The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
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halted before her. Did she really think to pretend she had not witnessed him making love to his housemaid? He stared, and for one moment, before she ducked her head, their gazes locked.
A fist seemed to land in his chest, hard. It winded him. She had always had the most beautiful blue-green eyes, tipped up wildly at the outer corners, and he had forgotten how petite and lovely she was. But he had never seen her like this—trembling and flushed with distress and dismay. It took him a moment to speak. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he said harshly.
“I am on my way to Penthwaithe,” she said, her strain evident in her tone and the fact that she now refused to look at him. “But knowing your home was so close by, I thought to call here, first.”
Penthwaithe? He was confused. He had never been to the manor, but his understanding was that the owner resided in London and had left the estate in near ruins. Why would she be on her way to Penthwaithe?
She slowly looked up at him, her smile fading.
He became still, looking into huge eyes that were wide and mirroring so many turbulent emotions, he could not decipher any of them. Blanche Harrington always had the appearance of an angel—her smile genuine, kind and terribly serene, her grace unshakable. Suddenly he was looking at someone he did not quite recognize. She was an elegant woman of outstanding character, and he had to have distressed her greatly with his display of depraved lust. Other women might have enjoyed such a show, but she was not one of them.
“I must apologize for offending you,” he said thickly. He truly hated himself.
“You have not offended me!” She was firm, but he caught a slight tremor in her tone. “It is a lovely afternoon and I should have gone directly to Penthwaithe and sent you my card, giving you some notice of my intentions. I must apologize for inconveniencing you, Sir Rex. But we were chilled through and through and when no one answered the door, we hoped to warm ourselves in your hall.” She breathed. “Your home is lovely, sir. Just lovely.”
He could not stand seeing her in such a state of discomfiture. And worse, she was now apologizing to him. “You could never inconvenience me,” he said as firmly. “You must not apologize. Of course you should have come inside to sit by the fire.” His mind raced. Should he play along with her as if he hadn’t seen her watching him make love to Anne? It would be easier for them both, he thought grimly. They could casually converse, the kind of idle chatter he despised, until she went on her way.
His heart lurched with even more dread. They had conversed briefly no more than five or six times in as many years, and suddenly she was at his home in Cornwall. He despaired. He had never wanted her to see him as he truly was, and he wanted absolution, although he knew he would not ever gain it. But some noble part of him couldn’t allow her to leave until she knew how sincerely he regretted his immoral behavior.
He inhaled. “Please, Lady Harrington, accept my most profound and sincere apologies—”
She cut him off, which was shockingly rude. “The fault is mine, to call so precipitously!” she cried breathlessly.
Aware of turning red, and in disbelief, he said, “Please accept my apologies…for not having seen your coach in the drive…and for failing to greet you properly…or having a servant at your disposal.”
The fluttering smile vanished and she stared. He somehow stared back. Although disguised, he had tendered his terrible regrets and she knew it, but would never admit it openly. He desperately waited for her response.
She smiled oddly. “If you must apologize for…not remarking my coach, then I must accept that apology! However, I realize you are not prepared for company. I am not…distressed… that a servant failed to usher us inside. I am so used to the ton, or my group, anyway—we call at whim, without our cards…we are such a close circle of friends!” She laughed, and he realized he had never heard such a forced sound. “I simply forgot the country is so different!”
He could not decide how deeply she condemned him—and he could only be relieved that she would act so gracefully now. Her behavior was generous, but then, that was the kind of lady she was. She wouldn’t stare coldly or sneer. She would not go home and gossip, either. Of that, he had not a doubt.
“It is so cold in Cornwall!” Her words jerked him to attention. And she smiled, shivering. “We will be on our way. Clarence needs to water the team, however, if you do not mind.”
He breathed hard, relieved that the terrible subject was over. “Of course you may water the horses,” he said.
He turned away to hail his own grooms to aid her servants. He felt her gaze on him as he did so, and his tension escalated impossibly. But an insincere round of graceful apologies was not going to mitigate any awkwardness. Surely he was now the object of her scorn.
He felt as if the irony might kill him. He had always wished to impress her with his manner, secretly wanting her to admire him in some small way, and instead, he had allowed her to glimpse his true nature.
When the team was being led to the stables, he returned to find her standing silently with her maid. Before she noticed him, he noted her grim, even glum, and very strained demeanor. And now, he noticed that the tip of her nose was red from the chill of the day.
He took one last breath, watching her. Somehow they had weathered this crisis, even if only superficially. Somehow the waters had been smoothed over, even if beneath lay huge, frightening currents. And they were on speaking terms. But now what? He remained terribly embarrassed. So, clearly, did she. He had no right to invite her in for some refreshment, but she was chilled, and that is what a true gentleman would do. He was afraid she might refuse the offer—and that would be a rejection he deserved but dreaded. On the other hand, what if she became ill, and all because of his uncontrollable virility?
He had never dreamed Blanche would magically appear at Land’s End. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years. He didn’t have to even think about it to know he had last glimpsed her at the Carrington ball, when his sister-in-law had made her debut into society. Two years was a terribly long time. And now she was about to leave.
It was more than embarrassment. It was more than a fear for her catching a chill. He did not wish for her to go. Not now, not yet.
The sun had been pale and amber in the sky; now, it burned gold.
I am a fool, he thought grimly.
For what he really wished was to pass a pleasant call with her. But how could he possibly achieve that now?
Before he could debate any longer, he took his chances and spoke with great care. “Lady Harrington, it is late afternoon and you seem fatigued. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some warm tea?”
She turned slowly, unsmiling. And she hesitated, clearly indecisive. “It has been a long journey from London,” she said. “I am not that chilled, but my poor maid is frozen and has been so all day. If I am not imposing, I would love a cup, as would Meg.” And her wide eyes gently met his.
And he thought he saw so much uncertainty there. “You could never impose,” he said gruffly, but he meant his every word. He managed a stiff smile. “Please.” He gestured and she preceded him back into the house, calling for her maid to follow. And then Anne met them in the hall.
He knew he blushed. He was dismayed but his other servant was off the premises. He was careful not to look at Blanche now. “Anne, I will need tea for two and sandwiches, if you will. And please show Lady Harrington’s maid into the kitchens, so she might take some refreshment, as well, and warm herself there.”
Anne nodded before leaving with the other maid.
Rex watched Blanche stare after her. He didn’t have to glance into a crystal ball to know she was wondering about his relationship with the housemaid—and possibly recalling what she had just seen. But when she realized he had noticed her gazing after Anne, she flushed and jerked her eyes to the window. “I had no idea the coast here is so beautiful.”
“If you decide to walk upon the beaches,