The Perfect Bride (9 page)

“They seem as fond of one another now as they ever were,” Blanche remarked, after taking a small bite of chicken. Her interest in food had waned.

His appetite seemed fierce, however. But he did look up. “They love one another deeply. They were both widowed when they met, so it was a love match—and it remains such.”

Blanche stared. It was impossible not to think about the fact that everyone in his family was happily wed, he being a glaring exception. She could never ask why he remained single. But now, she wished to do just that. “Marrying for love seems to run in your family.”

“Yes, it does.” He glanced oddly at her.

Blanche knew that she was prying and it was inexplicable. Surely, this wasn't why Sir Rex had yet to marry? He did not seem at all romantic. “Perhaps you will be next.”

He glanced aside, reaching for his wineglass. “A romantic notion.” His gaze lifted. “Are you a romantic, Lady Harrington?”

“No.” She was hardly romantic. She added, “Not only have I never been in love, I will marry for economy and convenience.”

His stare intensified. “Marriage is usually convenient. I am afraid I do not comprehend how economics might affect your choice.”

She breathed. This was a perfectly suitable discussion. “Last month, I began to sit with my father's agents and lawyers in an attempt to unravel my father's financial affairs. It is all so terribly complicated! There are overseas ventures, shares in companies I have never heard of and odd partnerships, as well. My mind is not mathematical. I am suited to managing our charitable donations and that interests me. I cannot understand account ledgers, much less his various investments.”

“So you need a husband.” He finished his wine. “I happen to agree. Harrington's reputation was that he was a brilliant entrepreneur. I have friends who schemed to learn of his latest ventures and investments, in the hopes of copying him. He kept his affairs secret, of course. Why should you have to cope with such a vast inheritance alone?”

He agreed that she needed a husband. That wasn't odd, as everyone thought so. But now, she kept thinking about how industrious he was. How meticulously he kept his own affairs—and his estate was a shining example. She was uneasy but had to admit that she did need someone with some of Sir Rex's more stellar attributes. However, Sir Rex was not the right choice for her, no matter what Bess seemed to think. For his mere presence was too disturbing.

“How will you choose?”

She tensed. “How will I choose?”

“How will you decide which suitor will make the best husband? You have just said you will not marry for affection, but for economy and convenience. That requires some standard which your prospects must meet.”

She became uncomfortable. “My best friends are advising me.”

More surprise covered his handsome face. “Lady Waverly and…I cannot recall the brunette.”

“She is Lady Dagwood now. Felicia is newly wed.”

“And what do your lady friends advise you to do?”

Blanche stared, their gazes locked. And this time, she could not seem to look away. She felt warmth creep into her cheeks. She could not imagine telling him what Bess and Felicia advised.

He leaned forward. “They are aware, are they not, that of your two hundred and twenty-eight suitors, two hundred of them are fortune-hunting rascals?”

She wet her lips, for they were terribly dry. “I beg to differ. Of my two hundred and twenty-eight suitors, I am certain that two hundred and twenty-eight are fortune hunters.”

Relief covered his features. And he began to smile. “Thank God you are a sensible woman. So what do your friends advise and how will you choose from such a lot?”

“They hope I will choose someone young and handsome, and they do not care if he is interested only in my fortune.”

“Surely you will not heed those two!”

“I am not really interested in a buck years younger than myself and I do not care if my husband is handsome or not.” She stared at the blanket. Sir Rex was also handsome—sometimes she thought him excessively so.

He calmed. “I hope you will remain this sensible in the face of a charming rake who whispers his undying devotion in your ear—appearing to mean his every word, when every word is insincere.”

“I doubt I will be fooled, Sir Rex,” she said, their gazes once again meeting.

“I must warn you, Lady Harrington,” he finally said.

“Why?”

“Because in spite of what you may think, I am a gentleman.” He flushed. “You are a ripe mark for every scheming rogue. You do not need a husband who will waste your fortune instead of guarding it. And even if there is some amusement the first year or two, he will cause you years of grief afterward. The kind of rogue I am referring to, will spend every cent and penny and then wander when he wishes.”

She stared and he stared back. “I am aware of that scenario,” she finally said.

“Good.” He poured more wine for himself, appearing somewhat angry.

She was aware of how terrible a mismatch could be. “Do you care to offer your advice?”

He did not look away, his dark stare shockingly intense. “I advise you to cast your net outside the current pool,” he said instantly. “The kind of gentleman you are looking for will not step forward. He will consider himself beneath you—and he will consider stepping forward, considering your wealth and his lack thereof, beneath him.”

She had never received better advice, she thought. He was right. She must discard all 228 suitors and find new ones. And was this the reason Sir Rex hadn't come forward?

Her heart hammered yet a third time, which she could not comprehend. Of course this was the reason—he was not a fortune hunter—and he would never put himself in the position of appearing to be one.

On the other hand, that didn't mean, had she possessed more modest means, that he would step forward, either. And she hardly wished for him to court her! She had recovered from seeing him in such a private encounter, and she certainly admired a great many qualities he possessed, but he was far too manly for a woman like herself.

Blanche realized she was breathless. This was the crux of the matter. It was far more significant than her being a society hostess, and him being a country recluse. She hadn't even been kissed and Sir Rex was clearly a man with huge appetites and vast experience. They would never get on.

“You haven't eaten,” he said.

Blanche picked up her plate, aware that her hand trembled. She was careful to avoid Sir Rex's regard now. “Thank you. I think I will follow your advice,” she said. “Or at least attempt to do so.”

 

S
HE WAS NEVER
going to sleep now.

Blanche stood at the window in her bedroom, the night sky sparkling with stars, the ocean gleaming black and silver. Because of the late luncheon, Sir Rex had taken a light repast in his study while he went over his paperwork, and she had taken a tray to her room. It was almost midnight, and she had been tossing and turning for at least an hour, entirely preoccupied with her host.

She must discard all of her current suitors; she had made up her mind because such advice was inherently right. But then what?

Should she consider Sir Rex as a prospective husband, after all?

And why, at his age, was he still unattached?

She listened to the ocean's roar, but was not soothed. No amount of cold ocean air could cool her cheeks. So much had happened in the past day and a half, she felt as if she had been gone for a year. Her world felt entirely different now, as if she had been poised on a precipice, and one false step would lead to a vast fall. It was so unnerving.

But hadn't she dreamed of a day when her heart would race, when she would feel something other than calm and peace?

She just hadn't anticipated that day ever coming, and then being filled with so much confusion. Sir Rex had somehow tilted her world, making her feel uncertain and unsettled. But it was better than her world being so perfectly flat and even that she never missed a stride, wasn't it?

If they had separate bedrooms, Sir Rex might be the right choice for a husband. He would honestly and meticulously manage her fortune and her estates. They seemed to enjoy one another and were becoming friends, and Blanche knew that the few successful marriages in town were based on a deep affection. Still, she had many reservations about him. His drinking worried her. That display of arms worried her even more. Whatever had happened in the war, it haunted him and was causing him great unhappiness. She would dismiss his reclusive nature; he could come and go in town as he pleased. The truth of the matter was that his virility caused her the most hesitation.

He obviously had extreme needs. She had none. He undoubtedly required a passionate partner, and Blanche knew that woman was not herself. Many couples had separate bedrooms. However, if they had separate bedrooms, he would wish for a mistress, and of course, she would have to look the other way, with absolute indifference. She would be indifferent, wouldn't she? And what about children?

She was jumping ahead of herself. She was considering Sir Rex as a candidate, in spite of the reservations she had about him. And she still didn't know why he remained a bachelor, and she certainly didn't know if he might be persuaded to enter a union with her even if she decided to ask him for one.

And if she did tender a proposal, and he accepted, then what?

Anne had wept in pleasure in his arms. She had wept in ecstasy and it had been shocking. The rapture on Sir Rex's face had been even more shocking.

Blanche turned from the window. Not too long ago, she had been immune to a handsome face. But Sir Rex had always made her look up when he entered a room, and now, he made her heart race. Was she finally becoming aware of a man?

Was this desire? Blanche tried to imagine what she would do and how she would feel if he actually touched her, not a polite grasp upon her elbow, but a tender caress. And just considering that made her heart beat harder, made her skin tighten and tingle, and that odd little ache began anew.

Her color had increased. She could feel heat in her cheeks.
She wouldn't mind him taking her hand, or even his attempting to kiss her.

Blanche sat down abruptly, stunned. She was almost twenty-eight years old, and for the first time in her life, she was aware of a man and thinking of his kisses. How had this happened?

She took a moment to clear her mind. Attraction and desire were not good reasons to marry. She was never going to sleep now. She decided she wished for a brandy. She would make a list of pros and cons tomorrow. There was no rush. She had waited this long to marry, and she had to make the right choice.

She opened the armoire and pulled out the dress she had worn that day. She shed her nightclothes, as she was not about to wander about Sir Rex's home dressed for bed, and slipped on a chemise and the pale gray gown.

As Blanche left her chamber, she glanced at the closed doors she passed. Unless the master suite was in the tower, one of those doors belonged to her host. She realized, as she tiptoed in her slippers down the hall, that she was tense now and straining to hear. But the hall was so silent she could have heard a hairpin drop.

The great hall was empty when she came downstairs, the fire in the hearth dying to a small, flickering flame and glowing embers. Two wall sconces had been left on, but both were by the front door, leaving the great room in dancing shadows. Blanche went to the bar cart, stumbling into a footstool in the process. It clattered as it skidded away from her shin and she winced, hoping she hadn't woken anyone up.

She saw several decanters on the cart and poured the one she thought was brandy. Then she realized she was being watched.

Blanche turned and saw Sir Rex seated on the sofa, so indolently he might have been asleep. But he wasn't asleep. In spite of the shadows, his gaze was unwavering upon her and he was very much awake. In the firelight, his dark eyes had turned gold and amber, and were as watchful as a lion's.

She froze but her heart leaped.

He slowly sat upright, reaching for his crutch, which he'd laid on the floor. He had shed his jacket and waistcoat, and was wearing only the ruffled lawn shirt with his trousers and shoe. But it was unbuttoned almost to the navel.

She stared, knowing she must not, but she couldn't force her gaze to move upward. He reminded her of Michelangelo's sculpture of David.

He stood. “Lady Harrington?”

She finally jerked her gaze to his face. “You must think me a secretive drinker,” she said hoarsely.

He swung forward. “I think no such thing. You are trembling. Are you ill?”

She shook her head, careful not to glance at the two sculpted slabs of his chest. She didn't have to; the memory was engraved on her mind. “I can't sleep. I thought a brandy might help.”

With one hand, his gaze relentless, he buttoned his shirt, but only to the hollow of his chest. “You are welcome to all the brandy you wish,” he said softly, the firelight playing over his face. “But that is port you have poured.”