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The Perfect Bride
Brenda Joyce
Only one man could set her body aflame…A childhood trauma left Lady Blanche Harrington incapable of all emotion, least of all love. Now she must marry, and she dreads choosing from her horde of fawning suitors. For one very eligible gentleman has not stepped forward…Reclusive war hero Rex de Warenne has long desired Lady Blanche. Though fate and his dark nature mean he cannot offer her the kind of future she deserves, Rex is determined to aid her. Then a night of intense passion changes everything…
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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all of you who asked for
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.”
