Brenda Joyce - The Perfect Bride

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. “Sir Rex! How pleasant to see you again,” she breathed. “Good day, sir. It has been some time!”

He 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.