The Perfect Bride (3 page)

“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?”

H
E 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 foxhunting. 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.