Brenda Joyce - The Perfect Bride

A noise sounded.

It was quite the thud.

And then more thudding began.

Blanche was surprised. The rather rhythmic noise was coming from behind an adjacent door, which she assumed belonged to the tower room. Was someone home after all? And if so, what on earth was going on?

She hesitated, staring at the closed door. “Sir Rex?” She tried from across the room.

She cleared her voice and raised it, approaching. “Sir Rex? Hello! Is anybody home?”

The banging rhythm had increased. And Blanche thought she heard a man’s voice, but without words—a sound of pain, perhaps.

Instantly alarmed, she hurried toward the door. But just as she reached it, she heard the same male sound again. And she realized what it was.

It was a growl of pleasure.

Blanche went still.

The banging continued, fast and fierce now.

Oh, God, she thought, stunned. For she had just realized someone in that room was making love.

She had been to countless balls and even more country weekends. She was well aware of the trysts that occurred in the ton, both behind closed doors and in the corners of corridors and mazes. She had walked past embracing couples numerous times, pretending not to see. But she had never seen more than a passionate kiss.

Whoever was in that tower room, he was doing far more than kissing his lover. And her heart lurched unpleasantly—she had to leave now, immediately.

And surely, it wasn’t Sir Rex in that tower room?

She clasped her face in her hands, aware of her cheeks burning. Who else would it be?

He prefers housemaids…his reputation is one of stamina and skill .

She knew that she must leave, instantly. This was a very private affair. Yet her feet would not move. The banging was reaching a terrific crescendo. Vague images danced in her mind of shadowy lovers, prone and entwined.

Blanche realized she stood a finger’s length from the door and that she was listening acutely to the lovers. She was shocked with herself. Was Sir Rex in there? Was he really such a skilled lover? His image began to form, shadowy and naked, a woman in his embrace.

And then a woman sobbed in uninhibited pleasure.

Her mind froze. Her heart leaped as never before. She panicked. She meant to turn and leave, but she stumbled against the door instead—and it opened.

Blanche was confronted with so much masculinity that she froze. Sir Rex was making love in a frenzy to a dark-haired woman who lay on the sofa and she glimpsed his dark, slick gleaming back and shoulders, his hard profile and a tangle of skirts. She inhaled. He wore only his breeches and he had the physique of a medieval knight—huge shoulders, bulging arms, and his breeches revealed a high, hard, muscled posterior. His muscular thighs rippled, thick and full. She couldn’t see much of his right leg, the lower half having been amputated from the knee down during the war, but his left leg was planted on the floor, and she was shielded from seeing what she should not.

Yet she couldn’t turn away. Helplessly, her heart fluttering frighteningly in her chest, she stared. He was a dark angel—his 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.