The Perfect Bride (34 page)

Rex could not believe the man's audacity—and stupidity. But he quickly decided to play along. “I must remind you to mind your own affairs.”

Carter sneered. “I am happy to do so—for a price.”

And Rex realized that Carter had blackmailed Blanche. It was hard to breathe—hard to see. He fought for control and steadied himself somehow. “Get off these grounds and make certain you never reappear here. I suggest you leave the parish, as well. You have made yourself an enemy and if you do not obey, you will regret it.”

Carter hissed, “I'll leave the parish. But my price is two hundred pounds.”

Rex smiled coldly. “How much have you taken Lady Harrington for?”

Carter smiled. “Why don't you ask her? She's paid me enough that I can live high and mighty for a year or two!”

In that moment, Rex was blinded. He seized Carter's jacket, pulling him close, his crutch so deep in the ground he did not stagger or fall.
“How much have you taken her for?”

Carter hesitated, and Rex saw fear flicker in his eyes. “Plenty—five hundred pounds!”

Rex released him, aghast that Blanche had suffered such abuse from this man. “You are done here.”

Carter tugged his jacket down. “I'll tell your fancy friends about your mistress, my lord.”

“Go ahead.” Rex turned, espied a pair of hulking gardeners, and signaled them over. “Escort this man off the property,” he said.

Carter gasped in outrage as each lad grabbed an arm. Carter was tall, but very lean and no match for the men. Rex watched him being half dragged across the gardens, briefly and savagely satisfied. He had just removed another malignant sore from Blanche's life.

Then he felt her.

He stiffened, turning slowly to look at the house. His gaze swept the terrace, the ground floor windows, and then lifted.

She stood in an upper story window framed by a pair of ivory draperies. Their gazes met.

The draperies moved and she vanished.

 

B
LANCHE MOVED SLOWLY
toward the hearth in her bedroom. Sir Rex had clearly chased that horrid farrier from her grounds. She had been paying him weekly for his silence and it was one small relief in the vast and terrifying chasm of chaos that was now her life.

Blanche trembled breathlessly. She had never felt so much sorrow and so much yearning. She loved Sir Rex with all of her heart and she missed him terribly. It had taken but a glimpse of him to recall their every moment together, his wonderful friendship, his honesty, his caring and his kindness. But her feelings were for naught, because they were tainted. She had never felt so much shame.

She was mortified. She covered her face with her hands, sinking down onto the chaise before the fireplace. Sir Rex had seen her in a fit of madness. Sir Rex knew the terrible truth.

And it was the truth. There was no more denying it. Every day, she became worse. She had lied to Bess. Every episode brought another vivid and horrific detail to light. Every episode was more terrifying and more violent than the one before. Every fit seemed to last longer. Each time she went into the past and became a child lost in that riot, her grasp on the present seemed more tenuous and fragile. The part of her mind that always knew she was an adult woman at Harrington Hall was becoming fainter and weaker; the child stronger. Blanche wondered if, one day, the adult would finally vanish, leaving a terrified, sobbing child in her stead, one who's hands and clothes were covered with her mother's blood.

I am a madwoman,
she thought desperately. A madwoman carrying Sir Rex's child.

Her admission, she realized, was long overdue.

For it did not seem likely that her life would ever return to any semblance of normalcy. If that was the case, then how could she mother this unborn child when it came into the world? What if she had a fit while the babe was in her arms? Blanche shuddered, for she might inadvertently kill her own baby in such an instance. What if, years later, her toddler saw her mother frothing, shrieking and weeping in a moment of insanity? Worse, what if, one day, she went into the past and never came back to the future? Who would care for the babe then? Dashwood?

Blanche laughed hysterically and then began to cry. She cried freely, grieving for her son or daughter now. Her child deserved so much more than a mad mother like herself. And Dashwood would be a terrible father—what had she been thinking?

Once, she had hoped that by leaving Sir Rex, she could live the kind of life that would not invite such incidences to occur again. But she hadn't been strong enough to hold the insanity at bay. She had tried to live calmly, without feeling, but she had failed. There was no calm and there was no peace. There was interminable strain, incessant fear and moments of madness. Her life had become unbearable. Worse, realizing the truth about herself, there was no more hope.

She was mad. The world knew it; Sir Rex knew it now, too.

Blanche wiped her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. She stared without any more feeling, for her life had now forever changed. And finally, the comprehension was almost a relief. She was never going to be able to recapture the life she had led for most of her years, before falling in love with Sir Rex. She was never going to be that gracious, elegant, genteel lady again, the woman the ton thought a perfect lady. That was evident now. As evident was the fact that she could not be a proper mother to her child, but she was still a mother.

The child was hers, and she must protect him or her, from herself, and she must also make certain that child had a secure future in every possible way.

Determination began. She could not salvage her own life, and she no longer cared to try. But she had a child to consider now.

Sir Rex was the child's father. Sir Rex would be able to raise their child—he would be a wonderful father, Blanche had no doubt. It seemed irrelevant now that he was reclusive or that he imbibed heavily at times. He was honest, moral and dependable. He was strong and kind. He would love their son or daughter, raising him or her in the best manner possible, and their child would have a wonderful and extended family, with cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. He was the kind of father every child deserved and should have.

He had every right to know that she was pregnant. Blanche knew she had to tell him, and soon. She wasn't sure why it had taken her so long to arrive at the only possible conclusion. But she dreaded seeing him again. She dreaded the way he would look at her. He would avoid eye contact, avoid a mistaken touch. They all did.

She hugged herself. Once, he had looked deeply into her eyes before kissing her, while moving inside her—while making love to her. Once, he had admired her—he had told her so. She had been a fool, not to appreciate what she'd had, even so briefly. Now he pitied her. He might even be repulsed.

Bess had been pushing marriage, but only because of the unborn child, and Blanche now knew that she had been going through the motions with her suitors and Dashwood. No man wanted an insane wife. Dashwood wanted her fortune, not that she had cared. She had chosen him because he wouldn't bother her or the child very much. Now, she knew she could never go through with that union. In fact, there was no point in marriage at all.

Sir Rex would never turn his back on their child. The solution was so clear.

She would retreat to her country home to have the babe, and then turn him over to Sir Rex.

Blanche cried again.

I
T WAS AS IF ONE FEAR
led to another. Rex stood in the domed entry hall of Clarewood, Blanche's image engraved on his mind, his fear for her welfare now caught up in his need to see his son and somehow, find reassurance that he had done what was best for him. Two arched entryways were on the far side of the marbled room, one leading to a larger reception room, the other, to a wide corridor, from which various salons could be glimpsed. Rex limped toward the reception room. The size of a luxurious salon, it, too, had gold-streaked marble floors. Beyond it, he saw a sweeping marble staircase, carpeted in crimson. His gaze instantly went to the portrait that hung on the wall above the stairs.

Julia and Stephen stood beside one another, a pair of springer spaniels with them, a lush tree behind them. Julia was blond, elegant and lovely. Stephen was severely dressed in suit and tie and although no more than six or seven, his expression was so serious he seemed more a little man than a boy.

Rex's heart broke apart in his chest. The small miniature Julia had sent him was so similar in expression. Did that mean Stephen rarely laughed? Was his character so entirely serious already? Was he grim in nature? Or had he posed for the portraits, obeying instructions to appear grave and even aloof?

The light footsteps of a woman wearing heeled shoes sounded. Rex tensed as Julia appeared from the corridor beyond the stairs. Her eyes were wide in her still nearly flawless face. Although he felt no attraction to her, he saw that she had aged well. He was surprised to realize he felt no hostility, either. He had despised her for so long—for an entire decade—that he was briefly astonished by his indifference to her.

But he had so much more to think about than despising the woman who had, once and long ago, betrayed him.

She, however, was not indifferent, he saw. “Sir Rex,” she said, her tone a pitch higher than he recalled. “I wasn't aware that you were in town.” Her smile was strained.

He bowed. “Lady Clarewood. You are looking very well,” he said with a smile.

Surprise flickered in her gray eyes again. Cautiously, she said, unsmiling, “So are you.” She stared at him, making no move to walk into another room where they might converse.

She was defensive, he thought. And he was consumed with anxiety now. “I saw Tom at White's. Did he not mention I intended to call on Stephen?”

She inhaled. “No, he did not!”

He realized she was afraid of him. “Why don't we retire to another room so we might chat?” He smiled again, hoping to reassure her.

It was a moment before she nodded. She glanced toward the butler, who remained behind her in the shadows, but Rex forestalled her. “I do not need refreshments.”

She led the way briskly through the reception room and into a library which looked out onto magnificent gardens, replete with water fountains, man-made lakes and ponds and an incredible maze. There, she closed both doors behind him. She turned abruptly. “How can you do this?”

“I see you are distressed.” He glanced around the gilded salon. It might have been a room in Buckingham Palace. “That is not my intention. However, may I remind you that I have been distressed over the loss of my child for almost a decade?”

She stiffened, her back to the door. “And suddenly you decide to call—and do what?”

“I want to see my son in the flesh. I want to speak with him. I want to hear his voice and see him smile. Is that too much to ask?” He spoke quietly.

“And for such selfish needs, you will ruin his future?” she cried.

“I have no intention of telling Stephen who I am. I am not reneging on our agreement. But I do intend to see my son from time to time. Nothing and no one will dissuade me,” he warned.

Julia stared at him, her eyes filled with tears.

And it was not theatrics. “I would never think to take him from you, his mother,” he added softly. “Such a notion is appalling.”

She finally nodded. “You startled me. I have always wondered when you would appear in our lives to take him away—or at least, tell him the truth.”

“You do not know me well.”

“No, I do not, because I made a terrible choice ten years ago and I have been paying for it dearly.” She walked away from the door, past him, so he could only stare at her rigid back. What did that mean? Did she regret her treachery—and her marriage to one of Britain's premier noblemen?

He was bewildered. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged and faced him. “I want you to know that I intend for Stephen to be the next duke of Clarewood, and I will do
anything
to make certain he comes into his inheritance.”

He became uneasy, but not alarmed. “You love him greatly.”

“Of course I do. He is my son—my only child—and he is entitled to all of this.” She gestured at the grand room.

“I want him to have the power and wealth that you and Tom can give him, Julia,” he said quietly. “But I cannot go on apart from him this way. You may introduce me as a family friend.”

Julia hugged herself, a gesture of anxiety he had never before seen. “Maybe it is best that you become a part of his life.”

His suspicion arose. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong—except that I am married to a difficult man. He is a difficult husband—and a difficult father. I cannot please Tom. No matter how I try, nothing is ever enough.”

Alarm began. “And Stephen?”

“Stephen is a constant reminder that Tom is lacking in manhood.”

Rex thudded over. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, holding his gaze, “that Stephen excels at every endeavor and it is never enough for his father.”

Rex felt his heart slamming with painful force. “So Tom has become exactly like his father.”

“Yes.”

“Is Stephen unhappy?”

She hesitated. “He is not unhappy, Rex. He has a serious and responsible nature. He wishes to apply himself and succeed. He seems driven to take up task after task. He already speaks three languages fluently and has advanced from simple mathematics to algebra. He is studying anatomy now, and by that, I mean he has excelled at biology already. His tutors say he is brilliant.”

“He is nine years old!” Rex exclaimed, unsure of whether to be thrilled or frightened, proud or dismayed.

“I am so proud of him and you should be proud of him, too,” Julia said, plucking his sleeve. “But he seems to have missed out on his childhood entirely.” Then her eyes widened. “There he is.”

Rex whirled and saw Mowbray and his son approaching the house from outside, both dressed in formal riding attire. His heart turned over hard and he felt faint—he couldn't quite breathe. Mowbray wasn't speaking and neither was Stephen. He instantly noticed that the small boy carried himself like a prince—his posture stiff, proud and terribly correct.

He limped to the terrace doors and through them. When he stood at the white plaster railing, Mowbray saw him and displeasure crossed his features. He glanced down and said something to Stephen.

Stephen glanced across the lawn and for the first time in his life, Rex met his son's gaze. A distance separated them, but he saw what he thought was cool disdain.

He is as haughty as Mowbray, he thought with a touch of despair. But with the power he would one day have, he could be as haughty as the Prince of Wales or a visiting King.

Man and child climbed the terrace steps. Rex now saw that Stephen was regarding him with aloofness, but curiosity flickered in his eyes, too.

“Darling,” Julia cried, stepping in front of him. “We have a caller. It has been a few years since you have seen Sir Rex!” Her enthusiastic tone matched her smile. She took Stephen's hand. “Did you enjoy hacking with your father?”

“Yes, I did, Mother. I showed Father how well Odysseus takes the stone hedge wall.”

Julia faced Rex. “He rides the way you did when you were in the cavalry, Sir Rex. He is quite the horseman already.”

Rex was very aware of how nervous Julia was. But he was afflicted with nerves, too. He could barely believe he stood an arm's length from his son. He didn't want to take his eyes off Stephen, and he wasn't sure he could. He nodded at Mowbray. “Hello, Your Grace. It is good to see you again.”

Mowbray's face was pinched. “Sir Rex. How pleasant of you to call. I am sorry you did not send word first. I have appointments in town and I will not be able to linger, I'm afraid.”

Rex somehow smiled and then glanced at Stephen, who was staring closely at him, as if assessing every nuance in his every word and his every gesture. “Hello,” he said as casually as possible, a terrible feat.

“Stephen, please greet Sir Rex de Warenne. He is an old family friend. His father is Adare.”

Stephen bowed, but barely, clearly aware of his superior rank. “Good day,” he said solemnly. “I believe I have met your father during a hack in the park.”

Rex did not even attempt to breathe normally. “I hadn't realized. I am glad.” He realized what he had said and added, “How high is that stone hedge?”

Stephen seemed to want to smile. “Almost a meter.”

Rex was impressed. “That's a high jump for a young boy.”

“I can jump higher,” Stephen returned very factually.

“My son excels at everything he attempts,” Mowbray said, his tone oddly mocking. “There is nothing he cannot do. If he decided to fly to the moon, I am sure he would.”

Stephen flushed. And Rex wanted to slam Mowbray to the ground, for cutting his son cruelly and without cause.

“Do not rush your call.” Mowbray smiled coolly. “I am sure my wife is thrilled to see you after so many years.” He nodded and strode across the terrace, disappearing into the house.

Rex instantly turned to Stephen, who had clearly recovered his composure. “I am sure your father is very proud of you,” he said softly. “I know your mother is.”

Stephen's gaze narrowed. “How do you know that my mother is proud of me if you haven't called in years?”

Rex realized Stephen would not miss a trick. “I have seen her once or twice at various affairs and she has praised you highly.” He smiled, wanting to touch his son but knowing he must not dare.

Stephen nodded. “My mother is easy to please. I have decided most women are.” He left unsaid what was now obvious, that his father was not. “I don't think my father likes you.”

“That's not true!” Julia gasped.

Rex said simply, “I have known your father since the war. War changes men, Stephen, and it has changed both of us.”

Stephen stared, keenly interested now. “I have read a great deal about the war. Father served in Spain. He was in the cavalry, too,” Stephen said with pride. “He was in the 11th Light Dragoons.”

“I know. He was under my command,” Rex said simply.

Stephen stared into his eyes, his gaze sharp and searching. Then, “I didn't know.”

Julia came forward. “You should know that Sir Rex is a decorated war hero. He has received the medal of valor for his heroism. He rescued your father, Stephen, when he was so injured in battle he could not leave the field. He probably saved Clarewood's life.”

Stephen squared his shoulders, although his eyes were wide. “Then this family owes you a vast debt, Sir Rex,” he said gravely. “One day I will repay it, even if my father has already done so.”

Rex was undone. His son was already a man of honor. How could he ask for more? “You need repay nothing. I would rescue any man in my command in a similar circumstance.”

“Then medal or not, you are truly a hero,” Stephen said. “Is that how you lost your leg?”

Rex knew he must control the moisture gathering in his eyes. But he was so proud, so moved, and so adoring of this child, his son. “I lost my leg while carrying your father to safety,” he said softly.

Stephen stared at him, eyes wide.

“It is the past.”

Stephen turned and looked at his mother. “Why haven't I met Sir Rex before?” he demanded.

Julia hesitated. “He spends a great deal of time on his estate in Cornwall. You are too young to attend the affairs of the ton.” She shrugged. “But I am glad this day has finally come.” And she sent Rex a smile.

Stephen turned back to Rex. “Clarewood has estates everywhere, but not a single one in Cornwall. I have never been to the south. What is it like?”

Rex inhaled. This was an opportunity and he meant to seize it. “Stark, desolate—and very majestic.”

Stephen's eyes widened. “I am going to read about Cornwall,” he said flatly.

Rex didn't hesitate. “The most beautiful time of the year is July when the heather and gorse bloom. Your mother can bring you for a visit, if you wish. We can hack the moors. There are many hedges for jumping.”

Stephen suddenly smiled, and a small boy's enthusiasm flickered on his face and in his blue eyes. “You ride astride?”