The Perfect Bride (22 page)

“May I?”

She nodded and she smiled from her heart. “I do not think you need ask anymore, Sir Rex.”

He half smiled as his mouth closed on hers. And he murmured, kissing her, “Rex. Although it is unofficial, you must call me Rex now.”

S
IR
R
EX HAD BEEN CALLED AWAY
by a stable boy. Blanche walked to the edge of the gardens and then to the cliff, which dropped to the ocean below. She was beaming; she was so entirely happy! She hugged the shawl closer to her body, but she was hardly cold. It was unbelievable; she and Sir Rex were going to marry.

She didn't think she had ever been so pleased or so thrilled. Who would have imagined that her life would undergo so many changes, and so rapidly, from the moment of her arrival at Land's End?

And what to do first? They had a wedding to plan, and although they hadn't discussed it, she felt certain he would not mind a small affair restricted to his family and her few dearest friends. And she had to write Bess, immediately—Bess would faint—and then she would shout with glee! And of course, she had promised the Farrows a supper invitation, and there could be no better time. They could even announce their engagement then.

Blanche started back to the house, her mind racing, envisioning the wedding ceremony, the reception and the supper party and all the while imagining what she would write Bess. She needed a wedding dress, something perfect—and they had to set a date. And when would be a convenient evening to entertain? Did she have something special to wear for the first event they were holding as a couple?

Blanche was passing the tower and her smile faded; her steps slowed. What was she doing? What was she even thinking? Sir Rex had just accepted her proposal, and they did have a wedding to plan, but did she have to entertain immediately? He had made it very clear that he was not interested in doing so. It had been a very reflexive reaction to instantly plan an affair. That is what she did—it was one of the things she excelled at. And she realized now that she could not wait to announce their engagement to the public.

But she had a lifetime to convince Sir Rex that some small social life was indeed pleasant, and they did not even have marriage contracts drawn up. There was no rush. Besides, he was not going to be as lonely once they were married, even if they lived apart more than they lived together. She could send a note to Mrs. Farrow, offering some excuse while inviting her to call, instead. Sir Rex would surely prefer that.

Blanche paused not far from the tower. She smiled again, realizing she was taking a better course of action, as far as her fiancé was concerned. Her smile deepened.
Her fiancé.
How she liked the sound of that.

And, dear God, was that love swelling her heart? She was very fond of Sir Rex, but just then, her affection for him felt suspiciously consuming.

She clasped her warm cheeks. First confusion and desire, and now, possibly love. After all these years, a miracle had happened. She was becoming a normal woman, with normal passions—and she was about to have a normal life.

She was, in fact, deliriously happy.

And fear seized her.

It was terror. Blanche stiffened as all of her tender feelings vanished, an acute fear suddenly clawing her, as if talons wished to rip her apart. She had no reason to be afraid—she did not know where such a huge, consuming fear had come from—and then she saw him and she knew.

She cried out, that terrible knife stabbing into her head, while the gaunt monster-man towered over her, holding a lethal object in his hand—something black, metal, with tines. His eyes blazed with hatred and he reached for her.

She choked in terror. And she saw a hundred such men, shadowy and indistinct, behind him, around them, screaming and shouting in rage and hatred, wielding pikes and knives. A horse screamed. Blanche turned. The animal had been cut from its harness and was on the ground, legs flailing, being beaten by the mob. Blood ran…

Blanche covered her ears with her hands, sobbing. This wasn't real—it was a memory! She didn't know how long she struggled to believe that, but she found herself fighting the men, the sounds, the smells, the fear, the ground now spinning wildly. Shadows fell. Blanche welcomed them. She wanted nothing more than to embrace the darkness; she wanted oblivion.

But the ground steadied and the shadows grayed, receding. Blanche realized she lay still, the mob having vanished. But the memory was there now, etched firmly in her mind, a single bloody scene, and there was no more doubt that she was recalling the events of that terrible day. She blinked up at the gray, ominous sky and realized it had begun to rain. Her clothes were becoming wet.

“My lady?”

Blanche met dark eyes—and realized Anne was standing over her, staring.

Dismay roiled. She sat up. How much had Anne seen? How long had she been there, watching her, while she was reliving the past?

For this memory had become
real.
She had actually thought herself surrounded by a mob of raging men—no, she had been in a mob of raging men. She had seen that poor horse beaten to death, and it had lay on the ground, thrashing, inches from her. She had heard those men shouting at her, at everyone.

But it hadn't been real, she reminded herself. It had been a memory, and now she knew her father had lied to her about that day. She could imagine why—she could forgive him for it, but she must not ever recall anything else! And she must not allow herself to feel as if she were a child again, lost in that mob.

“Shall I get Sir Rex?” Anne asked.

Blanche swallowed, feeling ill, aware that she was very wet now, but so was Anne. She met the maid's unblinking, unsympathetic stare. In fact, there was no possible way to read the housemaid's thoughts. ButAnne was the least of her problems.

She was so afraid, and not just of what her mind might tell her about the riot. Recalling a forgotten day was one thing, and actually believing oneself to be back in the past, another. Was she going mad?

“My lady, can you hear me? Should I get Sir Rex?”

“No!” She did not want Sir Rex to ever see her like this.
How could this be happening now?

Why was this happening now?

Blanche looked at Anne again, who simply stood there, staring, her face an impassive mask. And Blanche sensed that she was pleased. In that instant, she was certain the maid disliked her, even envied her, and wished to see her fall. And now, Anne knew more than she should.

“Shall I get your maid, then?” Anne asked.

“No. Help me up,” Blanche said harshly. She reached up and took Anne's hand. But even standing, she felt off balance. It was as if she stood on a slippery, dangerous slope.

She was getting married. She was, possibly, in love. A wonderful future lay ahead. She did not need this! She had to stop these memories—and she must never allow herself to feel as if she was in that long-ago riot again.

“I'll help you inside,” Anne said. Her eyes flickered. “Before his lordship sees you in such a state.”

Blanche whirled to stare at the servant.

Anne smiled.

 

R
EX STRODE INTO
the tower room, trying to restrain his turbulent emotions. It was impossible. He felt light and buoyant; he felt happy. He was happy. And he could not recall the last time he had felt this way.

He reminded himself that this marriage was not going to be an easy one, no matter what Blanche seemed to think. She was an optimist, and he was glad, but he must remain cynical and cautious. This was not a fairy tale or a romance novel; a long road lay ahead, the territory uncharted. But God, he did not want ever to disappoint his wife.

Overcome, he sat down at his desk, smiling.
His wife.
He was marrying Blanche Harrington and he could barely believe it.

It was time to consider improving himself.

But he had to share such good news. He reached for a parchment and quill and quickly dipped it into the inkwell. “Dear Tyrell,” he began. And he smiled again; Ty would be astonished. He wished he could see his face when he read the letter.

He laid the quill down, smiling. He felt like hollering like a boy. He did not feel like writing the letter with any restraint. Once again, he picked up the quill.

He signed the letter simply with his first name, then waved the parchment gently to dry the ink. He remained somewhat disbelieving—and he still felt as if he could float to the ceiling. Ty was going to be stunned, but so would his entire family—so would all of town.

His smile faded. The gossips would have a field day with their betrothal; he didn't care. He had learned long ago to ignore their every malicious word. Blanche had claimed that she didn't care, either, but he didn't believe her and he never would. Ladies had far weaker sensibilities than men. He had to decide on a way to shield her from any harmful whispers.

The best way would to be to appear in town as if he had been miraculously reformed. He wasn't sure he could carry off such a pretense, but he was going to try.

He slipped the missive into an envelope and addressed and sealed it. Then he opened up the desk's center drawer, removing a small portrait of his son. Tom had sent it to him on Stephen's sixth birthday.

Blanche was going to be his wife and eventually—sooner, not later, considering their ages—there would be more children. His heart ached as he stared at the young, handsome face in the portrait, but not as terribly as it so often did. Stephen would soon have a brother or a sister. Maybe he should reconsider his arrangement with the Mowbrays. He would never try to take his son away from Julia, and he did not want to jeopardize Stephen's future, but it seemed that he would soon have a family. If so, how could Stephen not be a part of it? On the other hand, how could he reveal that he was his father and not jeopardize Stephen's future?

“Sir?”

He looked up at the sound of Anne's voice. She stood in the doorway, smiling at him, and instantly, he recalled the many moments they had shared in his bed. All levity of mood vanished. He was now engaged to Blanche and Anne's presence in his household was shameful. He stood, forcing a smile. It felt grim. “Come in, please.”

She came in, her gaze searching. “I am about to prepare supper and I was wondering if a rabbit stew would please you?” She smiled again.

He swung out from behind is desk. “We must speak.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

He no longer tried to smile. “Lady Harrington and I have just gotten engaged.”

Her expression froze…and then it became an expression of mild interest. “Congratulations, my lord.”

He grimaced. “Anne, please. We have been lovers and this must be a shock. That is not my intention. You have been a devoted servant and I have enjoyed our liaison, but everything must change now.”

“Of course.” She curtsied, glancing aside.

“I am going to have to dismiss you,” he said, “but I will do so with a full month's wages and a letter of recommendation.”

He thought she smiled wryly; it was hard to tell, as she stared at the floor.

“I know you must be distressed,” he said quietly, wishing she would say something.

She looked up. “I have always known you would marry one day, my lord. All men do.” She smiled at him. “I never thought to continue on here this way.”

“You do not seem dismayed, distressed or even angry.”

“I am not a foolish or stupid woman. I am happy for you, my lord, but I must wonder, is her ladyship ill?”

He tensed. “She is delicate—most ladies are. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “I heard about her headaches, that is all.”

He had the instant notion that she was lying—and that she knew something he did not. “Is there something you wish to add? Something I might wish to know?”

“Of course not, my lord.” Her eyes flickered. “Do you wish for me to stay on to help with the house until you can find someone else to replace me?”

He was, finally, relieved. “That is generous of you, Anne. But I think it best you leave immediately. Fenwick and Meg will have to manage for a bit.” He hesitated as she looked up, directly into his eyes. “I am glad you are so sensible. You are a passionate woman; I expected a scene.”

“I am not surprised. I have noticed you admiring her ladyship several times.”