The Perfect Bride

by Brenda Joyce

“I can accept that bargain,” he said softly, appearing rather pleased.

  A small thrill raced through her. “I will check in on you later. Rest, Sir Rex, please.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOR ONE MOMENT, she was so surprised to find a lion staring at her from the doorway of her bedchamber. Vaguely, she realized she was so tired, and as vaguely, that she must be dreaming. Because a lion could not be in her bedroom. The beast was magnificent, and he was staring at her with such familiar, amber-flecked, smoldering eyes—and even though she saw a predatory intensity there, she wasn’t frightened. Instead, an odd excitement began.

  Then its face changed, becoming impossibly bestial, partly monstrous and almost human, and it growled, revealing huge, white, glistening fangs. Blanche jerked in fear, and blood began running from the fangs. The white fangs turned black, becoming the metal tines of a pitchfork. Blood ran from them now, too….

  She screamed, sitting bolt upright in her bed.

  Blanche realized she had been deeply asleep and dreaming. Terrified, her heart thundering so violently that it hurt her chest, she turned to stare wildly at the window. It was bright outside—the middle of the afternoon. She had been sleeping for several hours and she recalled why—she had been up all night with Sir Rex, taking care of him.

  Blanche threw the covers aside, shaken and trying to recover from such a threatening dream. She now remembered that Meg had helped her out of her ruined gown, corset and petticoats and she had collapsed in her bed in her silk chemise and cotton and lace drawers. She ran to the window, shoving it wide-open. Why had she had such a nightmare? And why was it so terrifying?

  Nothing had actually happened!

  But there had been so much blood….

  It was only a nightmare, she told herself sternly, and it meant nothing, nothing at all!

  Her door slammed open, and Sir Rex stood there, clad only in his breeches, his expression one of alarm. “Blanche?”

  For one moment, she simply stared at him, seeing the golden lion again. And then her mind began to work. “What are you doing out of bed?” she cried, and it was an accusation. Concern for him began to chase the fragments of her dream away.

  He glanced around the room, then back at her. And now, his gaze swung to her hanging hair and then down her very scantily clad body, right to the tips of her bare toes. He looked up. “I thought a highwayman was murdering you in your sleep.” Then, “You will catch pneumonia standing by the open window like that.”

  Blanche realized she was standing in her undergarments, which were very revealing. She ran to the armoire and threw a wrapper on, suddenly flushing, wondering just how transparent her chemise was. “I had a dream.” She belted it firmly, aware that she was still feeling ill, and her heart had not returned to a normal pace. But a different and acute awareness had arisen. Sir Rex’s presence filled the bedchamber, dominating it. “You should have knocked.”

  “You screamed as if someone was murdering you,” he said sharply. “It was bloodcurdling—just like your scream the other day in the church.”

  She tensed and slowly faced him. That dream had frightened her just as much as the miners in the church, she thought. Now she was disturbed and uncertain. But she was calmer this time, calm enough to notice that Sir Rex remained clad in the same breeches he had worn when he had had the accident, and they were muddy and bloodstained. But his wound had now been properly dressed.

  “Was the surgeon here?” she asked, jerking her gaze from the dressing and the hard slab of his chest.

  “Yes, he was. And Dr. Linney also called.” Two spots of pink now colored his high cheekbones. His gaze had drifted to the bodice of her pleated wrapper, as if he might be capable of seeing through the fabric. It shifted upward. “Tom Hamilton approved of your handiwork and said I am certain to be fine.”

  She tried not to notice his near nakedness. Someone was going to have to help him change his clothes. “Did he also say he approves of your running around the house, just hours after my surgery?”

  “If I hear you scream like that, I will come running,” he said flatly. “And do not doubt it.”

  She hugged herself. A part of her was thrilled. “And if a highwayman was here, I doubt you could fight him in your condition, Sir Rex,” she said firmly, finally in a firm grasp of her turbulent emotions.

  His tight expression softened. “Where there is a will, there is a way. Are you all right?”

  His soft tone sent a frisson of desire through her, chasing away the last remnants of revulsion and fear. “It was only a dream.” She somehow smiled. And she did not want him concerned with her welfare when he had to mend his own body. “Can you get yourself back to bed? You need rest.”

  “Of course,” he said, staring.

  She looked as closely at his face. His recuperative powers were amazing, because he did not look pale, ill or close to fainting. But he made no move to go. “Well?” she said, rather imperiously. She began to think about his seeing her in a state of undress a moment ago. His gaze had lingered where it should not have. But that only made her heart skip, and she had to wonder if he had been admiring her. She touched her hair. Meg had taken the pins out and it hung past her shoulders. She hoped it was not entirely disheveled. There was probably little to admire right now.

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  “Lions and monsters,” she said sharply. She had no intention of ever discussing this nightmare with anyone, much less him.

  His eyes widened.

  She flushed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to shout.” The lion had been so very much like Sir Rex. She was certain it had symbolized him. As for the rest, she had to forget about it.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Rex,” she said firmly. But her mind twisted and turned. If she did not know better, she would think the monster had been a man—one of the villains wielding pitchforks in the mob.

  But she did know better. Her father had never said anything about the mob having pitchforks. It was absurd to be dreaming of monsters as if she were a child, but that was what she had done.

  “Please stop apologizing to me when there is nothing to apologize for.” He nodded curtly and swung out, not bothering to close her door.

  She had insulted him, or damaged his feelings, she thought, by being so abrupt. But she was not going to share the rest of her secrets with him. She hurried to the door to shut it, but paused to watch him limping down the hall to his own room. His gait had slowed—he was fatigued, no matter his display of masculine strength, and so evidently pushing himself, never mind his recuperative powers.

  It must hurt terribly to use his crutch now, she thought. The right side of his chest had to pain him every time he used his right shoulder and arm.

  More concern arose. What was she thinking, to be so caught up in the aftermath of a child’s nightmare? She wasn’t a child, Sir Rex had been seriously injured, and she was not certain he was entirely out of danger.

  She went back to her room and threw a pale blue dress on, along with stockings and shoes. She twisted her hair into a knot and stuck a dozen pins into it. Then she hurried to his bedroom. The door was open, but she knocked anyway.

  He eyed her from the bed. He had tossed the covers aside. He was as still as a perfectly sculpted male statue. But his gaze narrowed with speculation and something else, a regard very similar to the preying lion in her dreams.

  “May I?”

  He nodded.

  She hurried in. “I must apologize for being rude to you when—“

  “Accepted.” He cut her off.

  She stared. Then, “Did Mr. Hamilton say that you were out of all danger?”

  “He said it was unlikely an infection would set in if it hadn’t already. Dr. Linney agreed.”

  “Did he tell you to stay in bed?” She knew he had. She poured him a glass of water, waiting for his reply.

  He didn’t answer, accepting the glass. He took a sip, then said, “Do you frequently have nightmares?”

  “Never,�
� she said, more sharply than she had intended. But once again, he seemed determined to pry.

  His gaze was searching.

  “I never have nightmares. I am a very sound sleeper,” she said in a more controlled tone. Then she gestured helplessly. “The night was endless. I am still tired. I was very worried.” She forced a smile. “I was probably dreaming about you, Sir Rex, and my having to sew up your wounds. I doubt I will ever recover from such a trauma!” she added lightly.

  “I don’t want you to ever worry about me,” he said firmly, unsmiling. “I am dismayed you had to attend me. I am dismayed you were reduced to nursing me. And I certainly do not want to be the cause of your nightmares.”

  “You are not,” she said grimly. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that the dream had begun with the lion, a symbol for Sir Rex, for a reason. Why he should turn into a monster she feared and dreaded, she had no idea. “I was not about to let a farmer sew your wounds.”

  “I am adding tenacious to your list of attributes,” he said softly, their gazes meeting.

  She softened. “I can admit to some tenacity. If I believe something is right, I cannot be dissuaded.”

  He smiled, dimpling. “Are you stubborn, too?”

  “No.” She had to smile back, at last. “I am very open-minded and reasonable.”

  “Then that makes one of us.” He took her hand.

  She started, and then so much desire began. “Are you stubborn? Because I have seen a very reasonable and rational man.”

  “Really?” He looked around the room. “Where? I should like to meet him.”

  She gave in and laughed. “Very well, you can be determined, but I do not mind.”

  “Why not? Everyone else minds.”

  She stared and he stared back.

  “Why not?” he repeated very softly.

  She removed her hand from his. “Because I understand more than you might know. Now—” she became brisk, fluffing his pillows “—are you hungry?”

  He just looked at her, his gaze dark, the lids heavy.

  She felt a tremor. “I’ll bring you a tray,” she said, shaken by such a certain regard. At midnight in the great room, she had thought his desire to be the result of liquor. She had thought the same thing that morning. There was no possible explanation now, except, perhaps, that he truly admired her, as a lady and a woman.

  “Bring enough for two,” he said softly, “and we will share.”

  BLANCHE MOVED SWIFTLY downstairs, her body feeling heavy and far too warm for comfort. She was so pleased Sir Rex was well on the way to recovery. As she approached the kitchens, she heard a male voice, and assumed it was Fenwick. But when she reached the open door, she saw Anne standing by the back door, speaking quietly with a tall, blond fellow in the clothes of a laborer. He was most definitely not Fenwick—he was Anne’s age and very attractive and they were speaking in hushed tones.

  Blanche went still. There was almost no doubt in her mind that the young man was Anne’s lover. She had her hand on his bare forearm and their conversation was earnest. She tried to tell herself that he could be a brother, a cousin or simply a friend, but he was looking at her in a very male way. She gave up. Anne was having an affair, and she was oddly dismayed, because somehow, she felt that it was a betrayal of Sir Rex. He did not deserve to be betrayed even if she did not really care for his having an affair—or having had one.

  Suddenly the blond man saw her. His eyes widened, which confirmed Blanche’s suspicions, and he turned and left. Anne whirled, and for an instant, she seemed very angry. Then her lashes lowered and she curtsied. “My lady.”

  Did Sir Rex condone his lover having an affair with another man? Somehow, Blanche didn’t think so. And it wasn’t right. She shouldn’t judge, but she was appalled. At least she knew Anne’s true nature. Clearly she had no concept of loyalty.

  She crossed the large kitchen. “Who was that?” she asked coldly.

  Anne looked at her with no expression. “The farrier. He’s come to shoe some of Sir Rex’s horses.”

  Blanche stared at her, sensing a lie. “Is he family?”

  Anne’s chin lifted. “No, my lady, he is not. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem familiar with one another,” Blanche said as coolly.

  Anne smiled and it was brittle. “He’s new to Lanhadron. I hardly know Paul.” She shrugged dismissively and walked away, which was an act of rudeness, as she had not been dismissed.

  Blanche tensed. She had never had an issue with any servant before. She was fair, at times kind, and when appropriate, generous with her staff. But she hadn’t particularly liked Anne from the moment of discovering her relationship with Sir Rex. Still, she had been polite until now. Anne walking away from her without being given leave was not deferent at all.

  Blanche finally said, “Please prepare a meal for two and bring it to Sir Rex’s room.”

  Anne smiled, or grimaced, not looking up. “What will you be having?”

  “A cold meat, some bread and cheese, I think.” She thought about wine and decided against it; Sir Rex drank enough as it was and had certainly been given far too much whiskey last night. “And hot tea, please.”

  Anne grimaced again, moving across the kitchen to the pantries.

  “Where is Fenwick?” she asked, speaking to the maid’s back and becoming dismayed because she did not turn.

  Anne didn’t pause. “I sent him to the village for groceries.”

  Blanche almost demanded that she look at her when speaking to her. But Anne disappeared into the pantry, leaving Blanche shaken.

  Anne did not care for her rank and was letting her know it. They weren’t rivals, but she felt as if they were just that. But Blanche wasn’t about to compete with a servant. She followed Anne, pausing on the threshold of the pantry, which was dark and cool. “I am not pleased that I have to follow you around to speak with you,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I am sure you show Sir Rex far more respect.”

  Anne had been opening an icebox and she straightened. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought he might be hungry, considering all he’s been through.” She smiled.

  There was nothing Blanche could say to that. “When Fenwick returns, Sir Rex needs his breeches removed. I assume he will wish to lounge in bed in a nightshirt.”

  Anne blinked innocently at her. “I can certainly help him change his clothes…my lady.”

  Blanche felt a terrible tension. She spoke slowly, in an even but firm tone, and with care. “When Fenwick returns, he will aid Sir Rex. Your duties, Anne, are here in the kitchen.” She was firm.

  “Of course,” Anne said, her eyes flickering. “Except when Sir Rex has other duties for me.”

  Blanche gasped. Flushing crimson, she turned so swiftly she stumbled, and she left the kitchen. Glancing back, she saw Anne staring coldly. The maid was horrid. No, she corrected herself, the truth was horrid, if she dared to dwell on it.

  Sir Rex should not have taken advantage of his housemaid, even if she had been utterly willing. She had managed to gloss it over, but it was so terribly inappropriate. Yes, she now knew he was lonely and virile, but surely there was someone in the village who could serve as a mistress.

  And she must find some sympathy for Anne. Of course Anne would dislike her. She was a simple housemaid and her employer’s lover, a very impossible and difficult position to be in, and she probably resented Blanche in every possible way. But her rudeness and lack of respect were intolerable. Blanche was shaken.

  She hurried upstairs, forcing a pleasant expression on her face. Sir Rex’s door remained open and as she paused there, he put down the book he was reading and smiled at her. He had put on a shirt, but it was open. She lowered her hand; she had been about to knock.

  “Anne is readying a small meal.”

  His smile faded. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She smiled very brightly at him, thinking about Anne. “Your blacksmith is here.”

  His exp
ression changed. “I have no blacksmith. I shoe the horses myself.”

  Blanche stared in disbelief.

  TWO DAYS LATER, BLANCHE SAT in the great room, going over correspondence from her solicitors. When the post had arrived, even though a reply from Bess was almost impossible until the morrow, she had been disappointed to realize that the reply was not in the mail. She was reading the first of two very long reports, when she heard Sir Rex coming downstairs.

  Her heart skipped with an excitement she could not deny and she smiled, looking up.

  He entered the room, meeting her smile with one of his own. “I assume I am now allowed out of bed? I have been a proper patient,” he said pleasantly.

  She stood. “I would have never dreamed you could be such a model patient. How do you feel?”

  “I feel,” he said, limping closer, “like taking you for that hack across the moors.” His gaze locked with hers, his smile gone.

  Her heart turned over, hard. “It has only been three days since the accident,” she began softly, but more excitement swept over her, because Sir Rex looked very fine, too fine, in fact.

  “I have stayed in bed, doing all of my paperwork there. I refuse to become indolent, or God forbid, fat. My body is aching for vigorous activity. I am fine, Blanche,” he said firmly. “Certain movements cause a mild ache in my chest, that is all.”

  Blanche had to repress a laugh. “You will never be overweight.”

  “If I sit on my posterior all day, I will become just that. Look.” He took her arm and turned her toward the window. “The day is perfect.”

  Their bodies touched from shoulder to hip. Her heart slammed. Her skin hummed. Elsewhere, it tightened, swelled. “I need some outdoor activity, too,” she said softly.

  “Good.” He shifted. “Anne, go round to the stables and have my mount readied, and Isabella for Lady Harrington.”

  Blanche whirled to see Anne on the great room’s threshold. Anne curtsied and left.

  Sir Rex touched her shoulder. “What is disturbing you? Is something amiss with the maid?”

  Blanche hoped she was not flushing. “Why would something be amiss with your servant?” She shrugged. “I will change. I actually brought a riding habit.” She hesitated, lifting her gaze to his. “I am so pleased you are fully recovered, Sir Rex.”