The Perfect Bride

And of course, she was not for him. She would one day inherit a vast fortune, and she would marry a great and probably impoverished title, not a thirty-year-old knight who toiled like a common laborer on land no sane gentleman would ever wish to possess.

And he still couldn’t grasp the fact that she had not looked at him with any condescension.

He cleared his throat. “May I ask why you are on your way to Penthwaithe?”

She smoothed her pale gray silk skirts with innate grace, a color that suited her eyes and her hair. “I have decided to escape my suitors,” she said wryly. “Do you recall my friend, Lady Waverly? She suggested Father’s estate.”

He stared, mind racing. Everyone knew that Blanche Harrington had no wish to wed. He had always been certain that one day she would change her mind, and apparently, he had been correct. “What does Penthwaithe have to do with Harrington?”

She blinked. “I have just learned the manor is a part of the Harrington fortune. I am afraid Father kept me in the dark about his affairs, and now, of course, I must make sense of them.”

He became even more perplexed. “I was under the impression that Penthwaithe belongs to a gentleman who so prefers the city that he has allowed it to fall into utter ruin. I am not sure there are even any tenants.”

She sat up straighter. “You must be mistaken. Penthwaithe belonged to my father. My solicitors have recently found the title to the estate.”

“You have used the past tense.”

Her eyes went wide. “You do not know?”

He did not like this. “I do not know what, Lady Harrington?”

She hesitated, their gazes locked. “Father passed.”

He was stunned. “I had no idea!” he exclaimed. And then, knowing how close Blanche had been to her father, how she had doted on him—and he on her—he was stricken for her. “Bl…Lady Harrington, I hadn’t heard. I am so terribly sorry!” The urge to touch her—perhaps even take her hand—overcame him, but he would never do such a thing.

She continued to gaze at him, absolutely tearless, fully composed. “Thank you. He passed six months ago—he was stricken with pneumonia and it happened quickly. I have just come out of mourning.”

He finally took a chair facing Blanche. He could not quite believe her composure. Her father had been the center of her life. Had she shed all of her tears, vanquished all grief, in six short months? He was doubtful.

And as much as he had always admired her, the one thing he had wondered was what it would take to shake her seemingly unflappable composure. He had always known great passion lay beneath the perfect exterior. He had even wondered, when thoroughly besotted, what she was like in bed.

Well, if Blanche still grieved, she would never do so in company. For all he knew, she wept privately every night, as was her right. And he had finally shaken her composure—with his little tryst. But she had bounced quickly back.

And he realized his admiration for her had increased. It was ironic, because he had little doubt that any admiration she had held for him, was now in ashes.

“I wish I had known,” he said. “I would have come directly to London to offer my condolences personally.”

She smiled at him. After a pause, she said, “I hadn’t realized you didn’t send your condolences.” She glanced past him, out of the window.

Anne entered, bearing a sterling tray with a porcelain teapot, two cups and saucers. As she set the items down on the small table near Blanche, he told her he would serve. Surprise flicked in her blue-green eyes. “Sir Rex, allow me.”

He tensed. “I will pour,” he insisted. He knew the offer had been made because he had one leg and she did not realize he could get up and pour tea in spite of the injury. He despised pity and he adeptly served her first.

When he was seated with his own tea, he saw that the sun was now beginning to set. Outside of Bodenick, the sky was stained crimson over the darkening moors. Instantly he was concerned. “Lady Harrington, it is an hour to Penthwaithe. And frankly, I am worried about there having been a mix-up in estate affairs. And even if not, I am certain you cannot possibly find decent accommodations there.” If he offered, would she stay the night?

Blanche set her cup and saucer down. And she looked at him—right into his eyes. “I doubt I have a choice.”

His heart turned over hard. How could he not offer her accommodations? She would refuse—she had to hold him in scorn now. And although gentlemen did not sleep with their servants, he did consider himself a gentleman, or at least, he had been raised to be one. “I may have a solution—although I do not know if it will interest you.”

“I am all ears,” she said softly, the angelic smile he so often recalled in his dreams finally appearing.

He hesitated, then plunged on, trying to sound casual. “Bodenick is rather spartan, as you can see. But I have several guest rooms, and one, the countess has furnished for her own comfort. It is yours if you so wish.”

Her eyes widened.

He wet his lips. “And of course, there is a room for your maid and lodgings for your coachman and footmen in the servants’ wing.”

She smiled again, fully. “Thank you. I would love to spend the night here, Sir Rex.”

BLANCHE KNEW she kept staring at the housemaid as the pretty woman set a pitcher of water on the table beside the four-poster bed. The chamber was very pleasantly appointed in shades of gold, green and beige. A small settee in gold brocade was at the foot of the bed, facing the stone hearth. The bed had dark green coverings and two gold floral Persian rugs covered the floor. The walls had been painted bright yellow and a cherrywood armoire graced one wall, while a secretaire adorned the other. There was one plush moss-green chaise. The countess had clearly furnished this room, making it warm and inviting.

Sir Rex stood just behind her, remaining in the hall. Blanche was acutely aware of his presence. He cleared his throat. “I hope the chamber suits.”

Somehow, impossibly, she had found most of her composure in the aftermath of her shocking discovery. Her composure and common sense had always been terribly important to her. But for the first time in her life, it felt fragile—as if it might vanish in an instant, with very little provocation. It felt as if she must fiercely cling to it, or face a vast, bottomless gulf of confusion. And in order to do so, she must not recall her memory of that tryst. She must not think about Sir Rex’s extremely passionate—too passionate—nature.

She found a smile, anchored it firmly, and turned to face him. “The room is lovely—perfect, really. I cannot thank you enough.”

“It is my pleasure,” he said. “Supper is at seven, but if you need anything, simply send your maid.” He bowed.

Blanche smiled, relieved when he turned to stride rapidly down the hall. His presence was simply too much to bear. Meg remained in the hall, wide-eyed, while Anne slipped past them both and hurried after her lord…and her lover.

Blanche instantly collapsed on the settee. He was as virile as the rumors said. All composure vanished. “Open a window, please,” she managed.

Meg rushed to do so, her expression one of vast concern. “My lady, are you ill? You have been behaving so strangely!”

Blanche closed her eyes tightly and gave up all pretense. And all she saw was Sir Rex, impossibly masculine, terribly handsome, straining over that woman, a mass of wet, glistening flesh. So much muscle, so much strength and so much passion, she thought wildly. Opening her eyes, she tried to cool her cheeks with her hands and she tried to breathe. She was spinning in a whirlwind of confusion.

Meg handed her a glass of water, looking very frightened now.

Blanche accepted it and sipped until she had regained some fragments of composure. She must somehow forget what she had seen. She must never think of Sir Rex in a moment of passion.

“Find me a fan, please,” Blanche whispered. If she did not erase the incident from her mind, how would she dine with Sir Rex at seven?

His dark, and yes, frankly handsome image came to mind. She softened then, because as embarrassed as she had been, she had seen the mortification in his eyes. Compassion began.

What kind of man isolated himself at the end of the world, rarely coming to town? What kind of man dallied with a housemaid in the middle of the day? Why did he prefer servants to ladies? Surely there was a plausible explanation, for Sir Rex was neither crude nor base. And most importantly, why was he unwed at his age?

“Do you have a fever?” Meg asked worriedly.

It was incomprehensible. Blanche handed her the glass. She hated gossip—as it was usually malicious in intent. But now, she wished to understand her host—and she needed a confidante. “I will tell you why I am distressed, if you swear you will tell no one what I have seen.”

Meg nodded, clearly surprised that her mistress wished to speak with her in such a way.

“I intruded upon Sir Rex while he was with the housemaid—in a moment of indiscretion.”

Meg gasped in comprehension.

“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.