by Brenda Joyce
“We do seem to have conjoining needs,” she tried.
“We do?” A dark shadow fell over his face. “If I wished to marry a fortune, I would have done so long ago.”
For one moment she stared, incredulous and dismayed. Then she reeled. “You are refusing me?”
“Have you even thought about this?” he retorted, seeming angry now.
“Of course I have,” she responded, shaking. He was displeased, he was angry, he was refusing her.
“I prefer the country, and you, town. You are a great hostess, I admit I am a complete recluse. Am I supposed to move to town? How long will I last at your supper table, at the head reserved for the host of the affair?”
She had not thought about supper parties, but she had certainly thought about this particular problem. “Many couples lead separate lives,” she tried, aware of moisture filling her eyes. They were arguing about her proposal.
“Separate lives,” he echoed. Disbelief widened his eyes. “I see—I will manage your fortune. You will live in town, I will live here.”
She stiffened. “I have made a horrible mistake.” She turned to go, stumbling, tears blinding her.
She heard his crutch thumping. She stumbled to the door but he barred her way when she got there. “Blanche, do not walk out now! You cannot shock me with such a proposal and simply leave!” he cried harshly.
She looked up at him and saw emotions that were far too familiar to her now—she saw anger, frustration and a torment she did not understand. “But you seem distressed by my offer—when there are over two hundred gentlemen in town, of whom each and every one would be thrilled and flattered to receive such an offer.”
“They are fortune hunters—I am not.” His gaze blazed. “Or have you misconstrued our friendship—and my advances? Do you now think me the kind of rake to scheme and intrigue and whisper words of love in your ear, all so I might attain your fortune?”
“Of course not!” She trembled.
“Then explain what you are thinking, because I do not understand. I mean, if we are to have a convenient marriage with separate lives, why not simply ask me if I would manage your fortune for some compensation? After all, in the end, it will be cheaper—and it will save me the scorn of your friends.”
She blinked. “My friends will not scorn you.”
“I will never succeed as a society host.”
“I am not asking you to stay on in town. I assumed you would continue to spend most of your time in the country, and that you would come to town now and then, when estate affairs demanded it.”
“Ah, yes, the coup de grace. Separate lives—and separate beds?”
She flushed. “I don’t believe the subject of bedrooms is appropriate at this point.”
“I think it is very appropriate—considering the passion we shared yesterday.”
She tensed. Her mind felt scrambled and it raced. “I want children, Sir Rex,” she finally said.
His hard stare became searching. A terrible silence ensued. He finally said, “I see.” He limped away from the door.
She staggered against the wall, aware he was not looking at her, and hugged herself. She had never thought a furious tempest would ensue from her marriage proposal. “My intention was not to insult you,” she whispered, recalling Meg’s parting advice. “I am too fond of you to ever wish to insult you—or hurt you.”
His crutch thudded like a sledgehammer as he turned to face her. His expression was twisted with anger and anguish. “I will think about it.”
She was stunned.
“I never expected a proposal from you.” He was terse. “I also never thought to marry—ever.”
Oddly, it had never occurred to her that he might wish to consider her idea. She had expected him to be flattered and to accept instantly. She hesitated.
“Surely you will give me a day or two to consider such an offer?” His tone was sharp—and even mocking. “Unless, of course, you are retracting the offer. Are you?”
She stared. She did not like his dark anger, and she never had. She did not know why he would find her proposal insulting. She did not know why he was angry now. A sensible woman—the old Blanche—would withdraw the offer. “I am not withdrawing my offer, Sir Rex.”
He nodded, unsmiling and grim.
“Have I misconstrued our friendship?” She had to ask. Maybe her feelings of affection simply were not returned. Her heart lurched painfully now.
“No, you have not.” He now stared into her eyes.
She swallowed, remaining impossibly shaken. “Then I cannot understand this conversation. I cannot understand you, Sir Rex.”
“No, you cannot.” His mouth turned down. “I must question the kind of future we will share. Not because I have reservations about you—but because I have grave reservations about myself.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN BLANCHE HAD LEFT, he limped to the door and shut it. Then he simply stared blindly at it, his mind reeling.
He had never expected a marriage proposal from Blanche Harrington. She had to be mad to even begin to think him suitable as her husband. He was dark, she was light. She was good—too good for him. And she could do so much better!
He realized he could not breathe adequately. He was undone. Because a marriage to such a woman was almost a dream come true—except he did not harbor such dreams, not anymore.
Shaking and shaken, but not as angry, he swung to the window and stared blindly outside. Here in the country, they got along well. Clearly, the friendship they now shared had caused her to think so insensibly. But in town? They would not get along there. He would disappoint her, let her down.
And a marriage of convenience? A marriage of economy and separate lives?
His temples throbbed. His disbelief grew. He did not want a genuine marriage much less one of convenience or economy! And only a fool would think to lead a life separate from a woman like Blanche Harrington—and he was no fool. If he accepted her offer, he would wish to be with her as much as possible, these past few days told him as much.
He tried to analyze the situation with some calm. He despised society and he always had. It was not a secret; everyone knew. That would never change—he was a simple man, with simple tastes. And Blanche knew it! She had not been thinking clearly.
Yes, they were friends. He was pleased to know she was fond of him—she had just stated so. He was more than fond of her. And there was passion. It had only just begun, but clearly, she felt an attraction for him. But friendship and some desire on her part, as well as his desire, did not indicate a successful future. For if he chose to stay in town, if he somehow defied his very nature, if he forced himself to fit into society, no matter how he tried, eventually he would fail. There was no way he could please the ladies and gentlemen of the ton. Even if he wore a facade of charm, it would only last so long. He was not a conversationalist and he was neither charming nor witty. Besides, everyone already knew the truth about him.
And he would hate his life if he lived in town. He was already bitter—he could not imagine becoming more so. But he wouldn’t hate it entirely, because she would be the bright spot in an otherwise dark existence. She would be that drink of water in the midst of a hot desert.
He suddenly imagined being the lord of Harrington Hall. He imagined a conversation with his steward in the library, and then his wandering through the endless rooms and halls, only to come upon Blanche—his wife—as she conversed quietly in a salon with her callers. And he smiled. His heart raced.
The truth was, he would give up his right arm to marry a woman like that, when he was already missing half a limb.
But Rex was not deluded. There was so much temptation to accept her offer and try to make a go of it. If he dared to accept her proposal, they would have to lead separate lives. The matter would be one of his sanity. He would never last more than a month in town. He carefully thought about it now. He would spend most of his time in the country. Blanche would be his wife, entertaining in town, while
he lived very much as he did now. They would exchange letters, of course. He would probably live for those letters. He was used to being alone, but he already knew that when Blanche left Land’s End in a few more days, his sense of loneliness would increase. So what would it be like to leave her to return to the country after they were wed, and after they had shared a household and the kind of affairs a married couple did? After they had shared a bed?
She wanted children.
He leaned against the door. He could be the father of her children—and while he would not love Stephen any less, and while the loss of his son would always haunt him, he knew there would be so much joy to have such a family.
He trembled. He had never thought to have other children. He was the most cautious of men with his lovers, terrified at the thought of begetting another bastard—and losing her or him. If he accepted Blanche’s offer, not only would she be his wife, there would be children and he would have a family.
He felt ready to collapse. This marriage would be difficult, and for every pleasure, there would be pain—he had not a doubt.
Blanche Harrington was the ideal, perfect woman; the ideal, perfect wife. Except this match was entirely imperfect. He had never intended to marry. The de Warenne men married for love. He had realized long ago that love was not for him; he had intended to remain single. For love involved trust, and that word was not a part of his vocabulary—it had been erased in the spring of 1813. Except…Blanche Harrington was different. He already trusted her—he always had.
Which meant he was in the gravest danger of falling in love—and that, he knew he must not do.
How could he accept her offer?
How could he refuse?
BLANCHE RUSHED into her bedchamber, trying to remind herself that he had not refused her yet. But she remained terribly shaken. Worse, an actual tear tracked down her cheek—his reaction to her offer hurt so much.
“My lady!” Meg cried in shock. She was kneeling before the hearth, taking the old ashes out.
“I am fine,” Blanche lied, smiling so brightly it hurt, too. “Really!”
Meg stood, stunned.
Blanche covered her face with her hands. “My offer dismayed him—enraged him, really—and I hardly know why.”
“Oh, come sit down,” Meg cried, taking her to the closest chair.
“He did not refuse me, actually. He is considering my offer of marriage.”
“I am so sorry! I thought he loved you…shows you how much I know.”
“Sir Rex did not act like a man in love, or even a man fondly disposed toward me.” Blanche sat. “I must be frank. I fear a rejection. He is going to reject me!” And pain lanced through the vicinity in her chest where her heart lay.
“Let me get you a cup of tea,” Meg said, sounding angry herself now. “You do not need such rudeness, nor such strain.”
The words were barely out when Blanche felt that knifelike pain in her head. She cried out, clasping her hands to her ears.
“My lady!”
Blanche didn’t hear her; she couldn’t. She balled up over her knees, unable to breathe, the pain blinding.
The monster appeared, but his face had become that of a thin, gaunt, angry man—with bitterly high cheekbones and a bony chin, and he leered—his eyes wide, wild and hate-filled.
“I’ll get Sir Rex!”
Blanche couldn’t speak. The monster was drawing the knife slowly from her skull. She began to breathe deeply and harshly, as the pain lessened, until only a slight shadow of it remained. She straightened, trembling and aghast.
And now, the monster had a face.
I don’t want to remember anymore, she thought. Her stomach lurched—she realized she might vomit.
And then she realized what Meg had said—and where she was going.
A part of her wished for the safety of Sir Rex’s presence, another did not. That proud half won. She leaped up and ran into the hall. “Meg! Come back! I am fine!”
Meg was about to race down the stairs. She hesitated, her face ashen.
Blanche began breathing more normally. “Come back,” she said firmly. “The episode is over.”
Meg returned fearfully. “My lady, you are ill.”
She wasn’t ill, Blanche thought. It was far worse than that. Her worst fears were coming true—she was remembering details from the riot.
She was almost certain that man had been the man, or one of them, who had murdered her mother.
She tensed in dismay. Her mother had died from hitting her head while falling. She had not been murdered. She did not know why she had just thought such a thing.
She somehow smiled. “Dr. Linney is right. It is just the onset of a migraine. I am hardly the first woman to suffer from a headache. There is no need to worry.”
But even as she spoke, she recalled the devastating encounter with Sir Rex. I am under too much strain, she thought. And grief rose up. She was anticipating his rejection—she was certain of it—and she was so fond of him, it hurt.
And Meg voiced her very thoughts. “Maybe we should return to town. Maybe we’ve been in the country for too long.”
“I think you may be right,” Blanche said. She closed her eyes, because her heart was protesting and she realized she did not want to leave. But this strain was intolerable—and even more intolerable was the advent of some of her lost memories.
“MY LADY,” Meg whispered, behaving as if someone had died, “Sir Rex has asked you to meet him in the gardens.”
Blanche sat on the chaise, staring at the fire. Had he made his decision so swiftly? He had said he needed a day or two, and it had only been a few hours. She looked grimly at Meg. “He is going to refuse me.”
“If he is such an arse, good riddance to him. You can do better!” Meg cried furiously.
Blanche stood, breathing rapidly. She felt light-headed, but knew she would not faint. “You like him.”
“Not anymore, I don’t! Not with what he’s putting you through! He’s selfish, he is, choosing his lonely life of melancholy to a life with you. I thought he was a gentleman. Gents take care of their women.”
“I am not his woman.”
“He’s been acting like you are. He’s been acting like the ground you walk on is holy!”
“He despises society,” Blanche said, and realized she wished to defend him still. “You can see how much he enjoys his life here.”
“He doesn’t like town? So what! He likes you, and that should be enough. But I guess it’s true, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
Blanche stared at Meg, for the first time shaking off her hurt and beginning to realize what was, possibly, driving Sir Rex. She had been so immersed in his rejection and her hurt, that she hadn’t stopped to think about his feelings. “In town, they gossip about him ruthlessly—even Bess and Felicia do.”
Meg met her gaze, some of her hostility fading.
“I have always hated the gossips—and especially, the gossip about him,” she admitted. “He told me he will fail in society,” she added quietly. “I have just realized he is a man who never fails—look at this estate.”
“What are you saying?”
“He told me his decision wasn’t about me—but his doubts about himself. He is afraid to fail. But what he doesn’t know is that I have entertained more in ten years than most ladies do in a lifetime. I don’t care if I never entertain anyone except my family and friends again—and I don’t care what others think, either. And I certainly don’t care if he cannot tolerate the ton!”
“Then you should tell him so—if he gives you the chance.”
Blanche grimaced. “He is going to reject me…and I am certainly not going to argue then.” She glanced at the mirror. She looked as stressed as a woman on her way to some terrible fate. She picked up an ivory shawl, saddened now for Sir Rex as much as for herself. But she must stop wishing to meddle in and improve his life. If she could, she should stop caring about him, too. Her thoughts had never felt so dismal.
“It will be too awkward to stay here—you should start packing our things.” The hurt welled up again, turning into grief. His rejection was bad enough, but now, she realized she would miss him the moment she left.
“Oh, my lady,” Meg whispered.
“It is better this way. Maybe he is right, and if not, it is better he refuse than force himself into a marriage he has no interest in.” Blanche smiled again and went slowly downstairs, her heart fluttering, perspiration gathering between her breasts. She stepped outside and noticed that the day had turned as heavy and gray as her heart felt. It was going to pour, she thought. How absolutely appropriate.
Sir Rex was silhouetted against the steel-gray ocean and the equally pale horizon. As she approached, her heart turned over, and she was certain that leaving him now would not change her newly found affection. He was a formidable sight—a handsome, powerfully built man. He turned, one hand in the pocket of his brown wool jacket, the other resting on the bar within his crutch. From a distance, across the gardens, their gazes met.
He left the edge of the precipice and started slowly toward her, entering the bare gardens. Blanche paused, incapable of taking another step. His slow pace made her wonder if he was filled with his own dread.
His expression was somber as he paused before her. “You have shocked me,” he said quietly.
“I am aware of that.” She trembled, wishing they could avoid this encounter and somehow go back to a previous time.
“Blanche, I am honored that you would think me a suitable candidate for your hand.”
She made a sound. “You are not honored. You seemed dismayed and angry, but not honored.” She could not believe her blunt words. Then, “I realize you are about to refuse me.”
His expression became twisted. “No, I am honored. And I have felt many emotions this afternoon, but dismay was not one of them.”
She had no idea of how to respond, and she felt perilously close to tears.
“Actually, I wished to discuss the matter with you a bit further.” His regard was direct and searching.
She began breathing hard. She felt her own anger spark—and it was entirely unfamiliar. “Are you toying with me, Sir Rex?”
