not arrived.”

He hesitated. “There are no other guests, I'm afraid.” Had she expected polite company?

She started. “Oh, I had assumed there might be company…I am sorry. It doesn't matter.” Although her tone was even, her flush increased.

He smiled grimly, wondering if she was dismayed that it would be but the two of them. “I am afraid I am not well acquainted with my neighbors.”

“But you have been here for many years.”

“Yes, I have.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Now she understood the extent of his reclusive nature, he thought even more grimly. He wished to somehow explain. “Having no hostess, I do not entertain.” And that was not the truth—he despised polite, inane conversation, and hated being pursed by other men's wives.

Her smile returned. “I am sorry, Sir Rex, I simply assumed you would invite your neighbors. But this is better, is it not? You are the only de Warenne I am poorly acquainted with.”

His heart accelerated. She wished to know him better? He was amazed…he was thrilled. But of course, she was simply making conversation, wasn't she? Or did she mean her words? “I can only hope I do not bore you with inept conversation.”

She smiled. “I do not recall your ever being an inadequate conversationalist.”

He decided not to point out that their conversations over the years had been extremely limited in duration. “Would you care for sherry or wine?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you,” she said.

He swung on his crutch to the bar cart, aware of her gaze wandering the room. He poured a glass of red wine and faced her. He was startled to find her gaze locked upon him. She smiled and glanced aside; he wondered if his clothing was wrinkled, or in some other manner lacking. The silence became awkward and he worried about the supper that was to come. “Has everything been to your liking? Is there anything else that you need to make your stay a pleasant one?”

She quickly smiled. “There is nothing to complain about. Everything is perfect. Your mother made the chamber most accommodating.”

There had been plenty to complain about, he thought wryly.

“I have noticed your collection of arms,” she said.

He started. “They were my arms in the war.”

“Yes, I realized that. It is an interesting display.”

He stared. “You don't like it.” And the words tumbled forth without his anticipating them. They were not a question. He somehow knew she disliked the collection.

“Oh, I did not mean to critique your decor.”

“Lady Harrington, I am certain you would never criticize the most slovenly servant, much less your host. But I am curious. Why do you dislike my display?” He wanted to know. He wanted her opinion.

She hesitated. “I am hardly ignorant,” she finally said. “I have heard many accounts of the war, and one of the charities my estate funds provides housing and many other services for veterans who, unlike yourself, can no longer make a go of it.”

His brows lifted. “Are you referring to the Society of Patriots?”

“Yes, I am.”

The society was a tremendous boon to those crippled and maimed by the war. He was impressed, and although it was impossible, his admiration for her grew. “I take it your father became fond of the cause?”

She shook her head. “Father allowed me to manage our charitable contributions. In a way, we had a partnership. I ran Harrington Hall and made the decisions for the allocation of all donations, while he managed all the Harrington properties and the Harrington fortune.”

He hadn't realized she was more than a lady and a hostess. “Is that why you dislike my display of arms? Because it is a reminder of the war—and how it ruined so many lives?”

She inhaled. “That is one reason, yes. Unlike most ladies, I find nothing romantic about the war.”

He stared. “You are right,” he finally said. “There is nothing romantic or pleasant about war.”

Their gazes met and held.

“And the other reason you dislike my display?”

Blanche hesitated. “I am not certain, but I do not feel pleasant when I look at that display. In fact, I feel saddened by it. Why do you wish to see those arms each and every day? Isn't the reminder painful for you?”

He flinched. Another man would have brushed her terribly direct comment off. He did not. “Men died under my command,” he said. “Of course the reminder is painful.”

Her eyes widened.

And Rex smiled politely at her and turned the subject to the weather.

 

T
HE LAMB TASTED
like cardboard. She had no appetite, but she forced herself to finish half of her plate just as she willed herself to remain calm. But every time she looked down, she felt Sir Rex staring at her. She was accustomed to his stares, but not like this. At a ball their gazes might meet once or twice, a dozen people between them. She might even send him a smile, or he might do the same to her. This was entirely different. It was awkward. An odd tension seemed to fill the room. His stare was oddly masculine and terribly searching. It even seemed bold. She wished he had invited others to dine with them. It was simply too difficult, two strangers dining tête-à-tête like this, especially after the crisis of that afternoon.

How could one small incident unbalance her so?

They had managed to keep a polite, if stilted, conversation going; it was a miracle, from her point of view. Still, finally, a long and awkward silence had fallen.

From the corner of her eyes, she watched his hands. They were darkly tanned, big and strong, the fingers long and blunt. Yet his hands moved with extraordinary grace—just as he did, in spite of the crutch he used. Watching his fingers touch fork and knife, she thought about his hands on Anne.

Her heart lurched and her body almost ached. She could not imagine what was wrong with her.

He said slowly, “I have been thinking about Penthwaithe.”

Blanche swallowed, relieved to be discussing a proper topic. She tore her gaze from his strong hands and looked up. She was scorched by his dark, intent gaze, yet she smiled firmly.

“What will you do if you find Penthwaithe in the condition I believe it to be in?”

“I hope you are wrong. But if you are correct, I will begin some repairs.” She noticed that he hadn't eaten a thing—but he had finished most of the bottle of wine. She'd taken a single sip from her glass.

The gossips also said he drank too much, sometimes before noon. She had always thought it an unfair accusation, and she suspected it was untrue. He was too industrious to imbibe without control and discipline.

“Would you allow me to join you on the morrow, Lady Harrington?”

She was stunned and their gazes met. She could not imagine sharing a coach with him. Before she could respond, he said, “I am concerned with the condition the manor may be in. I have a strong sense that you may need my assistance—assuming there has not been a bungled mess made of the titles.”

The request was perfectly proper—and she might need his assistance. But could she manage an entire day alone with him when she was barely able to navigate her way through a simple supper? It would help if he did not watch her so closely. It would help if she could really forget seeing him with the maid. Unfortunately, that scene would remain etched on her mind for a very long time. And in the confines of her coach, they would be seated far too closely together, making the memory very hard to avoid. Besides, his presence was too masculine. It would be so much better to avoid it—him—at least until she felt more firmly in control of herself.

She glanced at his strong hands, willing herself not to open up her mind to any memory of that afternoon. “I hate to put you out,” she somehow said. “You surely have many affairs to attend here.”

“You cannot put me out,” he insisted. “My own affairs can wait. I am very concerned, and as a family friend, I think I must accompany you.”

She tensed. He was insisting. “Penthwaithe may be in a fine condition. I am assuming all is well and I will be moving my belongings there.”

His stare was unwavering.

“Of course you may accompany me.” She inhaled. The last thing she wished to ever do was insult him and there was no graceful way to refuse.

He nodded, his jaw flexing.