Praise for Brenda Joyce

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional

weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and

her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“An emotionally sweeping tale of heartache,

redemption, and rebirth, The Stolen Bride lives up to this reader’s high expectations for a Perfect 10 read.” —Romance Reviews Today

“The latest from Joyce offers readers a passionate,

swashbuckling voyage in her newest addition to the de

Warenne dynasty series. Joyce brings her keen sense

of humour and storytelling prowess to bear on her

witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“The latest in the de Warenne series is a warm

wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains of

falling in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary

characters – from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and

roguish hero to everyone in between – then sets them in

the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on A Lady at Last

The Masquerade “dances on slippered feet, belying its heft with spellbinding dips, spins and twists. Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth “Lizzie” Fitzgerald’s family… Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.” —Publishers Weekly

“Joyce brilliantly delivers an intensely emotional and

engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit,

scandal and pride… An intelligent love story with smart,

appealing and strong characters. Readers will savour

this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Masquerade

He had an inappropriate attraction to her.

Rex swung out, tugging at his necktie as he did so. He had almost donned tails, but that would have been absurd. Instead, he’d chosen pale breeches, a silver waistcoat and a fine, dark brown jacket. At least his appearance was impeccable, he thought.

He stepped into the great room and faltered.

Blanche stood by a window, gazing out at the night sky, which shimmered with stars. Clad in a silvery moss-green gown, with a low-cut bodice and small chiffon sleeves, her pale hair curled and swept up, she was impossibly delicate and impossibly beautiful. He was going to have to face the fact that he had always thought her beautiful, but he had done so in a very respectful way – most of the time. Now he simply stared, because they were alone in the great hall of his home. And in that moment he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms, cover her mouth with his own and, damn, taste her very thoroughly…

Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Deadly series, which is set in turn-of-the-century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in more than a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half-Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her forthcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.

Dear Readers,

I hope you have enjoyed Rex and Blanche’s journey of healing and love. When I began thinking about Rex’s story, I never intended to pair him with Blanche. Readers began posting on my message boards, asking me to do just that and my editor made the same request. I was certain Rex’s fate was someone far different from Blanche – until I awoke in the middle of the night, with their entire story dancing through my head. In that moment, I knew Rex had secretly admired and subconsciously loved Blanche for years. And in that moment, I knew Rex was going to show her passion and be her lifeline – I knew he was her destiny!

I have never written a heroine as complicated or as wounded as Blanche. Blanche was a difficult character for me to identify with and her journey was a painful one. But, as you know, Rex had some healing of his own to do and for that, he needed Blanche just as much as she needed him.

Ariella de Warenne’s story is next in A Dangerous Love. She is as eccentric an adult as she was a child, proud of being an independent thinker, and a great heiress. He is the Viscount Emilian St Xavier, half English and half gypsy, a dark man accustomed to being scorned and feared. They come from different worlds and they should never meet, and Emilian is acutely aware of it. But when he begins to question his very identity, he turns to the Roma camping at Rose Hill and they do meet – in an explosion of passion that implodes their worlds. For more information on the de Warennes and A Dangerous Love, please visit my website, thedewarennedynasty.com.

Brenda Joyce

The Perfect Bride
Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Rex and Blanche’s story – enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

March, 1822

TWO HUNDRED and twenty-eight suitors, she thought. Dear God, how would she ever manage, much less choose?

Blanche Harrington stood alone by one of the oversized windows in a small salon, outside the vast room where soon, the invasion of callers would begin. Just that morning, the black draperies that indicated she remained in mourning had come down. She had avoided marriage for eight years, but even she knew that with her father’s death, she needed a husband to help her manage his considerable and complicated fortune.

But she dreaded the deluge—just as she dreaded the future.

Her best friend swept dramatically into the salon. “Blanche, darling, there you are! We are about to open the front doors!” she cried enthusiastically.

Blanche stared out of the window at the circular front drive. Her father had been awarded his title as viscount many years ago, having made an impossible fortune in manufacturing. It was so long ago that no one considered them nouveau riche. Blanche had never known any other life than one of wealth, privilege and splendor. She was one of the empire’s greatest heiresses, but her father had allowed her to break off an engagement eight years ago, and although he had never stopped introducing her to suitors, he had wanted her to marry for love. It was an absurd notion, of course.

Not because no one married for love. It was absurd because Blanche knew she was incapable of falling in love.

But she would marry, because although Harrington had passed too swiftly to have verbalized a dying wish—he had been suddenly stricken with pneumonia—Blanche knew he wanted nothing more than to see her securely wed to an honorable gentleman.

Three dozen carriages littered her beautiful drive. There had been five hundred condolence calls six months ago. Of the cards left, 228 had belonged to eligible bachelors. Blanche was dismayed but resolved. How many of them were not fortune-hunting rogues? As she had long ago given up on ever loving any man, her intention now was to find one sensible, decent, noble man in the lot.

“Oh dear.” Bess Waverly came up beside her. “You are brooding—I know you better than you know yourself—we have been friends since we were nine years old! Please do not tell me you wish to send everyone away when I have announced your period of mourning to be over. Is there a point in mourning for another six months? You will only delay the inevitable.”

Blanche looked at her best friend. They were as different as night and day, and that was one of the reasons she loved her so—and vice versa. Bess was dramatic, vivacious and sultry—she was on her second husband and her twentieth lover, at least—and she made no pretense of the fact that she enjoyed every aspect of life, and that included as much passion as possible. Blanche was almost twenty-eight years old, she had chosen not to marry until now, and she remained a virgin. She found life pleasing enough—she enjoyed walks in the park, shopping and teas, the opera and balls. But she had not a clue as to what passion was, or how it felt, not in any shape or form.

Her heart was entirely defective. It beat, but refused to entertain any extremes of emotion.

The sun was yellow, never gold. A comedy was amusing, never hilarious. Chocolate was sweet, but easily passed up. A buck might be handsome, but no one could take her breath away. She had never, not once in her entire life, wanted to be kissed.

Long ago she had realized she would never have the passion for life that a woman was supposed to have. But other women hadn’t lost their mother in a riot at the tender age of six. She had been with her mother that Election Day, but she couldn’t recall it—and she couldn’t recall her life before it, either. What was worse was that she didn’t remember anything about her mother, and when she looked at her portrait hanging above the stairs, she saw a beautiful lady, but it was like looking at a stranger.

And vague, violent shadowy images of the past lived somewhere far back in her mind. They always had. She knew it the way some people claimed to know that they lived with a ghost, or the way a child knew that imaginary playmates lived in her bedroom. But it didn’t matter, because she didn’t want to ever identify those monsters. Besides, how many adults could recall their lives before the age of six?

However, she hadn’t shed a tear in grief since the riot. Grief was beyond her heart’s capabilities, too. Blanche was very aware of being different from other women, and it was her secret. Her father had known the entire truth and the reason for it. Her two best friends assumed she would one day become as passionate and insensible as they were. Her two best friends were waiting for her to fall wildly in love.

Blanche had always been sensible. She turned to Bess. “No, I do not see a point in delaying the inevitable. Father was sixty-four, and he had a wonderful life. He would want me to go forward now, as we have planned.”

Bess put her arm around her. She had medium brown hair, spectacular green eyes, a lush figure and full lips which she claimed men adored—in more ways than one. As Bess loved to gossip about her lovers, Blanche knew exactly what she meant and could not imagine a woman doing such a thing.

Once, Blanche had wished she could be like Bess—or even a watered-down version of her. Recently, she had realized that she was not going to change. No matter what life offered, she would sensibly and serenely navigate her course. There would be no drama, no torment, and certainly, no passion.

“Yes, he would. You have spent your entire life hiding from life,” Bess said pointedly. Blanche began to object, but Bess went determinedly on. “As tragic as it is, Harrington is dead. You have no excuses left, Blanche. He certainly is not here for you to dote on. If you continue to hide, you will be entirely alone.”

It was incredible, but she felt almost nothing at the mention of her father’s name. She was numb when she should have wept and sobbed—she had been numb since his death. The sorrow was a gentle wave, and it was very nearly painless. She missed him—how could she not? He had been the anchor of her life ever since that terrible day when her mother had died.

If only she could weep in grief and outrage. But only a few drops of moisture ever gathered in her eyes.

Blanche smiled grimly, leaving the window. “I am not hiding, Bess. No one entertains as much as I do.”

“You have been hiding from passion and pleasure,” Bess cried.

Blanche had to smile. They had argued over this too many times to count. “I am not passionate by nature,” she said softly. “And Father is gone, but thank God I have you and Felicia,” she said with a small smile. “I dote upon you both. I do not know what I would do without you.”

Bess rolled her eyes. “We are going to find you a handsome young buck to dote on, Blanche, so you can finally live your life! Just think of it! Over two hundred suitors—and you have your choice!”

Blanche felt a frisson of uncertainty at the thought. “I dread the onslaught,” she said truthfully. “How will I ever choose? We both know they are all fortune hunters and Father wished for more for me than that.”

“Hmm, I can think of nothing better than a fortune-hunting twenty-five-year-old rake! As long as he is obscenely handsome—” she grinned “—and even more virile.”

Blanche gave her a look and, accustomed to such outrageous remarks, did not blush. “Bess.”

“You will be happy when you have a virile husband, dear, you may trust me on that. Who knows? Your blasé indifference to all of life’s offerings may suddenly vanish.”

Blanche had to smile, but she shook her head. “That would be a miracle.”

“A good dose of passion can be quite miraculous!” Bess sobered. “I am trying to cheer you up. Felicia and I will help you choose, unless, of course, there is a real miracle and you fall in love.”

“We both know that isn’t going to happen. Bess, do not look so glum! I have had a nearly perfect life. I have been blessed with so much.”

Bess shook her head, as anguished now as she had been happy a scant instant ago. “Never say never! Even though you have never been in love, I will continue to hope. Oh, Blanche. You have no idea what you are missing. I know you believe your life to have been perfect until Harrington passed, but I know better. You are an island unto yourself and the loneliest person I know.”

Blanche stiffened. “Bess, this day is difficult enough, with all those suitors queued up at my front door.”

“You were lonely before Harrington passed and you are even lonelier now. I hate seeing you alone and I believe marriage and children will change that.” Bess was firm.

Blanche tensed. She wanted to deny it, but Bess was right. No matter how many calls she made, how many callers she had, how many parties she gave, how many balls she attended, she was different and she knew it acutely. In fact, she always felt separate and detached from those around her.

“Bess, I don’t mind being alone.” That was the truth. “I know you cannot understand it. I will be terribly honest now. I feel certain that when I marry, I will still be alone, in spirit, anyway.”

“You will not be alone in spirit when you have children.”

Blanche smiled. “A child would be nice.” Bess had two children she adored—in spite of her affairs, she was a wonderful mother. “However, even though you have this fantastical notion of matching me to some very young buck, I want someone older, someone middle-aged. He must be kind, strong in character. He must be a true gentleman.”

“Of course you want someone older who will spoil you terribly—you wish to replace your father.” Bess sighed. “We are not replacing your father, Blanche. Your husband must be young and attractive! Now, that solved, may I have the choice of your leftovers?”

Blanche laughed softly at the idea and knew Bess really wished to find a new lover from amongst her two-hundred-odd suitors.

“Of course.” Blanche walked away. She couldn’t help it, but now, at this eleventh hour, when she thought about her suitors, a dark, brooding 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.”

The countess was one of the kindest and most generous women Blanche knew. She was also adored by her husband, her children and grandchildren. She meant her every word, but Blanche was somewhat saddened. She would never find the joy and happiness Mary de Warenne had. Had she the ability to fall in love, she certainly would have done so by now. Gentlemen were always sniffing about Harrington Hall. She could only wonder what it must be like, to be so loved, to love so much, and to be surrounded by such a family.

“I will no longer avoid matrimony,” she said slowly. “There is no point. I simply cannot manage these estates by myself.”

Mary and Lizzie exchanged pleased glances. “Do you have anyone in mind?” Lizzie asked with open excitement.

“No, I don’t.” Blanche realized that half the room had cleared—and it was much easier to breathe now. She fanned herself. “That was a long afternoon!”

“And it is only the beginning.” Lizzie laughed while Blanche felt a moment of dismay. “Well, I have seen a number of interesting prospects. If you wish to gossip, let me know.” Lizzie laughed again, now holding out her hand for Tyrell. He instantly left his group and came to her side, clasping her palm, their gazes meeting briefly in an intimate communication.

“We should go, as you seem very tired, dear,” Mary remarked. The women exchanged hugs and goodbyes.

Blanche then spent the next half hour smiling at the departing gentlemen, doing her best to seem gracious and truly interested in each and every one. The moment her last caller was gone, she went to the nearest chair and collapsed, her smile gone. Her cheeks actually hurt. “How can I do this?” she gasped.

Bess grinned, settling on the sofa. “I thought it went quite well.”

Felicia asked a servant to bring sherry for three. “That went very well,” the voluptuous brunette smiled. “My God, I had forgotten how many dashing men remain eligible!”

“That went well? I have a raging migraine!” Blanche exclaimed. “And by the by, the Earl and Countess Adare will be celebrating their twenty-third anniversary in May.”

Felicia looked surprised; Bess did not. “And Rex de Warenne will attend,” she said.

Blanche looked at her and their gazes held. What did her friend mean?

“Are you certain you want an elderly husband, Blanche?” Bess smiled.

Blanche was uncomfortable. “Yes, I am very certain. Why did you just mention Sir Rex?”

“Oh, hmm, let me see. I was standing behind you while you were discussing Sir Rex with his family,” Bess said pointedly.

Blanche failed to understand. “I am bewildered. I asked after the entire family, Bess. Are you implying I am somehow interested in Sir Rex?”

“I hardly said such a thing,” Bess gasped in mock denial. Then, “Come, Blanche. This isn’t the first time his name has come up.”

“He is a family friend. I have known him for years.” Blanche remained confused. She shrugged. “I have merely wondered why Sir Rex never called. It was a lapse. It was somewhat insulting. That is all.”

Bess sat up straighter. “Do you wish for him to court you?”

Blanche could only stare. Then she started to smile—and briefly, she laughed. “Of course not! I wish for a peaceful future. Sir Rex is a very dark man. Everyone knows he broods—and that he is a recluse. We would never suit. My life is here, in London, his is in Cornwall.”

Bess smiled sweetly. “Really. I have always found him disturbingly sexual.”

Blanche paled. She did not want to know what that meant! And only her friend could get away with such an inappropriate remark. She decided to ignore it. “If anything, I want my old life back,” she said sharply.

“Yes, of course you do. Your old life was just so perfect—doting on your father, and living vicariously through me and Felicia.”

Felicia pulled up an ottoman as they were finally served the sherry. “Bess, I tried to seduce him after Hal died. He is truly a boor. In fact, he was so lacking in charm, he was almost rude. He would be the worst possible candidate for Blanche’s hand.”

Blanche didn’t hesitate to defend him, for she hated malice of any kind. “You mistook an introversion of character, Felicia,” she said gently. “Sir Rex is a gentleman. He has always been the perfect gentleman around me—and perhaps, just perhaps, he did not wish to dally with you.”

Felicia flushed. “The de Warenne men are notorious for their affairs—until they marry. Perhaps he simply isn’t virile.”

“That is a terrible thing to say!” Blanche cried, aghast.

Bess cut in. “He has a reputation for preferring housemaids to noblewomen, Felicia. He also has a reputation for great stamina and skill, never mind his war injury.”

Blanche stared at her friend, aware of heat rising in her cheeks. “That is gossip.” Then, “I do not think it appropriate to discuss Sir Rex this way.”

“Why not? We talk about my lovers all the time—in far more detail.”

“That is different,” Blanche said, but even she realized how lacking her rationale was. She had never thought about Sir Rex in any way except as a family friend, albeit a distant one.

“It is unbelievable that he would bed servants,” Felicia said with condescension. “How crude!”

Blanche felt the heat in her cheeks increase. “It cannot be true.”

“I overheard two maids discussing his prowess very frankly—one of the maids having been the recipient of that prowess,” Bess grinned.

Blanche stared at her, more uneasy now than before. “I really prefer we not discuss Sir Rex.”

“Why are you becoming the prude now?” Bess asked.

“It is reprehensible for a nobleman to dally with the servants,” Felicia said swiftly, obviously determined to be catty.

“Well, I enjoyed my gardener very much,” Bess shot, referring to an old affair.

Blanche didn’t know what to think. She would never judge Sir Rex; it wasn’t her nature to judge and condemn anyone. Still, it wasn’t really acceptable for noblemen to dally with the servants, but now and then, they did. A mistress was acceptable, as long as vast discretion was used. Sir Rex probably kept a mistress. And now she was thinking about Sir Rex in a way she had no wish to continue. How had this conversation begun? Did he really have a reputation for stamina and skill? She truly did not wish to know!

“When was the last time you spoke with Rex de Warenne?” Bess now asked.

This was far safer ground. And Blanche didn’t have to think about it. “At Amanda de Warenne’s comeout—before she married Captain de Warenne.”

Bess gaped. “Are you telling me you have pined for a man you haven’t seen in two years?”

Blanche sighed and smiled. “Bess, I am not pining for him. And that was a year and a half ago. And frankly, I have had enough discussion for one day.” She stood abruptly, her feet hurting, too, forgetting all about the most enigmatic de Warenne.

Bess also rose, but like a terrier with a bone, plunged on. “Darling, do you realize that Sir Rex has not presented himself as a suitor?”

“Of course I do.” She hesitated. “I know what you are thinking—he needs a fortune and a wife, so that lapse is odd. Obviously he is not yet inclined toward matrimony.”

“How old is he?” Bess asked.

“I think he is thirty, but I am not sure. Please, Bess, stop. I can see where you lead. Do not think to match me with Sir Rex!”

“I have distressed you,” Bess finally said. “And you are never dismayed. I am sorry, Blanche. It must be the strain of your comeout. I would never match you against your will—you know that.”

Blanche was relieved. “Yes, I know. But you did begin to worry me—we both know how tenacious you can be. Bess, I cannot bear the strain of these suitors—and it is only the first day. If you do not mind, I am going to retire for the evening.”

Bess hugged her. “Go and have a hot bath. I’ll leave instructions for supper to be sent to your room, and I will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Blanche smiled at her friend, embraced Felicia and left the two of them alone together, and as they started whispering, she knew they were discussing her. It didn’t matter. They had her best interests at heart and she was truly exhausted. Besides, she had to escape the conversation about Sir Rex. It had been oddly disturbing.

“I SEE YOU ARE SCHEMING,” Felicia declared.

Bess seized her hand. “I think Blanche is finally interested in a man—even if she doesn’t know it. My God—and for how long? I believe she has known him for eight years!”

Felicia gaped. “Surely you do not think she likes Rex de Warenne? He truly is a rude, boorish man with a highly defective character!”

“I was eavesdropping when she spoke to the countess of Adare. I am not sure she even realizes her interest. Her expression changed completely when she began asking about Sir Rex and her color heightened. And Felicia, when is she ever distressed? Or embarrassed by our chats? And she is insulted by his failure to send condolences! No one can insult Blanche.”

Felicia was aghast. “She can do better! How can she prefer him? He is so black.”

“He is very dark—some women prefer brooding men. You are piqued because he turned you down. If Blanche has any interest in Sir Rex, we must do something about it.”

Felicia sighed. “If you are right, if Blanche has any interest in him, then we should do something about it. But, God, I hope you are wrong.” Then, “What are you planning?”

Bess hushed her. “Let me think.” She began to pace.

“He will be in town in May,” Felicia offered.

“May is too far away.”

Silently, Felicia agreed with that.

Bess turned. “You do know the saying—if one can’t lead the pony to the cart, one brings the cart to the pony.”

“They also say one cannot force the horse to drink, even if he is led to the trough.”

“We are going to Cornwall,” Bess said flatly.

Felicia could think of nothing worse. Cornwall was the end of the world—and at this time of year, freezing cold. “Please, no. I have just remarried and I happen to like my new husband.”

Bess waved at her dismissively. “Oh, we will plan a little ladies’ holiday—but when it is time to depart, you will be ill and my daughter will have suffered a riding accident.”

Felicia’s eyes widened.

Bess continued, smiling, “I do think in a week’s time, Blanche will need to escape this crush—in fact, I am certain she will wish to do nothing more. And we, her dearest friends, will convince her to take a holiday at Harrington’s estate in the south.”

“I didn’t know Harrington had an estate in Cornwall.”

“He doesn’t. At least, not that I know of. But I have been helping Blanche sort through the vast fortune she has been left, and I will make a few interesting adjustments to her papers. So you see, there really is a small estate in Cornwall—just kilometers from Land’s End. Imagine what she will have to do when she arrives and realizes there has been a mistake. Surely, surely, Sir Rex will not turn her away.”

Felicia slowly smiled. “You are so bloody brilliant,” she said.

“I am, aren’t I?”

CHAPTER TWO

HE SWUNG HIS HAMMER as hard as he could, driving the nail so deeply into the beam that the head became level with the wood. Sweat blinded his vision and poured down his naked torso. He swung again, and the head of the nail vanished. But Rex knew that the savage physical exertion would not change anything.

Although almost ten years had passed, he saw the Spanish Peninsula as if he was there still. Canons fired from the ridge above, sabers rang, men screamed. Smoke filled the air, blocking out the midday sun. And he ran, horseless, to rescue his friend Tom Mowbray. Suddenly a burning pain exploded in his knee….

Fury and frustration mingled. He didn’t want to recall the war now, or ever again. He flung the hammer aside and it skipped across the hard ground, hitting a supportive column. The men who were helping him build the barn carefully kept at their tasks, ignoring him.

But the letter always rekindled his damned memories and with them, the bloody pain, which he was adept at burying. Rex leaned on his crutch, breathing hard. The worst part was, he desperately needed the letter, and in the light of day he couldn’t regret saving Tom Mowbray’s life, nor could he regret his brief liaison with the woman he had once, foolishly, loved.

He wiped sweat from his brow, some of the fury receding. The past was just that, the past, and it needed to stay buried. But what he could not avoid was the letter about his son.

For even as he dreaded its contents, he was as desperate to read it, too. There would be so much joy—and there would be even more torment.

Rex gave in. The letter had arrived earlier that day and it had been sitting in his study ever since. As he only received one such missive every year, he could no longer delay. He rapidly traversed the structure that would be his breeding barn. Outside, a number of stone buildings faced him, the fourteenth-century chapel behind them. It was a typical Cornish day—the skies above were brilliantly blue and dotted with clouds that might have been spun with cotton, while the moors seemed to stretch away into an eternity, stark, treeless and mostly barren. But even from where he passed, he could glimpse his sheep and cattle in the distance. The sight gave him a moment of hard satisfaction. Closer to where he stood, stone hedges he had laid with his own hands bisected the nearby hills. A prize crop of yearlings raced in one of the pastures, broodmares grazed in another, fat and close to foaling. And always, he could hear the roar of the ocean crashing on the rocks behind him, a staccato reminder of where and who he was.

Bodenick Castle was his home. It had been built in the late sixteenth century upon sheer black cliffs that fell into the ocean below, and was a stark, square structure, with only one tower remaining. He had spent four years renovating it upon first being awarded the manor for his valor in the war, but he had not tried to reconstruct the second tower, where only a few original stones had remained. Local legend held that pirates had taken it down, stone by stone, looking for their buried treasure. Some folk claimed a treasure remained buried there.

A single oak tree graced the castle, while ancient ivy and wild rose bushes crept up its walls. Rex quickly entered the timbered hall.

It was even colder within than outside. He shivered, having forgotten his shirt in the rising barn. Rex hurried into the tower, where his study took up the ground floor. Dread renewed itself.

It was dark inside, for only two small windows illuminated the round room. Rex crossed over to the desk, where his papers were neatly piled in folders, his affairs legibly marked and purposefully categorized. The letter sat front and center on the leather inlaid desktop. He did not have to look at the postmark or the return address to know who it was from—her handwriting was despicably familiar.

The torment exploded in his chest. Stephen was nine years old now. The letter was late—it should have arrived in January. But then, that was Julia, sending him her account of his son’s progress whenever she got to it. She had made it clear the task was one she felt below her.

How was Stephen? Was he still solemn and correct, and determined to excel so he might please the man he believed to be his father?

Did he still prefer mathematics to the classics?

Had they finally hired the fencing master he had recommended?

Rex choked, unable to breathe. He finally sat down on the edge of the desk, his crutch remaining loosely under his right armpit. No longer holding it, he reached for the envelope, trembling.

The memories began to return. He had arrived home after a long rehabilitation in the military hospital, his entire family there to welcome him, along with neighbors and friends. But Julia, his fiancée, had not been there—and she had only visited him twice in the hospital. He had immediately left his family to call on her, but she hadn’t been home. Instead, he had found her at Clarewood, the Mowbray ancestral home—in Tom’s embrace.

Since that long-ago spring day in 1813, he had intended to never set eyes upon either Julia or Mowbray again. He had been determined to ignore their very existence, as if the love-struck couple did not exist—as if she had not been his lover, as if he had not risked life and limb to rescue Tom from a certain death.

But society was a very small, incestuous place. A year or so later, he had heard that the Mowbrays had had their first son—in October. He hadn’t wanted to allow his mind to go there, but the math was almost irrefutable. As he had left Julia just after the New Year, Stephen could so easily be his child, even though Mowbray had been sharing her favors then, too. And then he’d heard the gossip—that the boy was a changeling, adopted or even the son of one of Julia’s lovers. Although both of his parents were impossibly fair, the boy was as dark as a black Irishman.

Stricken, he had sought out the boy at Clarewood, to see for himself. Rex had taken one look at the darkly complexioned child and it had been clear he was a de Warenne.

The de Warenne men took after one of two ancestors. They were either golden or impossibly dark, and usually, they had the brilliantly blue de Warenne eyes. Rex saw a child that could have posed for his brother Tyrell’s childhood portrait—or his own.

They had reached an agreement long ago. It was hardly the first of its kind in the ton. The Mowbrays would raise Stephen, for Julia was insistent, and Mowbray would provide the kind of inheritance that Rex never could. In return for forsaking his child to the couple so Stephen would have a future of wealth and privilege, Rex would be sent annual reports and allowed an occasional visit. The truth, however, was to remain concealed. Mowbray did not want anyone to know that Julia had been with another man.

It was unbelievably ironic, because a decade had passed and Stephen would have far more than a pleasing inheritance from Mowbray. When Clarewood passed on, Tom had inherited the dukedom, for his older brother had died in a shipwreck. More importantly, there were no other children. Apparently, Tom was incapable of fathering his own child. One day, Stephen Mowbray would be the duke of Clarewood, one of the wealthiest and premier lords in the realm.

He was doing what was best for his son. There was no doubt about that. But now, a knife was being twisted ruthlessly in his heart. Rex opened the letter.

As always, Stephen was excelling at every study and every endeavor. He was two levels ahead in his reading and undertaking advanced studies in mathematics, which remained his favorite subject. He was fluent in French, German and Latin, beginning dance instruction and already adept with a saber, enough so that his master wished to enter him in a tourney for those his age. His horsemanship was equally impressive and he had received a Thoroughbred for his birthday. He was already taking meter fences with ease. And recently, Mowbray had taken him on his first fox hunt.

The script had been blurring since he had begun reading the letter. Rex could no longer see—there was another short paragraph to read. Drops of moisture stained the page, which was shaking. He laid the letter down and gave up. Tears streamed but he could not stop them.

He was so tired of pretending that Stephen was not his. He hated these letters—and he wanted to hold his son. He wanted to teach him to jump those fences; he wanted to take him fox-hunting. But how could he? This was for the best. He did not want Stephen exiled to Land’s End as he had been.

He fought for composure. God, if only he could see Stephen, even once. But he had never visited the boy. If he were going to go through with this arrangement, he knew he must keep the greatest distance possible between them. Meeting Stephen as a stranger would be impossible—he was sure the anguish would rip him apart. He would probably wind up in an opium den, and God only knew that he drank too much as it was. Or he would meet the boy and change his mind. How selfish would that be?

And he could try to remind himself that one day Stephen would know the truth, but there was no consolation to be gained. It would be decades before he could ever approach Stephen and tell him the truth of his paternity, unless Mowbray died an early and untimely death. Rex despised Mowbray, but not enough to wish such a fate upon him.

Rex looked at the dark stone walls surrounding him, closing in on him, and felt as if he were being buried alive, there at Bodenick, where he had toiled so tremendously to turn ruins into a lucrative enterprise. But Land’s End had become a place of exile from the moment he had realized he must forsake his son. It did not matter that he had chosen the exile. The day the yearly letter arrived was the day that he always felt the utter hopelessness of his life. It was the day there was never enough air, and that the weight of his life became crushing.

Rex seized his crutch and swung it viciously. The lamp fell to the floor, shattering, and his carefully organized papers flew everywhere. He stood, leaning against the desk for balance, and thrust the crutch violently at the remaining items on his desk. A glass, decanter, paperweight and more papers were swept to the floor.

He panted, closing his eyes, fighting for control. This day would pass. It always did. Tomorrow he would inspect his broodmares, return to work on the new barn, and begin to fill the pond he’d made in the gardens behind the castle tower. His body continued to shudder. His breathing remained hard and labored. The pain and despair clawed at his heart—he could feel talons inside his chest.

He glanced down at the decanter, which had not broken. He bent, the springs in his crutch allowing it to contract as he wished, retrieving the bottle. Long ago he had learned how to use the crutch in every possible way. It was custom-made, with springs and hinges, and he was no longer aware of its existence. It had become an extension of his body. It had become his right leg.

A quarter of the whiskey remained and he drained as much as he could in a single gulp.

A housemaid hurried into the chamber. “My lord!” She cried, taking in the mess he had created with a single, wide-eyed glance.

Rex finished off the contents of the decanter and then placed it on the desk. He slowly looked at his housemaid. There was a better way to forget.

Anne was on her knees, picking up his papers. She was twenty years old, buxom and pretty and very, very lusty. She had come into his employ two months ago, making it clear she wished to do far more than clean his house and launder his clothes. He refused to deny himself pleasure and passion—he could not survive without sex—and had been tiring of the affair he was having with the innkeeper’s widowed daughter. He had instantly hired Anne. Her first chore had been to join him in bed and they had enjoyed themselves immensely—and had been doing so ever since. He hadn’t been her first lover and he would not be her last. He had compensated her for her extra duties by providing extra stores for her family, who were tenant farmers in a neighboring parish, struggling to make ends meet. Her salary was also a generous one.

Recently, though, he had seen her flirting with the village blacksmith, a handsome lad her own age, newly arrived in Lanhadron. He sensed where that was leading and did not mind, as she deserved a home and family of her own. In fact, as long as he could find a new servant—and a new mistress—he would encourage the match and give them a handsome wedding present.

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?”

“Yes, a very great lady. Why do you ask?”

“You are so concerned.”

He shrugged on the jacket. “I have known Lady Harrington in passing for years. There are ladies in society who would hardly care to witness such an event. Unfortunately, Lady Harrington’s character is stellar and she is not of that ilk.”

His time had run out. Rex hurried from the study and across the hall, feeling very much as if he were on his way to doom. The front door was open and his heart began to race erratically. The heat in his cheeks intensified and by the time he was crossing the single step outside to the shell drive, he knew he was crimson.

Her back was to the house again—she faced her carriage.

He inhaled, rapidly approaching. “Lady Harrington,” he said tersely.

Tension rippled through her and she turned. She was smiling, but her cheeks were as pink as the ribbon in Anne’s hair. “Sir Rex! How pleasant to see you again,” she breathed. “Good day, sir. It has been some time!”

He halted before her. Did she really think to pretend she had not witnessed him making love to his housemaid? He stared, and for one moment, before she ducked her head, their gazes locked.

A fist seemed to land in his chest, hard. It winded him. She had always had the most beautiful blue-green eyes, tipped up wildly at the outer corners, and he had forgotten how petite and lovely she was. But he had never seen her like this—trembling and flushed with distress and dismay. It took him a moment to speak. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he said harshly.

“I am on my way to Penthwaithe,” she said, her strain evident in her tone and the fact that she now refused to look at him. “But knowing your home was so close by, I thought to call here, first.”

Penthwaithe? He was confused. He had never been to the manor, but his understanding was that the owner resided in London and had left the estate in near ruins. Why would she be on her way to Penthwaithe?

She slowly looked up at him, her smile fading.

He became still, looking into huge eyes that were wide and mirroring so many turbulent emotions, he could not decipher any of them. Blanche Harrington always had the appearance of an angel—her smile genuine, kind and terribly serene, her grace unshakable. Suddenly he was looking at someone he did not quite recognize. She was an elegant woman of outstanding character, and he had to have distressed her greatly with his display of depraved lust. Other women might have enjoyed such a show, but she was not one of them.

“I must apologize for offending you,” he said thickly. He truly hated himself.

“You have not offended me!” She was firm, but he caught a slight tremor in her tone. “It is a lovely afternoon and I should have gone directly to Penthwaithe and sent you my card, giving you some notice of my intentions. I must apologize for inconveniencing you, Sir Rex. But we were chilled through and through and when no one answered the door, we hoped to warm ourselves in your hall.” She breathed. “Your home is lovely, sir. Just lovely.”

He could not stand seeing her in such a state of discomfiture. And worse, she was now apologizing to him. “You could never inconvenience me,” he said as firmly. “You must not apologize. Of course you should have come inside to sit by the fire.” His mind raced. Should he play along with her as if he hadn’t seen her watching him make love to Anne? It would be easier for them both, he thought grimly. They could casually converse, the kind of idle chatter he despised, until she went on her way.

His heart lurched with even more dread. They had conversed briefly no more than five or six times in as many years, and suddenly she was at his home in Cornwall. He despaired. He had never wanted her to see him as he truly was, and he wanted absolution, although he knew he would not ever gain it. But some noble part of him couldn’t allow her to leave until she knew how sincerely he regretted his immoral behavior.

He inhaled. “Please, Lady Harrington, accept my most profound and sincere apologies—”

She cut him off, which was shockingly rude. “The fault is mine, to call so precipitously!” she cried breathlessly.

Aware of turning red, and in disbelief, he said, “Please accept my apologies…for not having seen your coach in the drive…and for failing to greet you properly…or having a servant at your disposal.”

The fluttering smile vanished and she stared. He somehow stared back. Although disguised, he had tendered his terrible regrets and she knew it, but would never admit it openly. He desperately waited for her response.

She smiled oddly. “If you must apologize for…not remarking my coach, then I must accept that apology! However, I realize you are not prepared for company. I am not…distressed… that a servant failed to usher us inside. I am so used to the ton, or my group, anyway—we call at whim, without our cards…we are such a close circle of friends!” She laughed, and he realized he had never heard such a forced sound. “I simply forgot the country is so different!”

He could not decide how deeply she condemned him—and he could only be relieved that she would act so gracefully now. Her behavior was generous, but then, that was the kind of lady she was. She wouldn’t stare coldly or sneer. She would not go home and gossip, either. Of that, he had not a doubt.

“It is so cold in Cornwall!” Her words jerked him to attention. And she smiled, shivering. “We will be on our way. Clarence needs to water the team, however, if you do not mind.”

He breathed hard, relieved that the terrible subject was over. “Of course you may water the horses,” he said.

He turned away to hail his own grooms to aid her servants. He felt her gaze on him as he did so, and his tension escalated impossibly. But an insincere round of graceful apologies was not going to mitigate any awkwardness. Surely he was now the object of her scorn.

He felt as if the irony might kill him. He had always wished to impress her with his manner, secretly wanting her to admire him in some small way, and instead, he had allowed her to glimpse his true nature.

When the team was being led to the stables, he returned to find her standing silently with her maid. Before she noticed him, he noted her grim, even glum, and very strained demeanor. And now, he noticed that the tip of her nose was red from the chill of the day.

He took one last breath, watching her. Somehow they had weathered this crisis, even if only superficially. Somehow the waters had been smoothed over, even if beneath lay huge, frightening currents. And they were on speaking terms. But now what? He remained terribly embarrassed. So, clearly, did she. He had no right to invite her in for some refreshment, but she was chilled, and that is what a true gentleman would do. He was afraid she might refuse the offer—and that would be a rejection he deserved but dreaded. On the other hand, what if she became ill, and all because of his uncontrollable virility?

He had never dreamed Blanche would magically appear at Land’s End. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years. He didn’t have to even think about it to know he had last glimpsed her at the Carrington ball, when his sister-in-law had made her debut into society. Two years was a terribly long time. And now she was about to leave.

It was more than embarrassment. It was more than a fear for her catching a chill. He did not wish for her to go. Not now, not yet.

The sun had been pale and amber in the sky; now, it burned gold.

I am a fool, he thought grimly.

For what he really wished was to pass a pleasant call with her. But how could he possibly achieve that now?

Before he could debate any longer, he took his chances and spoke with great care. “Lady Harrington, it is late afternoon and you seem fatigued. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some warm tea?”

She turned slowly, unsmiling. And she hesitated, clearly indecisive. “It has been a long journey from London,” she said. “I am not that chilled, but my poor maid is frozen and has been so all day. If I am not imposing, I would love a cup, as would Meg.” And her wide eyes gently met his.

And he thought he saw so much uncertainty there. “You could never impose,” he said gruffly, but he meant his every word. He managed a stiff smile. “Please.” He gestured and she preceded him back into the house, calling for her maid to follow. And then Anne met them in the hall.

He knew he blushed. He was dismayed but his other servant was off the premises. He was careful not to look at Blanche now. “Anne, I will need tea for two and sandwiches, if you will. And please show Lady Harrington’s maid into the kitchens, so she might take some refreshment, as well, and warm herself there.”

Anne nodded before leaving with the other maid.

Rex watched Blanche stare after her. He didn’t have to glance into a crystal ball to know she was wondering about his relationship with the housemaid—and possibly recalling what she had just seen. But when she realized he had noticed her gazing after Anne, she flushed and jerked her eyes to the window. “I had no idea the coast here is so beautiful.”

“If you decide to walk upon the beaches, you must exercise care. The tides are strong and come in swiftly.”

Her gaze skidded to his and darted away. “I will certainly 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 moss-green chaise. The countess had clearly furnished this room, making it warm and inviting.

Sir Rex stood just behind her, remaining in the hall. Blanche was acutely aware of his presence. He cleared his throat. “I hope the chamber suits.”

Somehow, impossibly, she had found most of her composure in the aftermath of her shocking discovery. Her composure and common sense had always been terribly important to her. But for the first time in her life, it felt fragile—as if it might vanish in an instant, with very little provocation. It felt as if she must fiercely cling to it, or face a vast, bottomless gulf of confusion. And in order to do so, she must not recall her memory of that tryst. She must not think about Sir Rex’s extremely passionate—too passionate—nature.

She found a smile, anchored it firmly, and turned to face him. “The room is lovely—perfect, really. I cannot thank you enough.”

“It is my pleasure,” he said. “Supper is at seven, but if you need anything, simply send your maid.” He bowed.

Blanche smiled, relieved when he turned to stride rapidly down the hall. His presence was simply too much to bear. Meg remained in the hall, wide-eyed, while Anne slipped past them both and hurried after her lord…and her lover.

Blanche instantly collapsed on the settee. He was as virile as the rumors said. All composure vanished. “Open a window, please,” she managed.

Meg rushed to do so, her expression one of vast concern. “My lady, are you ill? You have been behaving so strangely!”

Blanche closed her eyes tightly and gave up all pretense. And all she saw was Sir Rex, impossibly masculine, terribly handsome, straining over that woman, a mass of wet, glistening flesh. So much muscle, so much strength and so much passion, she thought wildly. Opening her eyes, she tried to cool her cheeks with her hands and she tried to breathe. She was spinning in a whirlwind of confusion.

Meg handed her a glass of water, looking very frightened now.

Blanche accepted it and sipped until she had regained some fragments of composure. She must somehow forget what she had seen. She must never think of Sir Rex in a moment of passion.

“Find me a fan, please,” Blanche whispered. If she did not erase the incident from her mind, how would she dine with Sir Rex at seven?

His dark, and yes, frankly handsome image came to mind. She softened then, because as embarrassed as she had been, she had seen the mortification in his eyes. Compassion began.

What kind of man isolated himself at the end of the world, rarely coming to town? What kind of man dallied with a housemaid in the middle of the day? Why did he prefer servants to ladies? Surely there was a plausible explanation, for Sir Rex was neither crude nor base. And most importantly, why was he unwed at his age?

“Do you have a fever?” Meg asked worriedly.

It was incomprehensible. Blanche handed her the glass. She hated gossip—as it was usually malicious in intent. But now, she wished to understand her host—and she needed a confidante. “I will tell you why I am distressed, if you swear you will tell no one what I have seen.”

Meg nodded, clearly surprised that her mistress wished to speak with her in such a way.

“I intruded upon Sir Rex while he was with the housemaid—in a moment of indiscretion.”

Meg gasped in comprehension.

“Do you think Sir Rex is fond of her?” And even as she asked, she knew it was not her concern, but she was rather dismayed by the notion.

Meg stared. “I don’t know, my lady.”

Blanche walked away thoughtfully. “Sir Rex is a war hero and a gentleman, Meg. I have known him for many years now. He is one of the most courteous and respectful men I know and I do not care what the gossips say. But his behavior is unusual.”

Meg bit her lip.

“What do you think?” Blanche asked, wishing Bess were present to tell her exactly what was happening with Sir Rex and Anne even though she should not be giving the incident another thought. Bess wouldn’t—and neither would Felicia. They would laugh about it and then forget about it. Blanche hoped she would soon forget what she had seen, too.

“You want my opinion?” Meg gasped, her gray eyes wide.

“I do.”

Meg hesitated. “He’s lusty, my lady, that’s all.”

Blanche stared.

“It’s lonely out here,” Meg continued. “Look around. We passed the village hours ago. Of course a handsome man like that would have a woman in his bed.” She added, “When he tires of this one, there will be someone else. That’s how these lords are. And, my lady? I don’t know if he cares for her or not. He isn’t bedding the maid because he cares for her.” She blushed.

Blanche stared. Leave it to her maid to comprehend the situation, she thought. Sir Rex lived alone, in the middle of nowhere, and he was virile. Anne could ease his needs and it was as simple as that. She knew she was blushing now. And one day, he would take a new lover. His affair was not about affection, it was about passion. She felt more heat gather in her cheeks.

Bess fell in and out of love on a monthly basis. But she also freely admitted that her needs had nothing to do with love. The parade of men in her life was a parade of men Bess lusted after. The ton was filled with frenzied affairs. Sir Rex was having a passionate affair, as well. And now that she understood, she must stop thinking about it.

“Should I unpack your things? And what will you wear to supper?”

Blanche tensed. They had barely gotten past a terrible beginning, and as long as she kept a grip on her memory, as long as she remained composed, supper would be manageable, she thought. Perhaps by the evening, she could forget what she had seen, or dismiss it, and enjoy the evening. It was not her place to approve or disapprove of his choices, and she had always thought him an interesting man.

“Can you press my gray taffeta gown, Meg?”

Meg nodded. Blanche hadn’t worn anything but gray since coming out of mourning. It didn’t seem right to strut about like a fancy peacock.

As Meg began to unpack a trunk, Blanche walked over to a window. She faced the ocean below, pale gray now and sweeping into the horizon so it seemed to go on for an infinity, but directly below, violent, frothing waves now pounded the rock beaches. As magnificent as the scene was, there was no question now that she stood at the very tip of the realm, and she was acutely aware of it. An extreme sense of isolation swept her. Land’s End was isolated, she thought. And with such awareness, she felt the enormity of the solitude.

The scene of endless ocean and dark rock, of pale beaches and towering cliffs, was stark, desolate and magnificent, very much like her host. And if she, one of society’s great hostesses, felt such separateness upon gazing out at the view, if she could be so conscious of being so far removed from everyone and everything, what did Sir Rex feel when he went to his window? Could anyone live this far from society, on the edge of the world, so to speak, and not feel detached and alone?

Was Sir Rex lonely?

More unease crept over her, and with it, a sense of confusion. Blanche decided she was a bit too intrigued with her host. Still, she was a close family friend, and even his family was concerned about him. And she did not think Sir Rex could outmaneuver the countess, his sister and his three sisters-in-law, which meant his bachelor days were numbered.

He was hardly a perfect man. This afternoon had proven that. But he deserved more than a solitary existence on his Cornish estate, just as she deserved more than the Harrington fortune. Being kind and fond of his family, she wished him the very best. And she had not a doubt that when the day came that Sir Rex wed, he would give up his preference for housemaids. Somehow, she knew he would be a good, kind and loyal husband. All the de Warenne men were that way.

She didn’t want to think it, but she did. He needed a wife, and she needed a husband. However, she had meant it when she said he would make a terrible husband for her. They were far too different, like night and day, and she sensed grave complications beneath his dark exterior. And his masculinity was far too overpowering for someone like herself. She didn’t know why she had even thought about his future in the same breath as she had thought about hers.

She turned. Meg was shaking out the dove-gray. “Meg? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll wear the green silk with my emeralds.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE HAD TWO SERVANTS in his employ. Frugal of nature, with no great economy to spare, he preferred to keep his household staff minimal. Now, Rex wished he had a chef. He wanted supper to be perfect. But Anne prepared his meals, while his manservant served as butler, majordomo and valet. Unfortunately, Fenwick had been attending to his errands that afternoon, preventing him from welcoming Lady Harrington properly and thus avoiding the fiasco of her stumbling in on him and Anne.

Rex never bothered himself with the day’s menu. He did not care what was served—he never entered the kitchen. He could not even recall if he had ever done so. Now he swung in, perspiring with anxiety. Anne’s meals were fair. And Anne was now bustling about frantically. Pots simmered on the stove. He could smell roasting lamb. He instantly noted a stable boy stirring one pot, and he was pleased she’d had the initiative to order young Jon to her side. He saw cold pheasant pies on the sideboard. “Anne.”

She whirled, flushed from the kitchen’s heat, never mind the two widely opened windows. “Sir!”

“Is everything in order for supper?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, wringing her hands and appearing anything but calm.

“Where is Fenwick?” He somehow managed to sound calm, but he’d had no help with his tie and cuff links and he’d been royally annoyed. And now, it appeared that Anne was in over her head.

When he’d had the countess as a guest, an elderly woman had been his housekeeper and she had been a good cook. There had been no other visitors since.

“I sent him to the village for a pie.”

His tension did not ease. It was an hour to the village, another hour back, and he was afraid that Fenwick would not return in time to serve them. “When will he be back?”

Anne seemed nervous. “By eight, I think.”

He just stared at her, wishing she hadn’t sent the manservant to the village and that she’d planned to serve up custard instead. He could not imagine Anne serving them and hovering about while he attempted polite conversation now. It would be impossibly awkward. His temper sparked, rekindling the frustration he’d felt all day. It was as if one rotten incident after another was destined for him. However, Lady Harrington had agreed to spend the night and tonight they were dining together. His heart slammed. One good thing had happened after all. He prayed he’d seen the last of all disaster. He wanted to impress her.

“We will be dining à la Française,” he said softly.

Anne looked helplessly at him, and he realized she was near tears.

He softened. “You will leave every course on the table. We will help ourselves.” Then, “Do not worry. The lamb smells wonderful.”

Relief covered her features.

Just then, Blanche’s maid stepped into the kitchen. He was surprised; she curtsied properly at him. “Why are you not with your lady?” he asked, far more sharply than he intended.

“Lady Harrington is in the hall,” she said softly.

His heart turned over, hard. He was going to have to control his anxiety and his excitement, he thought grimly, or she would realize he had an inappropriate attraction to her. He nodded at her and swung out, tugging at his necktie as he did so. He had almost donned tails, but that would have been absurd. Instead, he’d chosen pale breeches, a silver waistcoat and a fine, dark brown jacket. At least his appearance was impeccable, he thought.

He stepped into the great room and faltered.

Blanche stood by a window, gazing out at the night sky, which shimmered with stars. Clad in a silvery moss-green gown, with a low-cut bodice and small chiffon sleeves, her pale hair curled and swept up, she was impossibly delicate and impossibly beautiful. He was going to have to face the fact that he had always thought her beautiful, but he had done so in a very respectful way—most of the time. Now he simply stared, because they were alone in the great hall of his home. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms, cover her mouth with his own, and damn, taste her very thoroughly. But that was never going to happen. Unfortunately, in that moment, the events of that afternoon entirely forgotten, his body betrayed him and he felt his loins stir.

She turned, smiling.

Her composure seemed to have entirely returned. His admiration for her increased. He would give anything if she had truly forgotten about his rendezvous with Anne—and if she thought it irrelevant to his character.

“Good evening. You look as if you have rested.” He bowed very slightly.

Her cheeks were slightly pink, as if rouged, but he knew she used no artifice. “I did nap a bit. Am I early? I see your other guests have not arrived.”

He hesitated. “There are no other guests, I’m afraid.” Had she expected polite company?

She started. “Oh, I had assumed there might be company… I am sorry. It doesn’t matter.” Although her tone was even, her flush increased.

He smiled grimly, wondering if she was dismayed that it would be but the two of them. “I am afraid I am not well acquainted with my neighbors.”

“But you have been here for many years.”

“Yes, I have.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Now she understood the extent of his reclusive nature, he thought even more grimly. He wished to somehow explain. “Having no hostess, I do not entertain.” And that was not the truth—he despised polite, inane conversation, and hated being pursed by other men’s wives.

Her smile returned. “I am sorry, Sir Rex, I simply assumed you would invite your neighbors. But this is better, is it not? You are the only de Warenne I am poorly acquainted with.”

His heart accelerated. She wished to know him better? He was amazed…he was thrilled. But of course, she was simply making conversation, wasn’t she? Or did she mean her words? “I can only hope I do not bore you with inept conversation.”

She smiled. “I do not recall your ever being an inadequate conversationalist.”

He decided not to point out that their conversations over the years had been extremely limited in duration. “Would you care for sherry or wine?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you,” she said.

He swung on his crutch to the bar cart, aware of her gaze wandering the room. He poured a glass of red wine and faced her. He was startled to find her gaze locked upon him. She smiled and glanced aside; he wondered if his clothing was wrinkled, or in some other manner lacking. The silence became awkward and he worried about the supper that was to come. “Has everything been to your liking? Is there anything else that you need to make your stay a pleasant one?”

She quickly smiled. “There is nothing to complain about. Everything is perfect. Your mother made the chamber most accommodating.”

There had been plenty to complain about, he thought wryly.

“I have noticed your collection of arms,” she said.

He started. “They were my arms in the war.”

“Yes, I realized that. It is an interesting display.”

He stared. “You don’t like it.” And the words tumbled forth without his anticipating them. They were not a question. He somehow knew she disliked the collection.

“Oh, I did not mean to critique your decor.”

“Lady Harrington, I am certain you would never criticize the most slovenly servant, much less your host. But I am curious. Why do you dislike my display?” He wanted to know. He wanted her opinion.

She hesitated. “I am hardly ignorant,” she finally said. “I have heard many accounts of the war, and one of the charities my estate funds provides housing and many other services for veterans who, unlike yourself, can no longer make a go of it.”

His brows lifted. “Are you referring to the Society of Patriots?”

“Yes, I am.”

The society was a tremendous boon to those crippled and maimed by the war. He was impressed, and although it was impossible, his admiration for her grew. “I take it your father became fond of the cause?”

She shook her head. “Father allowed me to manage our charitable contributions. In a way, we had a partnership. I ran Harrington Hall and made the decisions for the allocation of all donations, while he managed all the Harrington properties and the Harrington fortune.”

He hadn’t realized she was more than a lady and a hostess. “Is that why you dislike my display of arms? Because it is a reminder of the war—and how it ruined so many lives?”

She inhaled. “That is one reason, yes. Unlike most ladies, I find nothing romantic about the war.”

He stared. “You are right,” he finally said. “There is nothing romantic or pleasant about war.”

Their gazes met and held.

“And the other reason you dislike my display?”

Blanche hesitated. “I am not certain, but I do not feel pleasant when I look at that display. In fact, I feel saddened by it. Why do you wish to see those arms each and every day? Isn’t the reminder painful for you?”

He flinched. Another man would have brushed her terribly direct comment off. He did not. “Men died under my command,” he said. “Of course the reminder is painful.”

Her eyes widened.

And Rex smiled politely at her and turned the subject to the weather.

THE LAMB TASTED like cardboard. She had no appetite, but she forced herself to finish half of her plate just as she willed herself to remain calm. But every time she looked down, she felt Sir Rex staring at her. She was accustomed to his stares, but not like this. At a ball their gazes might meet once or twice, a dozen people between them. She might even send him a smile, or he might do the same to her. This was entirely different. It was awkward. An odd tension seemed to fill the room. His stare was oddly masculine and terribly searching. It even seemed bold. She wished he had invited others to dine with them. It was simply too difficult, two strangers dining tête-à-tête like this, especially after the crisis of that afternoon.

How could one small incident unbalance her so?

They had managed to keep a polite, if stilted, conversation going; it was a miracle, from her point of view. Still, finally, a long and awkward silence had fallen.

From the corner of her eyes, she watched his hands. They were darkly tanned, big and strong, the fingers long and blunt. Yet his hands moved with extraordinary grace—just as he did, in spite of the crutch he used. Watching his fingers touch fork and knife, she thought about his hands on Anne.

Her heart lurched and her body almost ached. She could not imagine what was wrong with her.

He said slowly, “I have been thinking about Penthwaithe.”

Blanche swallowed, relieved to be discussing a proper topic. She tore her gaze from his strong hands and looked up. She was scorched by his dark, intent gaze, yet she smiled firmly.

“What will you do if you find Penthwaithe in the condition I believe it to be in?”

“I hope you are wrong. But if you are correct, I will begin some repairs.” She noticed that he hadn’t eaten a thing—but he had finished most of the bottle of wine. She’d taken a single sip from her glass.

The gossips also said he drank too much, sometimes before noon. She had always thought it an unfair accusation, and she suspected it was untrue. He was too industrious to imbibe without control and discipline.

“Would you allow me to join you on the morrow, Lady Harrington?”

She was stunned and their gazes met. She could not imagine sharing a coach with him. Before she could respond, he said, “I am concerned with the condition the manor may be in. I have a strong sense that you may need my assistance—assuming there has not been a bungled mess made of the titles.”

The request was perfectly proper—and she might need his assistance. But could she manage an entire day alone with him when she was barely able to navigate her way through a simple supper? It would help if he did not watch her so closely. It would help if she could really forget seeing him with the maid. Unfortunately, that scene would remain etched on her mind for a very long time. And in the confines of her coach, they would be seated far too closely together, making the memory very hard to avoid. Besides, his presence was too masculine. It would be so much better to avoid it—him—at least until she felt more firmly in control of herself.

She glanced at his strong hands, willing herself not to open up her mind to any memory of that afternoon. “I hate to put you out,” she somehow said. “You surely have many affairs to attend here.”

“You cannot put me out,” he insisted. “My own affairs can wait. I am very concerned, and as a family friend, I think I must accompany you.”

She tensed. He was insisting. “Penthwaithe may be in a fine condition. I am assuming all is well and I will be moving my belongings there.”

His stare was unwavering.

“Of course you may accompany me.” She inhaled. The last thing she wished to ever do was insult him and there was no graceful way to refuse.

He nodded, his jaw flexing.

Their plates were cleared by a manservant she had not seen previously. She took the opportunity to attempt to regain a calm demeanor. But she was convinced that she must seek out a physician the moment she returned to town, as something was wrong with her heart. It kept beating far too rapidly.

Dessert was served. Blanche knew she could not manage a single bite and Sir Rex pushed his plate aside. He said, “Have you many suitors?”

Briefly, the question surprised her. “I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”

His surprise was comical. “You are in jest!”

“Unfortunately, no, I am not.” She smiled. “A shocking number, don’t you think?”

His stare intensified. “A very shocking number,” he said. And then he turned to his wine.

Blanche wondered what he was really thinking.

He lifted his long, dark lashes and pierced her with his stare. “Is there anyone you admire?”

Her heart skipped. For one moment, it was hard to speak. “No, not really.”

He smiled grimly. “I am sure the right prospect will appear.”

She avoided his eyes, trying to hold at bay an image of gleaming, wet muscle, bulging arms and an expression of rapture. “Yes, that is what I am hoping.”

BLANCHE LEANED FORWARD as her coach turned onto the road marked Penthwaithe. It was the following morning, an hour before noon. She had left Sir Rex alone downstairs after supper, wondering if he intended to imbibe alone, and worrying if that was how he spent his evenings. And the moment she had climbed into bed, never mind that it was only nine o’clock, exhaustion had claimed her. She thought about her enigmatic host, recalled the tryst she had witnessed and fell promptly asleep. She slept deeply and peacefully and had awoken only with Meg’s encouragement.

Sir Rex had not joined her for breakfast. She had learned he was busy with his grooms, apparently dealing with his horses. And he was not sharing her coach now. He was riding astride.

Blanche hadn’t realized a man with half of a leg could ride astride, but she had hid her amazement and pretended his behavior was routine. She had quickly discovered that he rode with great skill, as if a part of his horse, carrying a cane where his right calf should have been. But of course, every cavalryman was required to attend the riding academy before ever gaining admission into the service.

Now, she felt some trepidation. The highway had been rutted, but this road had severe holes and was strewn with rocks, some of such significance her coachman began to weave amongst them. Blanche wondered at the lack of upkeep, glancing now at the moors. She saw not a single grazing cow or sheep.

She glanced toward Sir Rex, who rode abreast of the carriage. His crutch had been folded in on hinges, and hung from a hook on his saddle. He rode with extreme ease, his mount a huge, magnificent beast. It was obvious he was a master horseman; she remained very impressed. Worse, that odd flutter remained in her chest.

He glanced her way, his expression somber. Blanche knew he did not care for the maintenance of the road.

Now, however, she saw some buildings on the right. As her coach came closer, she saw that they were mere stone shells, having been gutted long ago, but whether by fire or the elements and lack of care, she did not know.

It was beginning to appear that Sir Rex was right and Penthwaithe might be in a state of severe disrepair. The plan had been for her to holiday at the estate. But her plans might well be in jeopardy—and she was not ready to go back to London and face her horde of suitors. Blanche hesitated, aware that she could not impose upon her host for much longer, especially after the tryst she had witnessed.

“The manor lies ahead,” he called to her.

Blanche poked her head entirely out of the carriage window to glimpse it. She saw a square stucco building, plain and unimpressive in appearance, unadorned by trees, hedges or ivy. A small water fountain graced the courtyard, but it was not functioning. A small stone building was in the distance, probably serving as a stable. Now she saw some sheep grazing behind the barn, and two very thin cows appeared, wandering into the front yard. Blanche suddenly saw a pair of young boys, one hauling a bucket, the other carrying a basket. They were barefoot, their pants too short, and they went into the house.

Penthwaithe was not a thriving estate. The contrast to Land’s End was glaring. Worse, she did not have to step inside the manor house to know she was not going to stay there.

Her coach halted. Blanche waited for her footman and alighted, joining Sir Rex, who had dismounted and was glancing around. From the front courtyard, she could see piles of animal droppings everywhere and a cart left almost in the path leading to the front door. Scum adorned the water in the fountain. Not only was it stagnant, the statue of a fish from which the fountain should have run was seriously broken. She saw a sparse vegetable garden on her left. She grimaced. How had Father left the estate in such a condition? Her father was meticulous when it came to attending to his property. She couldn’t believe he would allow tenants to stay on if they cared so little for the manor.

Sir Rex swung over. “You will not be staying here.” He was firm.

Blanche continued to grimace. “Obviously not.” She hesitated. “I had no idea…this is terrible.”

“It is slovenly,” he said abruptly. “The estate is not my affair, but had I tenants such as these, I would terminate the lease.”

Blanche hesitated. She thought about the two small barefoot boys.

His stare was unwavering. “You have had a long journey from town. You may stay on at Land’s End as long as it suits you.”

She was very surprised. “I can hardly impose upon you.”

“Why not?”

And before she could react, he swung rapidly to the front door. As he knocked, Blanche followed and paused beside him.

A nursing woman opened the door. Her eyes widened.

“This is Lady Harrington,” Sir Rex said firmly. He didn’t look at the suckling infant. “I am Sir Rex de Warenne of Land’s End and Bodenick. Where is your husband?”

Terribly surprised, the woman removed the infant, closing up her dress. “He may be in the stable, or out in the fields, plowing.”

“Summon him, please. We wish a word.”

The woman turned. “James! Go get your father, now! Tell him a lord and lady are here. Hurry!”

Blanche was peering past Rex. She had seen such squalor in London. While working with the sisters of St. Anne’s, she had attended some very impoverished and ill women in their homes. But the manor looked as if it hadn’t been repaired or even cleaned in years. The wood floor in the entry and hall was coming up in sections, or missing entirely, there was very little furniture, and paint was peeling from the walls, which were blackened in some places. Blanche now saw two young girls and one of the boys she had seen earlier. The boy who had gone off to fetch his father was probably eleven or twelve years old. The three children facing her from behind their mother were between the ages of two and eight. She saw wide eyes and pinched faces.

This poor family was in dire need. She reached out, instinctively touching Sir Rex’s hand. He started, looking at her.

Blanche dropped her hand but held his gaze. Something had to be done.

“My lord, my lady!” a man cried, huffing and out of breath, coming up behind them.

Blanche turned, as did Sir Rex. A tall, thin man approached, eyes wide and fearful. Instantly he bowed.

“You are?” Sir Rex asked.

“I am Jack Johnson, my lord.”

“Sir Rex de Warenne, and this is Lady Blanche Harrington.”

He blinked. “Please, come in. Bess, boil up some tea.”

His wife rushed to obey.

“Please, we are not in need of tea or anything else,” Blanche said firmly. She would not deprive them of their spare provisions. “I have merely come to inspect the estate.”

He plucked nervously at his collar. “Are ye buying it? Is that why you’ve come to inspect it?”

Blanche started. “My father passed, Mr. Johnson, and the fact that this manor is a part of my inheritance just recently came to my attention.”

Johnson shifted uneasily. “We’re good people, my lady. But…” He stopped.

Sir Rex was staring at the man, clearly thinking there was no excuse for the squalor. “But what?”

He inhaled. “I mean no disrespect, but I am confused. Lord Bury has owned the manor for years. I didn’t know he was dead—or that there are heirs! He was so young and a bachelor himself!”

Blanche tensed and glanced at Sir Rex. “I do not know any Lord Bury, Mr. Johnson. Now I am confused. Are you saying that Lord Bury owns the manor? For my solicitor recently found a document indicating that the manor is a part of the Harrington fortune.”

“Lord Bury inherited Penthwaithe from his father, perhaps six or seven years ago. In fact, he was here three months ago to inspect it and collect his rents. I thought you might be his agents, come to see if I have improved it as I swore I would do! But he sold the estate to you? I didn’t know.”

Blanche froze.

Rex faced her. “Blanche, are you certain about the title you saw?”

Blanche shook her head. My God, there had been a monumental mix-up. For it no longer appeared that her father had owned the estate for years. But if Lord Bury had been out to collect the rents three months ago, how could her father have purchased the estate from him? Her father had been dead.

She began to have an inkling, and she tensed, thinking, Bess?

And she quickly thought about the events leading to the title’s discovery. The solicitor who had told her of the title had been surprised by its existence. He had been very frank: he hadn’t heard of Penthwaithe in all the years he’d been employed by Harrington. But Harrington hadn’t owned Penthwaithe for years, Bury had. And Bess had been with them and she’d remarked that this kind of mix-up happened all the time. Oh, how casual and certain she had sounded! And there had been an odd gleam in her eyes!

Blanche became convinced. They had been discussing Sir Rex at some length. Bess had asked her if she wished for him to court her. She hadn’t, and she had said as much, but when Bess had an idea, she was like a terrier with a bone. Clearly, Bess intended to send Blanche to Cornwall on a wild-goose chase—and arrange a match with Sir Rex.

Her heart lurched wildly. She stared at Sir Rex, stunned. He might need a wife, but they had nothing in common! Yes, he needed additional income, and he was very attractive, but he was wedded to his Cornish lands. And he certainly wasn’t interested in her as a possible spouse—he’d had eight years to come forward, if that were the case. What was Bess thinking?

And why was her heart galloping madly—why was she so stricken?

He didn’t even like ladies; he liked solitude and housemaids.

“Are you beginning to believe there has been a mistake?” Sir Rex asked her quietly.

She managed a bright smile. She couldn’t reveal to Sir Rex that her best friend had conspired to send her to him by falsely implying she owned the neighboring estate! On the other hand, he’d laugh uproariously if he knew Bess thought to throw them at one another. Wouldn’t he?

She should laugh! Shouldn’t she?

“Lady Harrington?” He clasped her shoulder, steadying her.

She forced the words, stiffening now. His hand was large, warm and firm. It was unyielding, like the man. “It seems the title might be as bungled as you believe.”

“A dead man cannot purchase a manor, and apparently the Bury family has owned Penthwaithe for years,” he said very seriously, studying her very closely. “You are distressed.”

I am very distressed, she thought, and when I see Bess, I intend to set her straight. “The logic is inescapable, then, there has been a mix-up,” Blanche somehow agreed. A mix- up and a misunderstanding, she thought.

A match between her and Sir Rex? It was madness, sheer madness!

Except, Bess Waverly was one of the most astute women Blanche knew.

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