The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
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End. Blanche walked up to the house, pleased with the purchases she had made for the Johnson family. It had been impossible to dissuade Sir Rex from making an equal contribution.
She was at present thoroughly preoccupied. Once, she had had a vague interest in Sir Rex de Warenne. If anything, that interest had been a result of their being family friends. She was thoughtful now. They were becoming well acquainted in a very short period of time. Clearly she was becoming somewhat intrigued with her host. She wasn’t certain what to make of that, as she had always been a bit intrigued, but from a very safe distance. Nothing felt safe any longer, especially when she allowed herself a vivid recollection of the previous afternoon. That tryst was unforgettable. But it wasn’t as shocking today as it had been yesterday.
Meg came running out of the house, followed by Anne, who was walking more slowly. Meg was beaming; Anne sent Blanche an odd, sidelong look. Blanche didn’t quite care for it, but she couldn’t decipher it, either, and she dismissed it.
“My lady, did you have a pleasant day?” Meg beamed. “Did you enjoy your box lunches?”
“It has been an unusual day,” she told Meg. “We will not be going to Penthwaithe after all.” She hesitated. “Sir Rex saved the day.”
Meg’s eyes widened; Anne glanced her way.
Sir Rex, who had been speaking to her coachman, now came forward. “I had Anne pack us boxed dinners, in case we needed them.” He turned to the maid, who had retrieved a wicker basket from the coach. “Please take our luncheon inside to the dining room. Lady Blanche must be famished and we will dine there immediately.”
He was thoughtful, she realized, and meticulous. Blanche stared at his handsome face for so long that his brows lifted. “Lady Harrington?”
Her heart flipped disturbingly. “I am ravenous.” She hesitated. “It’s a beautiful day. Can we dine al fresco? Meg mentioned you have a magnificent view from the tower gardens.” Supper had been awkward last night, the dining hall somehow too small for them both. With her sudden interest in his character, it would be better to dine outside. It wouldn’t be as intimate.
He seemed mildly surprised. “One can see all the way to America, or so the locals claim, but the gardens are dormant now.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Are you certain you will not be cold? You have been outdoors most of the day.”
If she hadn’t intruded on him in his tryst yesterday, she would still consider him a perfect gentleman. “I am enjoying the brisk air.” She smiled, not looking at him.
Had Bess thought to match them because she knew he had the strength and integrity of character to help her manage her fortune?
Sir Rex was staring closely, but she refused to meet his gaze. He said, “Anne, bring Lady Harrington a warm throw.”
He gestured and she preceded him around the castle and past the tower. She paused. He was right. Here, one could see all the way to America, or, it seemed that way.
For the gardens ended where the land vanished into the ocean, and while she knew cliffs were below the final precipice, they could not be seen. Today the Atlantic was as gray as steel, but shimmering with iridescence. Gold and orange sparkled on the water’s surface. “Oh,” she breathed.
“A school of fish has passed. They leave a metallic display in their wake,” he said softly.
And he stood so closely behind her that she felt his breath feather her neck. Blanche leaped away, putting a polite distance between them, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. His body hadn’t touched hers, but it might as well have, for she had felt his heat.
She was undone. She could hardly breathe and she didn’t understand such an intense reaction to his proximity—which had certainly been a mistake.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” he said, turning away. His tone was rough.
She refused to let her mind release her memory of him with Anne. She refused to even begin to consider what that rough tone meant. Instead, she quickly perused the gardens. Blanche saw rosebushes, wisteria and beds for daffodils and tulips. Meg was laying out a plaid blanket; Anne was opening the basket. Rex smiled casually at Blanche and swung over to the maid. “Bring a bottle of white wine and two glasses,” he said.
“This must be beautiful in the summer.”
“As I said, you must return.” He smiled at her.
Blanche felt her heart turn over now. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but he had a beautiful smile and it was a shame it was used so rarely. If he spent more time in London, he would not be single; some beautiful young lady would have snapped him up. She had not a doubt. His fortune was modest, but he had other attributes and not every debutante was a fool for charm. In fact, it was really odd that he had yet to marry.
Had Bess really thought to match them?
She stared at his strong profile as he watched her maid laying out their luncheons, and briefly an image flashed, one of bulging muscles and powerful shoulders, of the wet glistening skin of his back, his chest. Not entirely insistent, a tension began, accompanied by an odd ache. She deliberately looked across the dormant gardens, trying to imagine what she would plant if she lived at Land’s End. She might try lilacs, she thought firmly.
She felt his gaze. She glanced up and caught him staring boldly at her. The look was almost seductive and far too male. For one more heartbeat, as if unaware of her gaze, as if deeply in thought, he did not smile; he simply stared.
He preferred housemaids to ladies; he was industrious and resolute; Bess thought to match them.
He flushed, glancing away. She hurried to the blanket, sitting so swiftly she lost her balance, but then, she felt entirely off balance now. Fussing with her skirts, she felt her cheeks flame. A picnic now seemed to be the very worst idea, but how could she possibly escape?
And what had that direct and potent glance meant?
She had probably imagined it, she thought breathlessly. And damn Bess for her little conspiracy, anyway!
“Lady Harrington?” He sat beside her, laying his crutch carefully on the grass.
She summoned up a bright smile, aware that escape was impossible. She must find a stimulating subject! “Wine is a splendid idea!” And now, too late, she wished to recover her composure and wear it like armor.
He stared searchingly. “Sometimes when I look at you, I see worry written all over your face.”
Her eyes widened. He was not a gypsy and he could not read her mind.
“I would like to take that worry away. The Johnsons will get on nicely until the spring. If you wish, I will make their welfare my personal concern.”
He assumed she was worrying about the family, she thought, relieved. “Thank you. I am worried about their welfare. It would be very noble if you kept an eye cast their way.”
His stare skidded over her and she knew he thought her behavior odd. He handed her a plate of cold chicken and salad. She focused on her food. But it became impossible to eat, because he sat very closely by her. In fact, sharing a small blanket was far more intimate than being seated across from one another in his dining hall.
“I heard that the earl and the countess will be celebrating their anniversary in May,” she managed.
“Yes,” he said, pausing as Anne appeared with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. He thanked her and she left. After pouring, he handed Blanche a glass and lifted his plate. “It will be a family affair. I am looking forward to it.”
“They seem as fond of one another now as they ever were,” Blanche remarked, after taking a small bite of chicken. Her interest in food had waned.
His appetite seemed fierce, however. But he did look up. “They love one another deeply. They were both widowed when