The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce

image came to mind. One eligible bachelor had not called. Not only hadn’t he called, he hadn’t even offered his condolences six months ago.

      Blanche did not want to continue her line of thought. And very fortunately, her second best friend hurried into the room. Felicia had recently married her third husband, her previous husband having been a young, handsome and very reckless equestrian who had died jumping a terribly risky fence. “Jamieson is opening up the front door, my dears!” she cried with a smile. “Oh, Blanche, I am so happy to see you out of that drab black. The dove gray suits you so much better.”

      And Blanche heard the sound of dozens of male voices and footsteps. Her stomach dropped. The hordes had arrived.

      BLANCHE SMILED POLITELY at Felicia’s jest, not having really heard it. At once six young men surrounded her and fifty-one other gentlemen filled the salon—there was no seat left untaken. She was already acquainted with almost everyone who had called—she had been Harrington’s hostess for many years now. But she was exhausted in a way she had never been before. For she was the center of attention in a far different way. She wasn’t sure she could withstand another admiring glance or respond to another flirtatious remark.

      She must have been told that she looked well a hundred times in the past few hours. A few rogues had dared to tell her she was a beauty. As she was ancient compared to other marriageable women, she was tired of pretending she believed the flattery. And how many gallants had asked her to drive in the park? Fortunately, Bess had privately whispered that she would arrange all of her engagements. Her dear friend hovered by her elbow and Blanche was certain her calendar was now thoroughly booked for the next year, at least.

      It was so stuffy inside. She smiled politely at Ralph Witte, a baron’s dashing son, fanning herself with her hand. She wondered when the afternoon would end, or if she should dare to make her own escape.

      But more callers were arriving. And Blanche saw her dear friend, the countess of Adare, entering the salon with her daughter-in-law, the future countess, Lizzie de Warenne. Then a tall, dark man strode in behind the women. For one instant, Blanche went still, surprised.

      Rex de Warenne so rarely appeared in society, and she had wondered about him, who hadn’t? But it was Tyrell de Warenne, not his brother, who was entering her salon. Of course the future earl of Adare would be accompanying his wife.

      “Blanche?” Bess asked. “What is wrong?”

      Blanche turned, aware of a slight and absurd disappointment. It was nonsensical to feel let down that Sir Rex of Land’s End had not called with his family, as she hardly knew him. She had once been briefly engaged to his brother Tyrell, and because of that, she remained close friends with his mother and Tyrell’s wife. Yet she doubted she had exchanged words with Sir Rex more than a half a dozen times in the eight years since that betrothal. Society knew he was a recluse—he preferred his estate in Cornwall to the ton and was rarely present at gatherings. Still, every now and then they would encounter one another at a ball or a tea. He was always quiet and polite; so was she.

      And she decided that it was for the best that he hadn’t offered his condolences or called; his dark, intense gaze had always made her uncomfortable.

      “I am going to greet Lady Adare and Lady de Warenne,” she said swiftly, now pleased by their presence.

      “I will start hinting that you are very weary,” Bess said. “It shouldn’t take too long to clear everyone out.”

      “I am weary,” Blanche returned, moving through the crowd. To do so required some determination in order not to be waylaid. And her smile became genuine. “Mary, I am so pleased you have called!”

      Mary de Warenne, the countess of Adare, was a handsome blond woman, strikingly dressed and bejeweled. The women clasped hands and hugged. As Blanche had broken off her betrothal with Tyrell all those years ago so he could marry the woman he loved, it had been easy to develop a deep friendship. “My dear, how are you managing?” Mary asked with concern.

      “I am fine, considering,” Blanche assured her. “Lizzie, you are looking so well.” Tyrell’s titian-haired wife was radiant. She had a year-old toddler now—her fourth child—and Blanche wondered at her secret.

      “Ty and I have been enjoying the afternoon,” Lizzie said, squeezing her hands. “I so rarely have him all to myself! My, Blanche, this turnout is stunning.”

      Blanche somehow smiled. “And they are all suitors.” She faced Tyrell, no longer mistaking him for his brother. Rex was a war hero and the more handsome of the two, even if he rarely smiled. Besides, Tyrell’s eyes were gentle and dark blue—Rex’s hazel stare was very dark and at times, unnerving. “My lord, thank you for calling,” she said, deferring to his rank.

      He bowed. “It is a pleasure to have you back with us, Blanche. If there is anything I can do to help in any way, you must let me know.”

      She was aware that he still harbored a deep gratitude for her having left him so he could marry Lizzie. Then she turned back to the women. “Will you be in town long?” As Adare’s seat was in Ireland, she never knew if the family was coming or going.

      “We have been in town since the New Year,” Mary smiled. “So we are about to depart.”

      “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” And she merely intended polite discourse, didn’t she? “Are Captain de Warenne and Amanda in town, too? How are they?”

      “It is just the three of us,” Lizzie said, “and my four children, of course. Cliff and Amanda are in the islands, but they are coming up to town later in the spring. They are doing very well—they remain madly in love.”

      Blanche hesitated, now thinking about Sir Rex. “How are the O’Neills?”

      “Sean and Eleanor are at Sinclair Hall, and Devlin and Virginia are celebrating their ninth anniversary in Paris, without the children.”

      She smiled, aware of some tension now. It would be rude not to ask about the remaining de Warenne. “And Sir Rex? Is he well?”

      Lizzie’s smile remained. “He is at Land’s End.”

      Mary said, “Only Cliff has seen him lately, and that is because he stopped at Land’s End on his way back to the islands last fall. Rex claims he has been renovating his estate and cannot leave. I haven’t seen him since Cliff returned to London with Amanda as his bride.”

      That was a year and a half ago. Blanche became somewhat concerned. “Surely, you believe Sir Rex? You don’t think something is wrong?”

      Mary sighed. “I believe him, of course I do. You know he avoids society at all costs. But how will he find a wife if he closets himself in the south of Cornwall? There are hardly any eligible young ladies there!”

      Her heart lurched oddly. That in itself was a stunning sensation, as she was never taken aback. “Does he now wish to marry?” He was two years her senior and should have taken a wife long ago; still, this was entirely unexpected.

      Mary hesitated. “It is hard to say.”

      Lizzie took her arm. “Put it this way, the de Warenne women are determined for him to have a family of his own. And that requires a wife.”

      So the de Warenne women would plot to see him wed. Blanche had to smile. His days as a bachelor were undoubtedly numbered. They were right. He should marry—it was wrong for him to live alone as he did.

      “And it requires his leaving Land’s End,” Mary said emphatically. “However, in May, Edward and I are sharing our twenty-third anniversary here in town. Rex will attend—the entire family will gather for a celebration.”

      Blanche smiled. “That sounds wonderful. Congratulations, Mary.”

      “I have so many grandchildren, I have lost count,” Mary said softly, her eyes shining. Then she took her hand. “Blanche, I have considered you a daughter ever since your betrothal to Tyrell. I am hoping, very much, that you will one day find the joy and happiness that I have.”