The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HE 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