The Perfect Bride (13 page)

Her heart thundered now. He dined alone—all the time—and apparently, he had done so for at least ten years. She settled on the chaise, thanking Meg for the tray, as Sir Rex took the adjacent chair. As she nibbled a cucumber sandwich, she thought about being in his arms a few hours ago. Last night, his embrace had been powerfully and almost frighteningly male. Today, it had been shockingly and wonderfully gentle. He was such a good man and he deserved so much more than his current life. He did not deserve to be alone.

But she was going to change that, somewhat, at least. Her agenda had never been as clear.

She realized he was watching her. She met his gaze, smiling at him. “I do not think I ever thanked you properly for rescuing me today.” Even her tone had changed; she sounded happy.

His gaze became hooded. “There was nothing to thank me for—and you did thank me.”

“There was everything to thank you for.”

He lifted his gaze. “Are you saying that you thought I might leave you unconscious on the street?” But he smiled wryly now.

She laughed. “Maybe I will go home and set the gossips straight.”

He hesitated, then laughed. “Yes, you have the courage and audacity to do so.”

Blanche became still, her tiny sandwiches forgotten. She had never heard Sir Rex laugh with mirth. The sound was warm and beautiful.

His smile vanished. “Have I grown a second head?”

She realized she was completely breathless. “I am the least audacious woman in the
world.
”

His dimple appeared. “You underestimate yourself. But you need not defend me to the ton, Lady Blanche. I gave up caring what society thinks long ago.”

Blanche cared. She despised the rude gossips. And the first gossip she would set straight was her own dear friend Felicia.

A silence had fallen, one with a distinct weight. He said, “You are not eating.”

She finished the quarter sandwich. “I have never had a large appetite.”

“That is terribly obvious. Do you ride?”

The question surprised her. “I ride rather well, although not as well as you, of course.”

A beautiful smile, entirely seductive, unfurled. “Come with me tomorrow. We'll ride across the moors. I'll show you the haunted ruins of a Norman castle. You will be famished,” he added, “when we return.”

Her pulse leaped and her skin tightened, warming everywhere. She liked this man. She liked him very much. And the moment she was alone, she would write Bess and beg for her advice. If Bess had thought to match them once, she would probably still think it a good idea.

“You are staring.”

She blushed. “You must be used to ladies who stare.”

There was no reply. Blanche looked up—his gaze was steady and unwavering upon her. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of course it is!” Had he thought she was insulting him? It crossed her mind that strangers might stare at him because of his leg. “You are a handsome man—women surely stare—I know Felicia has admired you and I have heard other ladies doing so, as well.”

“Really.”

She was at a loss. “I meant to flatter you, Sir Rex.”

His mouth quirked. “I do not care what the ladies of the ton think.”

She shrugged. “Most men would be pleased—”

“I am not most men. I care what
you
think. What
do
you think?”

She looked up into his eyes, disbelieving. Was he asking her if she found him handsome? And if so, what was she supposed to say?

His gaze was fixed, a slight smile on his face.

“You are fishing, Sir Rex,” she said lightly and nervously.

“I am.” He relaxed in his chair. “And it is not very gentlemanly of me, now is it?”

“No, it is not.”

He smiled at her.

She smiled back. A new, even higher ground seemed to have been achieved. “I should love to hack the moors,” she said softly. “With you.”

“Good. Then it is decided. The weather permitting, of course.”

They both glanced at the windows and the rapidly darkening skies. Blanche prayed it would be sunny on the morrow. “By the by, I have met your neighbors.”

His smile faded.

“Or rather, I met one of your neighbors, Mrs. Farrow of Torrence Hall.” Her sense of well-being vanished. His expression had become one impossible to read. Worse, he now refused to speak.

“She is a very pleasant young lady. We had such an interesting chat. I hadn't realized you had neighbors a mere half hour away by coach.” Blanche now stared grimly, for his lack of interest was obvious. “Sir Rex? Do you wish to comment?”

“Not particularly.” He stood, adjusting his crutch. “What do you intend, Lady Blanche?”

She tensed. “I am not intending anything,” she lied.

His lips twisted into the semblance of a grim smile. “I see she was a fountain of information.”

Blanche thought about an instant retreat. But he needed some small social life. “It is remarkable, really. She has been wed and in the parish for five years, but has never dined at Bodenick.”

“I thought so,” he said harshly. “Have you forgotten? I am a recluse and I prefer the company of my brandy to that of pleasing young ladies.”

She was beyond dismay and she stood, stumbling. “Am I not pleasing? And a lady? And you have asked me very forwardly for my company!”

He threw up his left hand. “Unfair!”

She had just raised her voice. He had raised his. Blanche was stunned. “I am not trying to be unfair,” she said very quietly. “I simply thought to arrange a very pleasant evening for us all.”

A smile of distaste formed. “I see.”

“I don't think you do,” she said. “But I hadn't realized that merely mentioning your neighbors would cause a crisis.”

He stiffened. “It hasn't.”

She felt his retreat and seized the opening. “Can I not comment if I am taken with a neighbor?”

“Of course you can.”

“Perhaps you would be taken with them, too!”

He stared, nostrils flared. “I doubt it.”

Blanche felt like taking him by the shoulders and shaking him silly. She felt like telling him that if he acted like a recluse, he would be labeled one. Yet he knew all that—and he didn't care. She was the one who cared about the stones thrown at him.

“Now what?” he demanded. “You are staring—I have earned your displeasure!”

He cared very much about her respect, she thought. “Yes, I am disappointed.”

His eyes widened. “It is important to you that I meet my neighbors?”

She bit her lip, afraid to hope. “Actually, it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I think your life might find some improvement from just a bit of social intercourse.”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “You wish to improve my life.”

She winced. “Yes, I do.”

“Why? You are merely my guest. Why bother? Why put yourself out? Why now?”

“We have become friends!” she exclaimed.

His chest rose and fell, hard. He stared and so did she.

“Fine. Invite them.” He wasn't angry; he seemed resigned. He inclined his head and turned to leave.

She ran around him, barring his way. He halted abruptly and she gripped his arm instinctively.

“I am off balance,” he said softly, and his eyes smoked, “but not because I am missing half of my leg.”

She inhaled. “If you plan to sulk—like a child—I will not invite the Farrows for supper.”

His gaze probed hers. “So now I must promise to be charming?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I will be all charm—I promise.” His gaze swept her face.

She smiled, thrilled and very aware of that prickling sensation beneath her garments. “I daresay, you might even enjoy the evening.”

His jaw flexed. “At least with you at the table, it will not be an evening from hell.”

She shook her head. “Such drama! Now I will make you a promise, Sir Rex.”

He became still. “I am waiting.”

“If you are not amused, I will never interfere in your life again.”

His chin lifted. “Then I will be amused.”

Blanche started.

“And by the way, you are
very
audacious.” He bowed and stalked out on his crutch.

B
LANCHE FINALLY PAUSED
, dread knotting in her stomach. Oh, she would so hate his rejection! She would rather go on this way, as somewhat more than casual friends, than to put herself out so boldly and suffer such a painful dismissal.

She had also glossed over his faults. But Bess really didn't need to know everything. For as dear as she was, she did love to gossip. Trembling, she dipped her quill.

Then she sat back in her desk chair, relieved she had penned the letter. The post was swift—Bess would have the letter in two days. In four days, if Bess responded immediately, Blanche would have her reply.

She was hoping Bess would tell her to rush forward with such a match.

I must be mad after all,
she thought, smiling,
to want to rush such a monumental decision.
But before she dared to contemplate actually going forward with a proposal, pandemonium raged outside in the courtyard.

Men were shouting with urgency and fear. Someone cried, “Open the bloody door!”

Blanche leaped to her feet and ran to the window, but by the time she looked down, the courtyard was empty.

“Lady Harrington! Lady Harrington!” her maid screamed from downstairs.

Alarmed, Blanche ran from the room. She stumbled down the stairs and before she even made the ground floor, she saw into the great room. A handful of men were standing in a circle, blocking her view, but she saw one booted foot, and she knew.

Fear overcame her.
Something terrible had happened to Sir Rex.
“Stand back!” she cried, rushing into the great hall. The men leaped away and she saw Sir Rex lying prone on the floor, half of his white shirt crimson. He was unconscious—he could not be dead!

Blanche shoved past the men and knelt, aware of his shocking pallor. And now she saw the source of blood—his shirt had been ripped open and his chest was gashed raw and bleeding. Terror replaced the fear. She looked up, saw Meg. “Get me clean linen to stop the bleeding,” she said calmly. She wadded the clean hem of her underskirt and pressed it swiftly to the wound.

There was so much blood.

“Hardy, correct?” she asked, not taking her gaze from Sir Rex's pale countenance.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Summon the closest surgeon, now.” Her quiet tone amazed her, considering she was terrified Sir Rex might die. But then, the world had stopped turning, time stood still, and there was only Sir Rex as he lay there, bleeding and pale.

He must not bleed to death.

She heard the man racing out. “Young man,” she said, gesturing at a boy she had vaguely noticed standing with the men, “I want you to press as hard as you can on my petticoat, so I may take Sir Rex's pulse.” His chest was moving; she was certain she had seen it rise.

The boy dropped to his knees and took over the task of stanching the wound.

Blanche leaned over Sir Rex's face but did not feel his breath. She willed more calm and laid a fingertip on the carotid artery in his throat. She found his pulse instantly. It was weaker than she would have liked, and it was very rapid, dangerously so. But his heart was working furiously to pump his blood when he had lost so much of it. She smoothed her hand over his face, hoping he might somehow know that she was there and she would care for him—that she did care for him. “Anne?”

“Yes, my lady,” Anne gasped, stepping forward. She was as white as a laundered sheet.

“Boil water, thread, needles. And I need soap, warm water, clean cloths and whiskey—lots of whiskey.”

Blanche heard Anne rush off as Meg knelt with clean linens. Blanche looked up at the five men. “What happened?” She asked hoarsely.

They all started talking at once.

“One at a time!” she begged.

“He was working with the young stud, my lady. The stallion is usually quiet. Something must have startled him—it happened so quickly—the stallion struck and Sir Rex just barely avoided it, but it being so muddy, he went down! And the stud took off—a horse will never trample a person, my lady, never!”

“Damn it,” Blanche cried. “Are you saying he was run over by the horse?”

“Nicked,” the groom cried, flushing. “He got nicked by one of the hooves.”

Blanche felt murderous. She fought for calm and smiled at the wide-eyed, worried boy. “What's your name?”

“Jimmy,” he whispered.

“I'm going to take over now. Can you go find Anne and help her bring me all I have asked for?”

When he had eagerly run off, she lifted the hem of her underskirt, which was as crimson as the right side of his shirt. She fought fear and despair and took a good look at the wound. Nick or kick, it was a deep gash on his upper chest and it would need many stitches. She felt certain the surgeon would not arrive soon enough. She was also afraid of infection. There was no doubt she saw dirt sticking to his raw flesh.

She reminded herself that Sir Rex had had half of his leg amputated in a military hospital in Spain. He would survive a kick to his chest, assuming he had been kicked and not trampled.

He moaned.

She hurt so much for him. “Please take him carefully upstairs.” There was no avoiding moving him. He needed to be in bed and she needed to attend him immediately. As four men hoisted him, he grunted, and tears finally filled her eyes. She brushed them furiously away. This was not the time to find the ability to weep, damn it to hell, she thought, furious with herself. Sir Rex needed her.

“He's a big, strong man, my lady,” Meg whispered. “He'll be fine.”

“He has lost so much blood,” Blanche said. Then firmly and with a deep breath, “Boil my tweezers, too, in case I see any debris in the wound.” She clasped Meg's shoulder, forestalling her. “I am counting on you, Meg. Do you have a strong stomach?”

Meg hesitated. “I'll do my best.”

“Good. Now, I need the whiskey, soap and water
immediately.
” Blanche lifted her skirts to her knees and ran up the stairs.

Sir Rex had been laid in his bed. She did not bother to look around his bedchamber, but she did see a brandy bottle on the night table. She seized it and sat, removing the linen. The wound oozed more blood. “Hold him down,” she said.

When the four men had done so, she poured.

He shouted, eyes flying open, lunging up with all the power such a man should possess. Briefly, his dazed eyes found hers, incredulous and accusing.

“You have been kicked—or trampled—and I am sorry, but I am not done,” she said.

Accusation vanished. Comprehension filled his gaze. “Hell,” he said, collapsing. Sweat now beaded his brow but he stared at her.

Blanche felt ruthless. She had to be ruthless. “Hold him,” she said. “And I would appreciate him not being able to rise up.”

Rex looked at her.

“Lie still,” she smiled, and she poured the rest of the bottle over the wound.

He grunted and then gasped.

She took Meg's clean linens and pressed them down. “I'm sorry.” She wished he would faint again, but saw that he was trying to stay conscious. “Can you breathe properly? Does it hurt when you breathe?” She had to wonder if he had been stepped on, and if so, if he'd broken a rib.

He somehow managed to shake his head. She knew he meant he could breathe without pain.

“Let go, Sir Rex. It's better if you pass out.”

He panted and then opened his eyes. “How bad…is it?”

“You need stitches. And I still intend to clean the wound with soap and water.”

Pain rippled in his eyes, which were a pale blue now. “Do it,” he gasped. And he fainted.

Blanche had never been so relieved. She reached for his hand, grasping it tightly, aware of the tremor in her own palm. Even unconscious, his face was a mask of pain. Meg returned, carrying the soap and water, and Blanche released him.

Meg was also carrying a pair of scissors. “I thought you might need these,” she whispered.

“I do.” Blanche was glad Meg had kept her head on straight. She nodded at the men to back off and she cut his shirt into enough pieces that it could be easily dislodged from his frame. She blotted the wound—it seemed as if the bleeding had finally stopped.

She paused, feeling a moment of despair. She was not a surgeon or a nurse. She had nursed some impoverished women and children as a part of her efforts for St Anne's, but that had consisted of icing feverish brows and bodies or spooning broth into the mouths of those too weak to do so themselves. At Harrington Hall, her housekeeper had taken care of small injuries and wounds, but Blanche had seen her stitch up the stable master's son.

“How can I help, my lady?” Meg breathed.

Blanche realized that everyone was staring at her. She looked grimly at the five men. “Has anyone ever sewn up this kind of wound?”

They all shook their heads. “You can wait for the surgeon, my lady. He'll certainly be here by nightfall.”

Blanche felt more despair. She went to the basin and began washing her hands thoroughly with lye soap. Meg followed. “You are very skilled with a needle,” she whispered.

Blanche smiled grimly. “I have never sewn up a man before.”

Meg smiled miserably.

“I am afraid to wait for the surgeon. The one thing I do know is that the longer that wound is open, the greater a chance of infection.”

Their gazes met in understanding. Meg whispered, “Maybe you should have a sip of whiskey, too.”

Blanche was horrified. She walked back to Sir Rex. “I'll clean the wound thoroughly—if he should awaken, you must hold him down.” The men nodded somberly.

One said, “You'd better give him some whiskey before you put those stitches in.”

Blanche agreed. “If he doesn't awaken, we'll wake him before I sew him up and see if we can't force a bottle down him then.”

She pulled up her chair and began rinsing the wound.

 

B
LANCHE PULLED THE NEEDLE
through Sir Rex's skin for the twenty-third time. She could barely believe it was done and she knotted the thread. She willed herself to stay calm and steady for another moment or two. Meg handed her the scissors; Blanche snipped the thread neatly, handing all of her instruments to the maid. Sir Rex remained unconscious.

She sat there, completely incapable of movement now. All she was capable of was drawing deep, shaky breaths.

He had been unconscious for hours. But after she had cleaned the wound—and, God, there'd been sand, dirt and even gravel inside—his men had awoken him and forced half of a bottle of whiskey into him. She was never going to forget the way he'd looked at her, as if he trusted her to make him well.

She began to tremble wildly. Tears spilled down her cheeks. How had she managed to clean that horrid wound and sew it up?

What if she had missed a pebble?

What if he got an infection?

Where the hell was that damnable surgeon!

“It's all right, my lady, he can't feel a thing,” Meg whispered kindly.

Blanche put her hands over her face and fought for control and composure. It was impossible. Tears burned her closed lids. She had never wanted to cry like this, and she wasn't sure why she was crying. The worst of the crisis was over, wasn't it?

Tears managed to escape her lids. She realized she was crying because she was so afraid. She couldn't recall ever feeling like this or shedding such tears, but she was terrified that Sir Rex, as big and strong as he was, wasn't going to survive the kick.

“He'll be fine, my lady,” one of the men said, shuffling by.

“He's strong like a mule,”' another added, following his friend to the door.