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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.”
