The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
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successful marriages in town were based on a deep affection. Still, she had many reservations about him. His drinking worried her. That display of arms worried her even more. Whatever had happened in the war, it haunted him and was causing him great unhappiness. She would dismiss his reclusive nature; he could come and go in town as he pleased. The truth of the matter was that his virility caused her the most hesitation.
He obviously had extreme needs. She had none. He undoubtedly required a passionate partner, and Blanche knew that woman was not herself. Many couples had separate bedrooms. However, if they had separate bedrooms, he would wish for a mistress, and of course, she would have to look the other way, with absolute indifference. She would be indifferent, wouldn’t she? And what about children?
She was jumping ahead of herself. She was considering Sir Rex as a candidate, in spite of the reservations she had about him. And she still didn’t know why he remained a bachelor, and she certainly didn’t know if he might be persuaded to enter a union with her even if she decided to ask him for one.
And if she did tender a proposal, and he accepted, then what?
Anne had wept in pleasure in his arms. She had wept in ecstasy and it had been shocking. The rapture on Sir Rex’s face had been even more shocking.
Blanche turned from the window. Not too long ago, she had been immune to a handsome face. But Sir Rex had always made her look up when he entered a room, and now, he made her heart race. Was she finally becoming aware of a man?
Was this desire? Blanche tried to imagine what she would do and how she would feel if he actually touched her, not a polite grasp upon her elbow, but a tender caress. And just considering that made her heart beat harder, made her skin tighten and tingle, and that odd little ache began anew.
Her color had increased. She could feel heat in her cheeks. She wouldn’t mind him taking her hand, or even his attempting to kiss her.
Blanche sat down abruptly, stunned. She was almost twenty-eight years old, and for the first time in her life, she was aware of a man and thinking of his kisses. How had this happened?
She took a moment to clear her mind. Attraction and desire were not good reasons to marry. She was never going to sleep now. She decided she wished for a brandy. She would make a list of pros and cons tomorrow. There was no rush. She had waited this long to marry, and she had to make the right choice.
She opened the armoire and pulled out the dress she had worn that day. She shed her nightclothes, as she was not about to wander about Sir Rex’s home dressed for bed, and slipped on a chemise and the pale gray gown.
As Blanche left her chamber, she glanced at the closed doors she passed. Unless the master suite was in the tower, one of those doors belonged to her host. She realized, as she tiptoed in her slippers down the hall, that she was tense now and straining to hear. But the hall was so silent she could have heard a hairpin drop.
The great hall was empty when she came downstairs, the fire in the hearth dying to a small, flickering flame and glowing embers. Two wall sconces had been left on, but both were by the front door, leaving the great room in dancing shadows. Blanche went to the bar cart, stumbling into a footstool in the process. It clattered as it skidded away from her shin and she winced, hoping she hadn’t woken anyone up.
She saw several decanters on the cart and poured the one she thought was brandy. Then she realized she was being watched.
Blanche turned and saw Sir Rex seated on the sofa, so indolently he might have been asleep. But he wasn’t asleep. In spite of the shadows, his gaze was unwavering upon her and he was very much awake. In the firelight, his dark eyes had turned gold and amber, and were as watchful as a lion’s.
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