Brenda Joyce - The Perfect Bride

Blanche stared. Leave it to her maid to comprehend the situation, she thought. Sir Rex lived alone, in the middle of nowhere, and he was virile. Anne could ease his needs and it was as simple as that. She knew she was blushing now. And one day, he would take a new lover. His affair was not about affection, it was about passion. She felt more heat gather in her cheeks.

Bess fell in and out of love on a monthly basis. But she also freely admitted that her needs had nothing to do with love. The parade of men in her life was a parade of men Bess lusted after. The ton was filled with frenzied affairs. Sir Rex was having a passionate affair, as well. And now that she understood, she must stop thinking about it.

“Should I unpack your things? And what will you wear to supper?”

Blanche tensed. They had barely gotten past a terrible beginning, and as long as she kept a grip on her memory, as long as she remained composed, supper would be manageable, she thought. Perhaps by the evening, she could forget what she had seen, or dismiss it, and enjoy the evening. It was not her place to approve or disapprove of his choices, and she had always thought him an interesting man.

“Can you press my gray taffeta gown, Meg?”

Meg nodded. Blanche hadn’t worn anything but gray since coming out of mourning. It didn’t seem right to strut about like a fancy peacock.

As Meg began to unpack a trunk, Blanche walked over to a window. She faced the ocean below, pale gray now and sweeping into the horizon so it seemed to go on for an infinity, but directly below, violent, frothing waves now pounded the rock beaches. As magnificent as the scene was, there was no question now that she stood at the very tip of the realm, and she was acutely aware of it. An extreme sense of isolation swept her. Land’s End was isolated, she thought. And with such awareness, she felt the enormity of the solitude.

The scene of endless ocean and dark rock, of pale beaches and towering cliffs, was stark, desolate and magnificent, very much like her host. And if she, one of society’s great hostesses, felt such separateness upon gazing out at the view, if she could be so conscious of being so far removed from everyone and everything, what did Sir Rex feel when he went to his window? Could anyone live this far from society, on the edge of the world, so to speak, and not feel detached and alone?

Was Sir Rex lonely?

More unease crept over her, and with it, a sense of confusion. Blanche decided she was a bit too intrigued with her host. Still, she was a close family friend, and even his family was concerned about him. And she did not think Sir Rex could outmaneuver the countess, his sister and his three sisters-in-law, which meant his bachelor days were numbered.

He was hardly a perfect man. This afternoon had proven that. But he deserved more than a solitary existence on his Cornish estate, just as she deserved more than the Harrington fortune. Being kind and fond of his family, she wished him the very best. And she had not a doubt that when the day came that Sir Rex wed, he would give up his preference for housemaids. Somehow, she knew he would be a good, kind and loyal husband. All the de Warenne men were that way.

She didn’t want to think it, but she did. He needed a wife, and she needed a husband. However, she had meant it when she said he would make a terrible husband for her. They were far too different, like night and day, and she sensed grave complications beneath his dark exterior. And his masculinity was far too overpowering for someone like herself. She didn’t know why she had even thought about his future in the same breath as she had thought about hers.

She turned. Meg was shaking out the dove-gray. “Meg? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll wear the green silk with my emeralds.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE HAD TWO SERVANTS in his employ. Frugal of nature, with no great economy to spare, he preferred to keep his household staff minimal. Now, Rex wished he had a chef. He wanted supper to be perfect. But Anne prepared his meals, while his manservant served as butler, majordomo and valet. Unfortunately, Fenwick had been attending to his errands that afternoon, preventing him from welcoming Lady Harrington properly and thus avoiding the fiasco of her stumbling in on him and Anne.

Rex never bothered himself with the day’s menu. He did not care what was served—he never entered the kitchen. He could not even recall if he had ever done so. Now he swung in, perspiring with anxiety. Anne’s meals were fair. And Anne was now bustling about frantically. Pots simmered on the stove. He could smell roasting lamb. He instantly noted a stable boy stirring one pot, and he was pleased she’d had the initiative to order young Jon to her side. He saw cold pheasant pies on the sideboard. “Anne.”

She whirled, flushed from the kitchen’s heat, never mind the two widely opened windows. “Sir!”

“Is everything in order for supper?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, wringing her hands and appearing anything but calm.

“Where is Fenwick?” He somehow managed to sound calm, but he’d had no help with his tie and cuff links and he’d been royally annoyed. And now, it appeared that Anne was in over her head.

When he’d had the countess as a guest, an elderly woman had been his housekeeper and she had been a good cook. There had been no other visitors since.

“I sent him to the village for a pie.”

His tension did not ease. It was an hour to the village, another hour back, and he was afraid that Fenwick would not return in time to serve them. “When will he be back?”

Anne seemed nervous. “By eight, I think.”

He just stared at her, wishing she hadn’t sent the manservant to the village and that she’d planned to serve up custard instead. He could not imagine Anne serving them and hovering about while he attempted polite conversation now. It would be impossibly awkward. His temper sparked, rekindling the frustration he’d felt all day. It was as if one rotten incident after another was destined for him. However, Lady Harrington had agreed to spend the night and tonight they were dining together. His heart slammed. One good thing had happened after all. He prayed he’d seen the last of all disaster. He wanted to impress her.

“We will be dining à la Française,” he said softly.

Anne looked helplessly at him, and he realized she was near tears.

He softened. “You will leave every course on the table. We will help ourselves.” Then, “Do not worry. The lamb smells wonderful.”

Relief covered her features.

Just then, Blanche’s maid stepped into the kitchen. He was surprised; she curtsied properly at him. “Why are you not with your lady?” he asked, far more sharply than he intended.

“Lady Harrington is in the hall,” she said softly.

His heart turned over, hard. He was going to have to control his anxiety and his excitement, he thought grimly, or she would realize he had an inappropriate attraction to her. He nodded at her and swung out, tugging at his necktie as he did so. He had almost donned tails, but that would have been absurd. Instead, he’d chosen pale breeches, a silver waistcoat and a fine, dark brown jacket. At least his appearance was impeccable, he thought.

He stepped into the great room and faltered.

Blanche stood by a window, gazing out at the night sky, which shimmered with stars. Clad in a silvery moss-green gown, with a low-cut bodice and small chiffon sleeves, her pale hair curled and swept up, she was impossibly delicate and impossibly beautiful. He was going to have to face the fact that he had always thought her beautiful, but he had done so in a very respectful way—most of the time. Now he simply stared, because they were alone in the great hall of his home. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms, cover her mouth with his own, and damn, taste her very thoroughly. But that was never going to happen. Unfortunately, in that moment, the events of that afternoon entirely forgotten, his body betrayed him and he felt his loins stir.