Brenda Joyce - The Perfect Bride

He felt as if the irony might kill him. He had always wished to impress her with his manner, secretly wanting her to admire him in some small way, and instead, he had allowed her to glimpse his true nature.

When the team was being led to the stables, he returned to find her standing silently with her maid. Before she noticed him, he noted her grim, even glum, and very strained demeanor. And now, he noticed that the tip of her nose was red from the chill of the day.

He took one last breath, watching her. Somehow they had weathered this crisis, even if only superficially. Somehow the waters had been smoothed over, even if beneath lay huge, frightening currents. And they were on speaking terms. But now what? He remained terribly embarrassed. So, clearly, did she. He had no right to invite her in for some refreshment, but she was chilled, and that is what a true gentleman would do. He was afraid she might refuse the offer—and that would be a rejection he deserved but dreaded. On the other hand, what if she became ill, and all because of his uncontrollable virility?

He had never dreamed Blanche would magically appear at Land’s End. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years. He didn’t have to even think about it to know he had last glimpsed her at the Carrington ball, when his sister-in-law had made her debut into society. Two years was a terribly long time. And now she was about to leave.

It was more than embarrassment. It was more than a fear for her catching a chill. He did not wish for her to go. Not now, not yet.

The sun had been pale and amber in the sky; now, it burned gold.

I am a fool , he thought grimly.

For what he really wished was to pass a pleasant call with her. But how could he possibly achieve that now?

Before he could debate any longer, he took his chances and spoke with great care. “Lady Harrington, it is late afternoon and you seem fatigued. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some warm tea?”

She turned slowly, unsmiling. And she hesitated, clearly indecisive. “It has been a long journey from London,” she said. “I am not that chilled, but my poor maid is frozen and has been so all day. If I am not imposing, I would love a cup, as would Meg.” And her wide eyes gently met his.

And he thought he saw so much uncertainty there. “You could never impose,” he said gruffly, but he meant his every word. He managed a stiff smile. “Please.” He gestured and she preceded him back into the house, calling for her maid to follow. And then Anne met them in the hall.

He knew he blushed. He was dismayed but his other servant was off the premises. He was careful not to look at Blanche now. “Anne, I will need tea for two and sandwiches, if you will. And please show Lady Harrington’s maid into the kitchens, so she might take some refreshment, as well, and warm herself there.”

Anne nodded before leaving with the other maid.

Rex watched Blanche stare after her. He didn’t have to glance into a crystal ball to know she was wondering about his relationship with the housemaid—and possibly recalling what she had just seen. But when she realized he had noticed her gazing after Anne, she flushed and jerked her eyes to the window. “I had no idea the coast here is so beautiful.”

“If you decide to walk upon the beaches, you must exercise care. The tides are strong and come in swiftly.”

Her gaze skidded to his and darted away. “I will certainly remember that.”

Apparently they would not get past the awkwardness of this disaster after all. Or at least, not with Anne about, as a reminder of his excessively virile and inappropriate needs.

But if she found him reprehensible, she hid it entirely. He decided that if she now despised him, she would take her tea and leave as soon as gracefully possible. The length of her visit might very well be a gauge of her feelings, he decided. “The best time to stroll the beach is an hour or two before noon.”

Blanche actually smiled at him. “I will make sure to stroll along the beach before I return to town.”

He tensed, surprised, because she seemed to have finally recovered her composure. Anne now out of sight, Blanche perused the great room and turned to him. The moment she spoke, he knew she was being sincere. “Your home is lovely, Sir Rex.”

Blanche moved to a chair and he followed. His home was modest, but she had meant it—he was certain. “I have spent many years renovating not just the castle, but the entire estate. I find it pleasing enough. Thank you.”

“I hadn’t expected a castle,” she said, and their gazes met and instantly danced apart.

His heart began an odd little dance, too. “Neither did I, not when I was first awarded Land’s End and my title.”

She looked up. His breath vanished. So did the terrible incident she had witnessed.

It was unbelievable, a dream. Blanche Harrington was sitting with him in his great hall. She lit up the room as the sun never had and never would. But then, hadn’t his sisters-in-law and his sister begun to harp on him for his bachelor status? No fool, he knew they were determined to see him wed.

He would never find a woman like this one, he thought grimly. And he did not want to settle for less. For he did not have to know her well to know she was a lady to the core and as such, she was incapable of betrayal and treachery. His painful past had made him distrustful of ladies who wished for a relationship with him, but inexplicably, he knew Blanche Harrington was utterly trustworthy.

And of course, she was not for him. She would one day inherit a vast fortune, and she would marry a great and probably impoverished title, not a thirty-year-old knight who toiled like a common laborer on land no sane gentleman would ever wish to possess.

And he still couldn’t grasp the fact that she had not looked at him with any condescension.

He cleared his throat. “May I ask why you are on your way to Penthwaithe?”

She smoothed her pale gray silk skirts with innate grace, a color that suited her eyes and her hair. “I have decided to escape my suitors,” she said wryly. “Do you recall my friend, Lady Waverly? She suggested Father’s estate.”

He stared, mind racing. Everyone knew that Blanche Harrington had no wish to wed. He had always been certain that one day she would change her mind, and apparently, he had been correct. “What does Penthwaithe have to do with Harrington?”

She blinked. “I have just learned the manor is a part of the Harrington fortune. I am afraid Father kept me in the dark about his affairs, and now, of course, I must make sense of them.”

He became even more perplexed. “I was under the impression that Penthwaithe belongs to a gentleman who so prefers the city that he has allowed it to fall into utter ruin. I am not sure there are even any tenants.”

She sat up straighter. “You must be mistaken. Penthwaithe belonged to my father. My solicitors have recently found the title to the estate.”

“You have used the past tense.”

Her eyes went wide. “You do not know?”

He did not like this. “I do not know what, Lady Harrington?”

She hesitated, their gazes locked. “Father passed.”

He was stunned. “I had no idea!” he exclaimed. And then, knowing how close Blanche had been to her father, how she had doted on him—and he on her—he was stricken for her. “Bl…Lady Harrington, I hadn’t heard. I am so terribly sorry!” The urge to touch her—perhaps even take her hand—overcame him, but he would never do such a thing.

She continued to gaze at him, absolutely tearless, fully composed. “Thank you. He passed six months ago—he was stricken with pneumonia and it happened quickly. I have just come out of mourning.”

He finally took a chair facing Blanche. He could not quite believe her composure. Her father had been the center of her life. Had she shed all of her tears, vanquished all grief, in six short months? He was doubtful.