by Brenda Joyce
A knock sounded.
Blanche knew who it was. She turned, smiling. “Please, enter.”
Sir Rex paused on the bedroom’s threshold as Meg came inside, carrying a sterling tray. Instantly their gazes locked and he smiled. Still, she saw the concern shimmering in his dark eyes. “I learned you take a single slice of toast for breakfast. Anne has pulled together some refreshments. You’ll feel better if you eat.”
She smiled at him, her heart feeling so light that she wouldn’t be surprised to watch it drift from her chest to the ceiling, like a balloon. “I am hardly a small child, to be coaxed to dine.” But he had held her hand in the coach as if she was just that.
And oddly, he was making her feel younger than her years.
As Meg set the tray down on the table by the chaise, he smiled at her, revealing his single dimple. “You are hardly a small child, but you eat like a bird—a sparrow, actually.” His smile vanished. “Lady Blanche, I am somewhat worried about you. Please, humor me now.”
“Will you join me?” she asked, arching a brow, hoping he would accept the invitation.
He started—then slowly glanced aside.
Blanche felt her pulse race. She had never been coy, not once in her entire life. But the sultry invitation had somehow slipped out of its own accord. Perhaps because she so wanted his company. Then she heard a chair scraping the floor. She saw Sir Rex move the chair belonging to the secretaire not far from the chaise.
“Of course,” he murmured. “No one wishes to dine alone.” He gestured at the chaise.
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dear Bess,
I hope this letter finds you and the children well. I am afraid I am greatly in need of your advice. I have been at Sir Rex’s manor for a full week now, as you must know. It was very shocking to discover that Penthwaithe is not a part of my fortune! I am certain you are smiling now in smug satisfaction. So I must ask if you seriously thought to match me with Sir Rex.
He has many stellar qualities. He has the strength and integrity of character to manage the Harrington fortune. His attributes far outweigh his very few flaws. I believe we have developed a genuine friendship, based on mutual respect and affection. And I will dare to write that I also find him quite attractive. Bess, I am considering asking him for a union.
Please respond in absolute haste and tell me what you think! And if you would still encourage a match based on friendship, affection and a strength of character, please advise me exactly as to how I should proceed.
Finally, I have not a single clue as to whether he would be receptive to such a remarkable advance on my part. I would not care much for his rejection.
BLANCHE 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.
Your devoted and loyal friend,
Blanche Harrington
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.”
