The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce

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.

      And as much as he had always admired her, the one thing he had wondered was what it would take to shake her seemingly unflappable composure. He had always known great passion lay beneath the perfect exterior. He had even wondered, when thoroughly besotted, what she was like in bed.

      Well, if Blanche still grieved, she would never do so in company. For all he knew, she wept privately every night, as was her right. And he had finally shaken her composure—with his little tryst. But she had bounced quickly back.

      And he realized his admiration for her had increased. It was ironic, because he had little doubt that any admiration she had held for him, was now in ashes.

      “I wish I had known,” he said. “I would have come directly to London to offer my condolences personally.”

      She smiled at him. After a pause, she said, “I hadn’t realized you didn’t send your condolences.” She glanced past him, out of the window.

      Anne entered, bearing a sterling tray with a porcelain teapot, two cups and saucers. As she set the items down on the small table near Blanche, he told her he would serve. Surprise flicked in her blue-green eyes. “Sir Rex, allow me.”

      He tensed. “I will pour,” he insisted. He knew the offer had been made because he had one leg and she did not realize he could get up and pour tea in spite of the injury. He despised pity and he adeptly served her first.

      When he was seated with his own tea, he saw that the sun was now beginning to set. Outside of Bodenick, the sky was stained crimson over the darkening moors. Instantly he was concerned. “Lady Harrington, it is an hour to Penthwaithe. And frankly, I am worried about there having been a mix-up in estate affairs. And even if not, I am certain you cannot possibly find decent accommodations there.” If he offered, would she stay the night?

      Blanche set her cup and saucer down. And she looked at him—right into his eyes. “I doubt I have a choice.”

      His heart turned over hard. How could he not offer her accommodations? She would refuse—she had to hold him in scorn now. And although gentlemen did not sleep with their servants, he did consider himself a gentleman, or at least, he had been raised to be one. “I may have a solution—although I do not know if it will interest you.”

      “I am all ears,” she said softly, the angelic smile he so often recalled in his dreams finally appearing.

      He hesitated, then plunged on, trying to sound casual. “Bodenick is rather spartan, as you can see. But I have several guest rooms, and one, the countess has furnished for her own comfort. It is yours if you so wish.”

      Her eyes widened.

      He wet his lips. “And of course, there is a room for your maid and lodgings for your coachman and footmen in the servants’ wing.”

      She smiled again, fully. “Thank you. I would love to spend the night here, Sir Rex.”

      BLANCHE KNEW she kept staring at the housemaid as the pretty woman set a pitcher of water on the table beside the four-poster bed. The chamber was very pleasantly appointed in shades of gold, green and beige. A small settee in gold brocade was at the foot of the bed, facing the stone hearth. The bed had dark green coverings and two gold floral Persian rugs covered the floor. The walls had been painted bright yellow and a cherrywood armoire graced one wall, while a secretaire adorned the other. There was one plush