The Perfect Bride

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.

They had spent two entire days traveling from London. Every day, the villages had become fewer and farther between. Every day, they had begun passing fewer travelers and fewer estates. Today, they hadn’t seen a single vehicle other than their own. They had passed the last village several hours ago.

The isolation was magnificent, Blanche thought, and it was also a terrible relief. It wasn’t just escaping the headache of entertaining so many single gentlemen every day—and deciding which one she would marry. There were no more meetings with her agents, trying to unravel her father’s complex affairs. There were no callers and no calls. For this brief holiday, she had no duties and it was very enjoyable, indeed. She had the most surprising sense of freedom.

Blanche had been taking in every detail of the countryside for some time now. She was beginning to wonder if everyone was wrong about Land’s End. They had taken the turnoff marked Land’s End and Bodenick an hour past. The road they were now traveling on was very well maintained—and in far better condition than the main highway. Grazing cattle and sheep dotted the moors and they were fat and well fed, unlike most of the livestock she had previously seen.

Beside her, her maid shifted restlessly.

“Meg?” she asked.

Meg grimaced. “It’s so cold, my lady. So cold and so ugly!”

Blanche shook her head. “It is a chilly day, but how can you say the moors are ugly? There is beauty in their stark desolation, beauty and power. And did you see the ocean, Meg? This is truly God’s creation!”

Meg looked at her as if she were mad.

A number of buildings were coming into view and the hills were now crisscrossed with hedges. Blanche inhaled, suddenly glimpsing a castle with a single tower, its back to the horizon where the ocean blended seamlessly into the sky.

Land’s End was not a manor home after all, she realized, glancing out of her coach window so she could see the castle as they approached. Several towering trees had emerged, lining the approach to the courtyard, where a single oak tree butted up against the dark castle walls. A herd of magnificent horses espied her coach and took flight. Blanche sat up with delight, watching a number of huge, dappled horses galloping alongside her coach. The herd wheeled and vanished over a rise.

As her coach approached the courtyard, she looked everywhere, at once. Wild rosebushes and vines crept up the castle walls, but they were obviously being tended. She was not a historian, but the castle had to be centuries old—and it was in perfect condition, on the outside, at least. There were a number of stone buildings, and the beginnings of a new structure, which she guessed might be a stable. She saw several carts neatly ordered between the buildings, and she now heard hammering. There were some bushes near the tower, cleverly clipped. In fact, everything was terrifically neat and well kempt.

Land’s End did not to appear to be as impoverished as it was rumored. It was impeccably maintained, Blanche thought. Oddly, she was pleased. And the countess did not have to worry—her son was clearly preoccupied with his estate and had no time for town or his family’s matchmaking.

Her coach had stopped a short distance from Bodenick’s front door. Blanche suddenly hesitated. She had not sent word and Sir Rex did seem inclined toward his privacy. Still, she was a family friend, and now, apparently, a neighbor. Sir Rex would never send her away. But she suddenly wished she had delayed her trip by a single day, so a note could have warned him of her arrival, never mind what Bess thought best.

And for the first time in a week, she thought about Sir Rex’s failure to offer his condolences. If she truly dared admit it, that lapse in grace did bother her, and in a way, so did his failure to come forward as a suitor. On the other hand, she instinctively knew he was not a fortune hunter, even if his estate was modest enough to warrant his marriage for financial reasons. It had probably never crossed his mind to look at her as a prospective wife.

Blanche was uncomfortable with her thoughts. She hardly thought him suitable even as a candidate for her hand, much less as a husband, so there was no point in feeling a bit chagrined by his failure to come forward. She was a renowned society hostess and he was a notorious recluse, so they had a grave contradiction of character. And she did not want to think any more about it. But oddly, suddenly she wished Bess were with her. Suddenly she felt a bit awkward, calling like this. Suddenly, she was nervous.

Still, he had always been the perfect gentleman when their paths had crossed. She could not imagine him turning her away.

Blanche smiled at her footman and stepped to the ground. “Please wait until I have had a chance to ask Sir Rex for the night’s lodging before you take care of the horses. Meg? Please stay here with the coach until we know that Sir Rex is home.”

Meg nodded.

Blanche started for the front door, aware now of the litany that was the ocean echoing on the beaches below the castle. She knocked on the front door, and as she waited for a response, she glanced at the rosebushes growing against the castle walls. She had been right, they were wild, but Sir Rex clearly had a gardener tending them. She wondered when the last thaw was and when the roses would bloom.

She turned back to the door, knocking again, somewhat concerned. She had to have been standing there for a good five minutes.

“My lady?” Meg called from beside the coach. “Maybe no one is home.”

Knocking a third time, Blanche thought about that. While she wasn’t all that cold, Meg was chilled to the bone. If no one was home, they would go inside and wait while Clarence watered the team. Sir Rex couldn’t possibly mind.

She knocked very firmly and gave up when no one responded. Her maid was right—no one was home. And Meg was shivering so much her teeth were chattering. It was several hours back to the village and it was growing late. Surely, Sir Rex would not mind if they waited inside, or even if they made a fire. But she was unsure now. Why hadn’t a servant answered the door?

Blanche tested the door and it opened, allowing her to step inside a modestly sized front hall. She looked around. Much to her relief, a fire roared in the gray stone hearth, which looked to be as original as the castle. And that fire indicated that someone was certainly home.

She called out firmly. “Hello? Is anyone home?” But there was no answer.

She glanced around. The walls were freshly whitewashed, the furnishings modest but perfectly suitable and recently upholstered. There were only two seating arrangements, one in front of the hearth, making the hall seem far larger than it was. Only two rugs were present, but they were Oriental and of fine quality. She found the room pleasant. And then Blanche saw the display of sabers and firearms on one wall.

She intended to go outside and tell Meg to go to the laborers and ask after Sir Rex. Instead, very curious, she walked over to the display. She was certain that the weapons belonged to Rex and had been used by him in the late war.

She stared, unable to admire the collection. Two of the swords were ceremonial, their hilts filigreed gold, their sheaths gold and silver. She gazed at a long saber, with its dark, leather-wrapped, utilitarian hilt; and a shorter sword, its appearance equally as utilitarian and menacing. He had wielded these weapons in the war. She disliked the notion. She looked at the long carbine rifle, the butt dulled from use, and the shorter pistol. She was acutely aware that his hands had grasped the butts of those guns, just as he had wielded those swords. She didn’t care for the display. It gave her an uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. But then, the war had been tragic not just for Sir Rex, but for so many.

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.

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?”