The Perfect Bride (30 page)

“Your holiday in Cornwall suited you, Lady Harrington,” a very handsome tall, brown-haired young gentleman said, his blue eyes direct. Blanche tried to recall his name. He was the third son of an earl and penniless—and a reputed rake. Bess said, however, that otherwise he had no faults. He did not gamble and did not spend what he did not have. “You have never been as lovely.” He smiled, dimpling.

Blanche smiled back, recalling his name—James Montrose. She carefully looked at him—he was handsome and well built, tall but muscular, and now, she could imagine the body that lay beneath his clothes. He had no fat to spare on his frame. He probably spent a great deal of time on a horse. She was unmoved.

Not a single thread of desire arose. “I enjoyed my respite,” she said lightly. “I had never been so far south before. It is actually lovely.”

“Have you been to the north—the far north?” He grinned. “My father has a hunting box in the Highlands. I would love to take you there.”

“I have never been farther north than Stirling,” she said, when she saw the countess of Adare entering her salon. Blanche froze. Lizzie was with her, and so was the countess's stepdaughter, Eleanor O'Neill.

“Is something amiss?” Montrose asked, turning to follow her regard.

Did they assume her to be engaged? Bess had spent a week telling everyone that there had never been an engagement. Bess had told her she must insist the very same thing, otherwise, there would be questions, questions which might “upset” her. No one was asking questions now—and she was distressed.

Her temples throbbed.

Please, not now, she silently begged.

“Lady Harrington? Do you wish to sit down?” Montrose asked, sounding kind and concerned.

Instantly, Blanche knew he would not do. “I am fine. Lady Adare is here and I must greet her.” She smiled at him—or tried to—and ignored his suddenly piercing regard. She inhaled, gathered up her composure like a heavy wool cloak, and went forward. “Mary!”

Mary de Warenne beamed and embraced her. “I have been waiting for the day when you were receiving,” she exclaimed. “I almost sent you a note.”

Blanche tried to smile at her, aware of her wildly pounding heart. Could Mary possibly think her engaged to her son? She turned and hugged Lizzie. “How are you, Lizzie?”

“I am fine—but perhaps not as fine as you.” Lizzie also beamed.

Blanche could not summon up another smile as she faced Eleanor, a tall, statuesque honey blonde with amber eyes. “I hadn't realized you had come to town, my dear. How are you? How is Sean? How are the boys?”

“Sean is fine—and so are the boys.” Eleanor clasped her hands. “Are you engaged to my brother or not?” she asked excitedly.

Blanche stared at her, overcome with so much heartbreak she could not bear it.

Still holding her hands, Eleanor cried, “Rex wrote Ty and said you are engaged. Is it a secret? When is he coming to town? What happened! You must be in love—otherwise, you could not snare my brooding brother!”

Blanche's head pounded. Raw grief rose up. She had loved Sir Rex. She still loved him—she always would. She tried to breathe and she tried to pull her hands from Eleanor's.

“Eleanor, dear, you are distressing Blanche,” Mary said quietly, her expression grave.

“It was a mistake,” Blanche somehow whispered. Tears filled her eyes. And from the corner of them, she saw Bess watching, pale and wide-eyed. She felt moisture trickle down her face. “I am sorry, we are not engaged.”

The three ladies stared, stunned and disappointed.

This has been a mistake.

Get out!

Get out of the coach, lady!

A knife stabbed cruelly through her skull. And the screams began.

The room tilted wildly, her mother's anguished screams filling the chamber. The well-dressed crowd changed, becoming a mob of common laborers; the chandeliers vanished, becoming gray skies. The screams were screams of pain and terror.

Blanche knew she must not become that six-year-old child, not now, not while surrounded by her callers. But the screams would not stop and the rug-covered wood floors became cobbled stones. The Gold Room finally vanished completely, replaced with a London street and the raging mob. She clasped her hands over her ears and ran.

“Blanche, run!” Mama screamed—and then her screams changed.

She saw Mama falling, the men on top of her, stabbing her with pitchforks and pikes. She screamed, afraid to run away and afraid to stay. They were hurting Mama. And Mama's screams stopped just as hands seized her….

She tried to curl up and protect herself from the men, sobbing. But she was lifted up and she met the pale gaze of the monster. Her terror escalated—and instantly, darkness came.

She floated through clouds for a long time, aware that she was waking up and not wanting to. If she could, she would stay this way forever, blissfully half-conscious. But the gray receded. Bright light burned her closed lids. Blanche inhaled the salts, and the obnoxious odor made her cough and she started, fully awake.

She lay on the sofa in the Blue Room. Bess and Felicia were with her—and the door was firmly closed. She heard her guests beyond that shut door. In that moment, she recalled what had happened.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, sitting.

Bess restrained her, deathly pale and as grim. “You only fainted for a moment. Lie back down.”

Blanche ignored her. “Please tell me I did not do anything I would regret.”

Felicia stood behind Bess, wide-eyed with shock. “You started screaming bloody murder, then you ran across the room—and fell. You curled up on the floor screaming and weeping!”

Blanche sat very still, not even trying not to feel. “I am doomed.”

“Lady de Warenne is calming your callers and making certain they all leave,” she said quietly.

Blanche realized Bess was avoiding her eyes. She seized her hand. “How bad was it?”

Bess finally looked at her. She seemed near tears. And she was, in a very rare moment, incapable of speech.

“Blanche, it was ghastly!” Felicia cried. “What is going on? Was that a fit of madness?”

Blanche tried to find some dignity and a shred of pride. “Is that what it seemed to be?”

“I have never seen anyone act in such a manner.” Felicia pulled up an ottoman and sat, taking her hand. “I have sent for your physician, Blanche.”

Bess said suddenly, “Blanche had a migraine. They started recently—and they are so debilitating, you saw what happened.”

Blanche looked at her friend with sheer gratitude. Bess smiled reluctantly and met her gaze, but only briefly. She stood. “I will go reassure everyone, as well.”

Bess walked out. As she did, Blanche saw the countess Adare standing in the corridor with Lizzie and Eleanor, all three of them ashen. All of her suitors seemed to be gone, except one. James Montrose stood leaning against the wall, his hands in his jacket pockets, appearing thoughtful. Bess approached the small group and everyone came to attention. As she started speaking, they all turned and looked into the Blue Room.

Blanche looked away. “Close the door, Felicia,” she whispered softly.

And she prayed Bess would convince everyone that she was ill, not mad.

T
HE MOMENT HE RECEIVED
the letter, foreboding overcame him. Rex laid the unopened envelope down, and although it was noon, he reached for the bottle of Irish whiskey and poured himself a drink.

The letter was from his sister-in-law Lizzie. His family wrote him frequently, but he was due in town at the end of the month for his parents' anniversary. A letter from Lizzie just two weeks before his arrival now seemed strange. He was loath to find out what news Lizzie wished to share.

Blanche's image came immediately to mind. He was furious with himself for allowing her into his thoughts, so he drank. He never thought of her; he refused to do so. He was too busy to do so—the new barn was complete and he was finally restoring the old ruined tower on the south side of the house. New stone hedges had been added to the pastures. And he was adding a pair of larger windows to the master suite.

He cupped his glass in his hand. It was May already. In a few weeks, summer would descend. The spring had passed far too slowly even if he had worked long, endless days, toiling alongside his men like any common laborer. He was ready for the summer. He was going to leave this damnable place. He had never felt more isolated and he was coming to hate Land's End in spite of all the renovations. He always spent a few weeks in Ireland, but usually in July or August. He'd go direct from London this time.

And maybe, this time, he would never come back and say to hell with his estate.

He stared at Lizzie's letter. She was a pretty woman with curves and she had pretty, curvaceous script. Why in hell would she write him now?

He was almost certain that he knew the answer to his question. Tyrell had written him eight weeks ago and there had been no other letters from his family since. Rex had not been able to open it. To this day, he didn't know if the letter contained congratulations or condolences. He had burned it.

Grief rose up. He pulled Stephen's portrait forward, staring at the small, somber dark boy. He missed him terribly. He had spent every day and every night of these past weeks stricken with an acute sense of loss for his son. He could not fathom why such grief would arise now, and not years ago, and with it the terrible yearning to rectify a situation gone awry. Every day he told himself he would write Mowbray and tell him he was intending to meet his child, but he never did. Supper would begin, and with it, there was always a good bottle of red wine, followed by his after-dinner brandy. And then, finally, he would think not of Stephen, but of Blanche, whom he hated and loved—and missed—all in the same terrible breath.

In the darkest hours of the night, he allowed himself an emotional rampage. In those dark hours, he thought of her and wanted to hate her with every fiber of his being. His only solace was his brandy. He recalled their every moment together, when they had been in love—or when she had appeared to be as fond of him as he was of her. Grief, rage, hatred and love became one.

He wasn't going to think about Blanche now, at noon. And Lizzie wouldn't dare meddle, would she? His sister was the nosy one. But Eleanor probably hadn't arrived in town yet, so he had a reprieve. However, for the first time in his life, he did not look forward to the family reunion.

He pushed his thoughts aside. Today he would write Tom. He could not go on this way. He needed to meet his biological son face-to-face. He needed to see him smile and hear his voice. He had so many questions! He would never jeopardize Stephen's future; he wanted Stephen to have the kind of power and privilege his brothers had, but surely there was a way for him to somehow participate in his life. He would become a long-lost family acquaintance of some sort. After all, he and Tom had been in the war together.

He smiled and it was twisted.

Rex drained the glass, not feeling any alcoholic affects. Then he stared at Lizzie's curvy script. He was close to burning her letter, too. But maybe she wanted to tell him of a change in plans. He would be relieved if the anniversary celebration was moved to Adare, in more ways than he cared to think about. He could put off the choice he must make regarding a change in his relationship with Stephen, and he would not be at risk of accidentally running into Blanche. He knew he would not be a gentleman if they happened upon one another at some social event.

He picked up the ivory-handled letter opener and slit the envelope, emboldened now.

Rex had to smile, but moisture had gathered in his eyes. Harmon House was indeed brimming with chaos when just half of the family was present, but he agreed with Lizzie, it was a wonderful chaos, caused by so many happy, rambunctious and personable children. He adored each and every one of his nieces and nephews, and usually, he looked forward to the times he spent with them. It was always bittersweet. He was the only bachelor present, surrounded by so much affection and love, and sometimes he would wonder what it was like, to have a loving, loyal wife. He would also think of Stephen, who was growing up without his cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. Now, that comprehension hurt vastly. And he was determined to bring Stephen to Harmon House for a visit, even if he couldn't disclose his identity.

He continued to read, and instantly stiffened.

Rex stared at the page, stunned. And then panic arose, consuming him.

Blanche was in a delicate condition? He swung to his crutch. By God, did Lizzie mean that she was carrying a child—his child? But it had only been eight weeks! It was impossible to know this soon—wasn't it?

He began to tremble wildly. He could hardly think straight. Panic blinded him. He had lost one child, forsaking it to Clarewood; he could not lose another child, not ever again!

He tried to stay calm. He tried to reason. No woman could know that she was pregnant within eight weeks. He was almost certain—unless some new medical advance had been made. Had there been a recent medical discovery?

Blanche was in a delicate condition. What could that mean, if not what he had first assumed? And no matter what had happened, wouldn't she tell him her news?

And a fist seemed to sink into his chest, cutting off all air. Julia hadn't told him of her condition; she had run off with Mowbray instead.

The tower room spun. He panicked when he wanted to think. He had accused Blanche of being as treacherous as her society friends, as treacherous and disloyal as Julia, but he had never really believed it. She had left him rudely, faithlessly, treacherously, but in his heart, he refused to see her as a black-hearted bitch. A part of him, ridiculously, still thought of her as an angel.

She would tell him if she was with child, wouldn't she?

He didn't know what to think.

Except, no woman could know that she was pregnant with any certainty in a mere two months!

And instantly, he recalled her running from the old church in Lanhadron and collapsing in a dead faint outside.

He leaped to his crutch. His alarm barely receded. Was Blanche suffering from more headaches? Had she fainted again? She had fainted twice while his houseguest. Was she ill? Had she seen a proper physician? Damn it, why hadn't Lizzie been more explicit!

He swung over to the window and stared outside. There was no denying his overwhelming concern—when he did not want to be concerned for her. He had trusted her and she had proven that all women were the same. They were all faithless, selfish creatures, and her facade of kind caring and deep affection was only that. But even as he told himself she was treacherous, his heart protested vehemently, refusing to believe it.

He had made the mistake of trusting his heart twice in his life, and look at where it had gotten him. He would never listen to his heart again. At all costs, he must ignore its shrieking alarm and concern now.

Maybe he would never properly despise Blanche Harrington, but if she was ill, it was not his affair, damn it.

He went back to his desk and poured another drink, but only stared grimly at it. Calmer now, he thought that only one of two conclusions was possible—either she was ill or she was with child. When he thought of the last possibility, he knew gnawing fear, but he was sensible now. Blanche not only couldn't know such a thing, even if she did, she would not share her condition with Lizzie de Warenne.

And that meant Blanche was ill. It was
not
his affair. She was a grown woman, without family but with friends, and someone else could look out for her. Her new fiancé could look out for her. But he sat down at his desk, terribly disturbed, refusing to think about what he must do. Instantly he placed a sheet of parchment before him, and dipping his quill, he quickly wrote his sister-in-law.

He hesitated, well aware that everyone in his family would want to know what had happened. It was not anyone's affair, but that wouldn't stop his brothers, stepbrothers or his busybody sister, Eleanor. He sighed and wrote,

No one was kinder than Lizzie. She had a huge heart, made of solid gold. He felt almost certain she would encourage Blanche to seek the proper medical care.

He dried the letter, and when he was certain it would not smear, he folded it and slid it into an envelope, which he sealed with wax and his crest. And a flicker of fear began.

Blanche was obviously ill. But what if she was also with child?

They had spent an entire night making love. As they had been engaged, and as they both wished for children, he had not used any precautions. In fact, that night he had wanted to get her with his child.

He did not want to remember holding her or making love to her. He didn't want to recall being the first to do so, or the first to give her rapture. His temples throbbed and he stood unsteadily. Ever since Stephen had been born, he had been excessively cautious with his mistresses. He could not imagine anything worse than siring another child he could not claim and raise.

The panic rose. She was about to choose a husband.

And then the panic dulled, replaced by sheer will. He would never allow another man to raise his child. It was simply unacceptable.

 

B
LANCHE SMILED FIRMLY
as Jem opened the front door, admitting two dozen suitors. Bess and Felicia stood with her to greet her guests, both women wearing the same facade as Blanche. She had been in town eight weeks now, and once a week she allowed callers. Blanche was well aware of the gossip that raged. Too many gentlemen had seen her in a fit, and there was vast speculation that she was mad, and not suffering from migraines. But there hadn't been another incident, not in public. There had been many fits in private, however.