The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
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hair almost black and wet, thick black lashes fanned out over terribly high cheekbones, his straight, not quite perfect nose flared. He was beautiful.
And she meant to go. This was shocking—she had seen too much! She ordered her feet to move, her legs to obey and carry her away. But she had never seen such a strained intense expression on anyone and he was driving hard and fast now, and as naive as she was, she understood. Rapture transformed his expression. He gasped.
She gasped.
And somehow, she knew he had heard her. Suddenly, slowly, he turned his head toward her.
She saw dark, unfocused eyes.
Blanche knew she had committed the worst faux pas possible. “I am sorry!” she cried, in a complete panic now.
She backed out, just as his eyes changed, becoming lucid, just as she saw recognition flare there, just as their gazes met.
His eyes widened.
She whirled and fled.
CHAPTER THREE
REX SAT ON THE SOFA, stunned. Lady Blanche Harrington, a woman he admired as no other, had walked in on him and Anne!
He breathed hard, praying he was in some terrible nightmare and that when he awoke, he would realize Blanche Harrington had not just caught him with his lover.
Anne whispered, “Who was that, my lord?”
Oh, God, he wasn’t in a terrible dream—Blanche Harrington had caught him in bed with his maid! He covered his face with his hands and was overwhelmed with mortification and shame.
For one long moment, he succumbed to absolute horror and utter embarrassment. He did not know Blanche Harrington well, even though she had once, briefly, been betrothed to Tyrell. He had probably run into her half a dozen times since first meeting her eight years ago. But he had admired her instantly, as her grace, elegance and gracious behavior were truly remarkable, and had thought his brother mad and blind to have no interest in her. The few times they had conversed, he had done his best to be courtly, correct and polite. He had been determined to be a perfect gentleman in her presence. How in God’s name would he face her now? And what on earth was she doing at Land’s End?
“Is she your intended?”
He became aware that Anne sat beside him. He slowly dropped his hands, aware now of the heat in his cheeks. Anne had arranged her clothing, but her braided hair was entirely mussed and she looked as if she’d been in bed with someone—with him. “No,” he managed harshly. Why would she think that?
She was pale and stricken, apparently taking her cue from him. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she began.
“You have no reason to apologize. The lapse of judgment—and good manners—was mine.” And he began to despise himself. What had he been thinking, to dally in the middle of the day in his study? Oh, yes, of course, he had wanted to forget about Stephen. Well, that had certainly been achieved. Could this day possibly get any worse? And what should he do—and say—the next time he encountered Lady Harrington?
God, it would be the most awkward possible moment. He could not think of an encounter he wished to avoid as much. Perhaps, if he were fortunate, he could disappear off the face of the earth.
Anne had risen and was now gathering up the papers strewn about the floor. He saw, but couldn’t really comprehend, what she was doing. He was never going to recover from this crisis, he thought. Because even though he was no one in comparison to such a great lady, he had always been the perfect gentleman around her—in the guarded hope of at least garnering her respect. Well, he had earned her utter reprobation instead.
And eventually, he had to leave Land’s End. In fact, he was due in town in May. And he wasn’t foolish enough to think that by then, she would have forgotten his little tryst.
But why had she been at Land’s End?
And was there any possible way to excuse his behavior, explain it, so she might not find him so entirely loathsome?
Beyond shame, Rex reached for his crutch and stood. The moment he did so, he saw the large black Harrington coach in his courtyard. Disbelief began.
She was still at Bodenick.
He was breathless once again.
He swung rapidly to the window and saw her standing by her coachman and a maid. Her back was to the window and a conversation seemed to be in progress. He stared. Her carriage was always terribly correct, but her shoulders seemed even higher than usual, her bearing stiff and set. She was distressed—as she should be.
He fought the urge to hide until she left—the battle was over before it began. If she remained in his drive, he had to go outside and greet her and learn what brought her so far south. But he was amazed that she hadn’t climbed in her carriage and driven off at a mad gallop. Whatever her reason for appearing at Land’s End, it had to be important.
He cursed. There was no avoiding her now. An apology was in order, and there was no way around it. Except, such an apology would only bring forward even more awkwardness—and for him, humiliation. But if he did not apologize, it was even worse. And damn it, there was no graceful way to tender his regrets.
He wished he had offended anyone else, anyone other than Blanche Harrington.
He looked down at his bare chest. “Anne, please retrieve a shirt and jacket for me—quickly.” And now he wondered how long she had been standing there—and how much had she seen.
Instantly, he chastised himself. Blanche Harrington was not a depraved voyeur. She could not have been standing there for more than an instant. Unfortunately, she had chosen the exact instant when his passion had been at its greatest. His cheeks flamed.
Anne laid his papers on the desk and fled the study to do as he had asked.
He continued to stare out of the window, deciding he must not dwell on what she had seen. He must not dwell on his shame. Instead, he must discover an apology that might, at least, smooth the waters somewhat. Oddly, not a single word came to mind.
Blanche suddenly turned and looked at the house.
Rex jumped away from the window, realizing that he now cowered behind the draperies, out of her sight. From depravity to cowardice, he thought grimly, and neither one would do. There was no damned way out of his predicament, he thought. She would never see him as a gentleman, not after this day. He could spend years atoning to her, years trying to reprise his character, but nothing he could say or do, now or in the future, would erase what he had just done.
Anne returned, carrying a beautiful lawn shirt with a ruffled collar and a severe, but elegant, navy-blue jacket. “Will these do?” she asked somberly.
“Yes, thank you. Help me, please.” Although he could dress himself, as he could balance perfectly on the crutch without holding it, her help would speed him on his way. As she helped him with the shirt, she whispered, “Is she a great lady, Sir Rex?”
“Yes, a very great lady. Why do you ask?”
“You are so concerned.”
He shrugged on the jacket. “I have known Lady Harrington in passing for years. There are ladies in society who would hardly care to witness such an event. Unfortunately, Lady Harrington’s character is stellar and she is not of that ilk.”
His time had run out. Rex hurried from the study and across the hall, feeling very much as if he were on his way to doom. The front door was open and his heart began to race erratically. The heat in his cheeks intensified and by the time he was crossing the single step outside to the shell drive, he knew he was crimson.
Her back was to the house again—she faced her carriage.
He inhaled, rapidly approaching. “Lady Harrington,” he said tersely.
Tension rippled through her and she turned. She was smiling, but her cheeks were as pink as the ribbon in Anne’s hair.