Brenda Joyce - The Perfect Bride

A quarter of the whiskey remained and he drained as much as he could in a single gulp.

A housemaid hurried into the chamber. “My lord!” She cried, taking in the mess he had created with a single, wide-eyed glance.

Rex finished off the contents of the decanter and then placed it on the desk. He slowly looked at his housemaid. There was a better way to forget.

Anne was on her knees, picking up his papers. She was twenty years old, buxom and pretty and very, very lusty. She had come into his employ two months ago, making it clear she wished to do far more than clean his house and launder his clothes. He refused to deny himself pleasure and passion—he could not survive without sex—and had been tiring of the affair he was having with the innkeeper’s widowed daughter. He had instantly hired Anne. Her first chore had been to join him in bed and they had enjoyed themselves immensely—and had been doing so ever since. He hadn’t been her first lover and he would not be her last. He had compensated her for her extra duties by providing extra stores for her family, who were tenant farmers in a neighboring parish, struggling to make ends meet. Her salary was also a generous one.

Recently, though, he had seen her flirting with the village blacksmith, a handsome lad her own age, newly arrived in Lanhadron. He sensed where that was leading and did not mind, as she deserved a home and family of her own. In fact, as long as he could find a new servant—and a new mistress—he would encourage the match and give them a handsome wedding present.

But she hadn’t married the young blacksmith yet. And pleasure brought escape. He wished to escape into her body now. “Anne. Leave the mess for later.”

She started, looking up, her eyes wide. “My lord, you care for your papers the way me mum cares for my little sisters. I know how important your papers are!”

He felt a new tension arise, there in his breeches, straining at the wool fabric. And it was as he wanted. “Come here,” he said very softly.

She became still, understanding him. And slowly she stood, laying some papers on his desk, their gazes locking, a flush now on her full cheeks. She began to smile. “My lord, didn’t I please you last night?” she murmured.

His breeches had become much tighter. He smiled back at her, reaching for her hand. “Yes, you did. Very much. But last night is over, is it not?”

“You’re the randiest lord,” she whispered as he reeled her in.

“Do you mind?” he asked, running his left hand down her back until he had clasped her very full buttock. He pulled her hard against his manhood, now raging, remaining perfectly and solidly balanced with the crutch.

“How can I mind when you’re such a gent you take your pleasure after me, always?”

Her remark satisfied him. He had always tried to please the women in his bed—he couldn’t imagine a satisfactory encounter otherwise. And then there was the obvious fact that he wished to compensate for his injury. No woman had ever thought about it a second time, not after the pleasure he gave.

“Do you wish to go up to your room?” she whispered, reaching down to stroke his thick length through his breeches.

His breath caught. “No. I wish to take you right here, right now, on my sofa.” He pulled her around him and pushed her back onto the sofa. Fluidly he moved on top of her, using his thighs to spread her legs wide. He pressed against her sex and she whimpered, laying her hands on his bare, wet chest, her eyes beginning to glaze over. She gasped and her palms drifted down to the waistband of his breeches. And very deliberately, she traced the huge line of his arousal with her fingertips.

He grunted, reaching below her skirts. The best thing about a lusty maid was the utter lack of complication, the utter lack of pretense. How she appeared was exactly how she was. Anne wanted sex and pleasure—and food on her family’s table. She wanted exactly what he had to offer and a bit of extra coin, nothing more. Treachery on her part would be impossible.

And she was very ready now. He rubbed his fingers against her wet, heated flesh until tears formed in her eyes and she was whispering for him to hurry. He rubbed her until she began to writhe in an impending climax. He bent, used his tongue, and felt triumph as she climaxed.

She didn’t cling. Gasping breathlessly, she deftly opened the buttons on his breeches. He smiled with satisfaction now and became still, allowing her to do as she willed. The moment he sprang into her hand, she leaned toward him, eagerly seeking him with her mouth, his favor returned. Rex threw his head back. There was only pleasure now.

WHY HADN’T SHE COME to Cornwall sooner?

Blanche stared out of her coach window, awed by the stark desolation of the moors. Flat, pale and treeless, they seemed to stretch away into eternity. A freezing wind swept them, for she had her head out of the window, and her nose was ice-cold. But the skies were vividly blue and dotted with passing white clouds, the sun strong and bright.

She ducked her head inside the coach, her heart having picked up a swifter beat some time ago, when they had turned off the main highway at the sign pointing to both Land’s End and Bodenick Castle. Leaning across the seat, aware of her maid staring at her from the facing bench, she lifted the other window, allowing more freezing air into the coach. The ocean was a shocking sapphire blue, reaching into an even vaster eternity, one belonging to the Lord. By looking somewhat ahead, she could see some of the coastline. It was breathtaking. Breaking white waves pounded the pale beach, strewn with huge black boulders at the base of soaring black cliffs.

“My l-lady,” Meg chattered. “It’s so c-cold.”

Blanche closed the window, simply breathless. “I am sorry, Meg.” Was she actually excited by this adventure? It seemed so!

Meg nodded at the other, still-open, window. Blanche was about to close it when she saw the sheep and cattle now grazing upon the moors. They had to be close to Land’s End. As she was anticipating her arrival there, clearly, she had been in town for far too long.

She had yet to visit Penthwaithe, her father’s estate. The moment she had realized that her friends were right and she must escape the crush of suitors, and that a holiday in Cornwall would be perfect—she had never been to the south—she had decided she would use the opportunity to call on Sir Rex. She was not interested in Sir Rex in the way Bess had suggested. That was absurd. Calling on him was socially correct—and a failure to do so was socially insulting. Of course, it was even more correct to go directly to Penthwaithe, settle in and then call at Land’s End. However, the decision to take a holiday in the south had been made so spontaneously that they had not had a chance to send word to Penthwaithe’s manager, informing him of her arrival. In fact, it was somewhat uncertain as to who that manager was. Her solicitors had only just discovered the manor’s existence, as the title had been lodged between drawers, perhaps for years. Bess was the one who had decided they would go directly to Land’s End, spend the night there, and then settle in at the neighboring manor.

It seemed logical to go directly to Land’s End and ask Sir Rex for lodging for the night. But Blanche was traveling alone except for her maid, Meg. At the last possible moment, Felicia had become ill—a ploy, Blanche knew, as she had no wish to leave Lord Dagwood. But Bess’s daughter had taken a nasty spill from her hack. Bess had clearly wished to rush home and Blanche had assured her she wouldn’t mind taking the holiday alone.

And she didn’t mind. The solitude was striking, but it was oddly pleasing, too. She had been surrounded by friends and callers each and every day of her entire life. When she wasn’t entertaining or making calls, she was immersed in her charitable duties, which involved numerous appointments and meetings.