by Brenda Joyce
“My lady, can you hear me? Should I get Sir Rex?”
“No!” She did not want Sir Rex to ever see her like this. How could this be happening now?
Why was this happening now?
Blanche looked at Anne again, who simply stood there, staring, her face an impassive mask. And Blanche sensed that she was pleased. In that instant, she was certain the maid disliked her, even envied her, and wished to see her fall. And now, Anne knew more than she should.
“Shall I get your maid, then?” Anne asked.
“No. Help me up,” Blanche said harshly. She reached up and took Anne’s hand. But even standing, she felt off balance. It was as if she stood on a slippery, dangerous slope.
She was getting married. She was, possibly, in love. A wonderful future lay ahead. She did not need this! She had to stop these memories—and she must never allow herself to feel as if she was in that long-ago riot again.
“I’ll help you inside,” Anne said. Her eyes flickered. “Before his lordship sees you in such a state.”
Blanche whirled to stare at the servant.
Anne smiled.
REX STRODE INTO the tower room, trying to restrain his turbulent emotions. It was impossible. He felt light and buoyant; he felt happy. He was happy. And he could not recall the last time he had felt this way.
He reminded himself that this marriage was not going to be an easy one, no matter what Blanche seemed to think. She was an optimist, and he was glad, but he must remain cynical and cautious. This was not a fairy tale or a romance novel; a long road lay ahead, the territory uncharted. But God, he did not want ever to disappoint his wife.
Overcome, he sat down at his desk, smiling. His wife. He was marrying Blanche Harrington and he could barely believe it.
It was time to consider improving himself.
But he had to share such good news. He reached for a parchment and quill and quickly dipped it into the inkwell. “Dear Tyrell,” he began. And he smiled again; Ty would be astonished. He wished he could see his face when he read the letter.
I am aware that you remain in London with Lizzie and the children and I hope all is well. I have some rather extraordinary news that I wish to share with you. Blanche Harrington has been my guest at Land’s End and I have had the good fortune of becoming engaged to her. It is currently unofficial and we have yet to set a wedding date, but we will, soon. You, my brother, are the first to know.
He laid the quill down, smiling. He felt like hollering like a boy. He did not feel like writing the letter with any restraint. Once again, he picked up the quill.
I assure you that I am very pleased with this sudden and unexpected turn of events. I have always admired Lady Harrington. In a very short period of time, we have developed a deep affection for one another, as well as a genuine friendship. My only concern is that she can do so much better, but she assures me that I am the man she wishes to wed. I am determined to make her happy.
He smiled again. When had he ever smiled so often?
I imagine we will be returning to town soon, as there are so many plans to make. You are more than welcome to convey the news.
He signed the letter simply with his first name, then waved the parchment gently to dry the ink. He remained somewhat disbelieving—and he still felt as if he could float to the ceiling. Ty was going to be stunned, but so would his entire family—so would all of town.
His smile faded. The gossips would have a field day with their betrothal; he didn’t care. He had learned long ago to ignore their every malicious word. Blanche had claimed that she didn’t care, either, but he didn’t believe her and he never would. Ladies had far weaker sensibilities than men. He had to decide on a way to shield her from any harmful whispers.
The best way would to be to appear in town as if he had been miraculously reformed. He wasn’t sure he could carry off such a pretense, but he was going to try.
He slipped the missive into an envelope and addressed and sealed it. Then he opened up the desk’s center drawer, removing a small portrait of his son. Tom had sent it to him on Stephen’s sixth birthday.
Blanche was going to be his wife and eventually—sooner, not later, considering their ages—there would be more children. His heart ached as he stared at the young, handsome face in the portrait, but not as terribly as it so often did. Stephen would soon have a brother or a sister. Maybe he should reconsider his arrangement with the Mowbrays. He would never try to take his son away from Julia, and he did not want to jeopardize Stephen’s future, but it seemed that he would soon have a family. If so, how could Stephen not be a part of it? On the other hand, how could he reveal that he was his father and not jeopardize Stephen’s future?
“Sir?”
He looked up at the sound of Anne’s voice. She stood in the doorway, smiling at him, and instantly, he recalled the many moments they had shared in his bed. All levity of mood vanished. He was now engaged to Blanche and Anne’s presence in his household was shameful. He stood, forcing a smile. It felt grim. “Come in, please.”
She came in, her gaze searching. “I am about to prepare supper and I was wondering if a rabbit stew would please you?” She smiled again.
He swung out from behind is desk. “We must speak.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
He no longer tried to smile. “Lady Harrington and I have just gotten engaged.”
Her expression froze…and then it became an expression of mild interest. “Congratulations, my lord.”
He grimaced. “Anne, please. We have been lovers and this must be a shock. That is not my intention. You have been a devoted servant and I have enjoyed our liaison, but everything must change now.”
“Of course.” She curtsied, glancing aside.
“I am going to have to dismiss you,” he said, “but I will do so with a full month’s wages and a letter of recommendation.”
He thought she smiled wryly; it was hard to tell, as she stared at the floor.
“I know you must be distressed,” he said quietly, wishing she would say something.
She looked up. “I have always known you would marry one day, my lord. All men do.” She smiled at him. “I never thought to continue on here this way.”
“You do not seem dismayed, distressed or even angry.”
“I am not a foolish or stupid woman. I am happy for you, my lord, but I must wonder, is her ladyship ill?”
He tensed. “She is delicate—most ladies are. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “I heard about her headaches, that is all.”
He had the instant notion that she was lying—and that she knew something he did not. “Is there something you wish to add? Something I might wish to know?”
“Of course not, my lord.” Her eyes flickered. “Do you wish for me to stay on to help with the house until you can find someone else to replace me?”
He was, finally, relieved. “That is generous of you, Anne. But I think it best you leave immediately. Fenwick and Meg will have to manage for a bit.” He hesitated as she looked up, directly into his eyes. “I am glad you are so sensible. You are a passionate woman; I expected a scene.”
“I am not surprised. I have noticed you admiring her ladyship several times.”
His gaze narrowed. She kept staring, boldly, and he knew it best to end the interview now. “Let me draw up a bank check,” he said.
He went to his desk, took the checks from a drawer, and drafted a generous sum. She had followed him to the desk and watched while he wrote it out and signed it. He straightened and handed it to her.
She folded it and slid it into her bodice, between her breasts. “I am a very passionate woman, as you know.”
He tensed.
“And we both know you are a very passionate man. I imagine it has been hard for someone like you, who likes his bed warmed every night, to go so long without.” Her eyes gleamed and she reached for his hand. “I don’t mind giving you a proper farewell, Sir Rex. I should enjoy it very much.”
; Her tone was throaty and signified the potential for so much lusty sex. As she laid her hand on his chest, he said softly, “I am sorry, Anne. I cannot. Such behavior would be shameful—on my part, not yours.”
That light flickered in her eyes again, and he wondered if she was not as accepting as she seemed. He wondered if he had seen a flash of malice. “It is not shameful to be lusty, Sir Rex,” she whispered. “And you are not wed yet.”
He removed her hand, becoming annoyed. “Why don’t you gather up your things?”
Now she stared, her face not quite impassive, and while he could not read her emotions, he felt them. He felt the malice he had thought he had seen.
But she curtsied and turned to go.
And he saw Blanche standing in the doorway, staring at them with wide eyes, her skin ashen, her hair wet.
He was horrified.
Anne hurried from the room, brushing past Blanche as she did so, and Blanche’s cheeks turned pink. “I did not mean to interrupt,” she said hoarsely.
“That is not what it appeared to be!” He thudded over to her. “Blanche!”
“No!” She backed up, appearing breathless. Then she smiled. “I mean, we aren’t married, she is right, and you have every right to your privacy—”
“Like hell!” he cried. He seized both of her hands. “I made vows. They were effective the moment I made them. I will not break them! I won’t deny the maid made an advance, but I have just dismissed her.”
“If you wished to be with her, I would understand,” Blanche gasped, trembling.
“Did you hear a word I said?” he cried. How could this have happened—already? “Blanche, I dismissed Anne. I have given her a month’s wages and she is gathering up her belongings.”
Blanche met his gaze. “Oh.” She wet her lips and pulled free of him.
He followed her. “I don’t want her,” he said harshly. “I want you.”
She turned and smiled uncertainly at him. “I am behaving very foolishly.”
“You are not. I have already disappointed you.”
Blanche inhaled. “Sir Rex, stop. I overreacted…I had a headache.”
He froze. “How bad was it?”
She smiled quickly—falsely. “It wasn’t half as bad as the others.”
Was she lying to him? He refused to believe it. Blanche could not lie if her life depended on it—he had always been certain of her honesty and integrity.
“I was a bit shaken,” she added, “when I walked in. Anne’s presence here merely added to my confusion.”
He nodded. “I hope you mean it. Because I am not tempted by a housemaid, how could I be? I have you.” He didn’t smile, he couldn’t.
But she finally smiled. “I am glad you dismissed her.”
He held out his arm. “Come into the great room with me. I see you were caught in the rain. We can sit before the fire and you can tell me what it is you wish to discuss.” He finally smiled, too.
“Am I so obvious?” she asked with another, even lighter smile.
“You are.” They strolled into the hall and sat on the sofa. “But I can guess. You wish to discuss our wedding.”
She smiled widely. “What woman does not wish to plan her wedding?”
“I will agree to everything you want.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“I would like you to enjoy our wedding, too.”
He had to smile and he took her hand. “Oh, I will. You may count on that.”
Their eyes met. “I was thinking of a very small affair. My few dearest friends and your very large family.”
His heart soared. “Are you trying to please me? Because if so, I am pleased. But I had expected you to want a society wedding—a very large, elaborate affair.”
She shook her head. “We are thinking alike,” she exclaimed.
“Apparently so.” He could not resist. She was as delighted as a child. He took her face in both his hands and kissed her. He meant to be gentle, but the moment his lips touched and tasted her, he felt a conflagration of desire. In that moment, he wanted to plunge deeply inside her, and his loins swelled, confirming a desperate need. This great woman was going to be his wife. He wanted to possess her now—and show her so much pleasure. He released her.
Her eyes sparkled. Her smile was shy but pleased.
He had almost ruined everything a moment ago, he thought. But miraculously, he had not. Because, apparently, Blanche trusted him—and would think the best of him no matter what. Her nature was simply too generous.
He had to match her. “Have you planned our supper party yet?” he asked casually.
She started, eyes wide. “I was thinking about it, but then I decided there was no rush. After all, we have our wedding to plan.”
He smiled, still dreading such an evening, but now, he was determined to make that evening a success for her. “Our wedding is what? Six months from now? A year? A supper party can be tomorrow if you wish.”
She stared at him, unsmiling. “Sir Rex—”
“Rex!” he corrected, smiling.
She bit her lip, hesitating. “Sir Rex, we don’t have to rush into entertaining—”
“But I want to. As you said, it is overdue. And now I have a hostess.” He took her hand again, simply because he wished to touch her.
“Well,” she said, clearly debating, “I know the Farrows would be thrilled to receive such an invitation. We could invite Dr. Linney, too, and his wife. Just to round things out,” she told him.
“Whatever you wish,” he said firmly. “You tell me the time and what I should wear, and I will be here to greet our guests.” Our guests. The words echoed in his mind pleasantly.
Blanche sat back, clearly thinking. Then she looked at him. “I will have to ask Anne to help with the supper. Meg doesn’t cook. Fenwick needs to serve.”
He knew that Anne should not stay on, not for even a single affair. “Can’t you find someone else in the village?”
“I can try. But Sir Rex, you have paid her handsomely for an extra month, she knows the kitchens inside and out, and her cooking is passable.”
He hesitated, aware of a distinct sense of foreboding.
Then she said, “Why don’t we simply wait until after we are wed to entertain?”
He loved that idea. He thought about what she had walked in on—and not just that afternoon. He wanted to please her with a successful supper party. “I will tell Anne she needs to stay on until after the supper affair.”
BLANCHE HAD DECIDED to dress for her first supper with her fiancé. She had brought one other evening gown to Land’s End, a pale ivory-and-rose creation. She was making a final inspection in the mirror, trembling with anticipation, as if a girl of sixteen. Her heart soared.
And then the monster leered at her, revealing yellow, wet teeth.
The horse screamed in torment and anguish, somewhere close by.
Blanche cried out, clasping her hands to her ears, all of her happiness vanishing, replaced with terror. The memory had become engraved on her mind earlier that afternoon, but now, it wasn’t a memory. The man was reaching for her and she knew, without a doubt, he was about to seize her. In that moment, she was a small child, alone and terrified. Where was Mama?
They had taken Mama away, dragging her from the carriage.
The pale-eyed monster reached for her. She jumped away and ran, not across the room, but through a seething crowd, on a London street, slipping on bloody cobblestones. As she ran, the horse’s screams dimmed. The leering image of the man faded, and she looked back, but he wasn’t real now—he was just another terrible memory, etched forever upon her mind. Blanche realized she was clinging to the banister at the end of the hall, panting, her heart thundering painfully. Tears tracked her cheeks. She didn’t dare release the rail to wipe them. She didn’t know how she had gotten from her bedchamber to the top of the stairs.
She breathed hard but continued to hold on to the post for support. Total comprehension
began. She had just been flung back into the past—but she wasn’t in the past, she was at Bodenick, on the verge of marriage to Sir Rex. This had to stop. She had to find a way to stop this horrific recall. And why was she experiencing bits and pieces of that riot now?
Was she truly mad?
Sane people did not forget who, what and where they were! Sane people did not suddenly travel into the past, as if through time, with no awareness of anything else!
“Blanche?”
She flinched as she realized Sir Rex stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. However, he was smiling—he had not seen her fit of insanity. And as she looked fearfully into his eyes, the roiling panic eased slightly. He had dressed for supper in a white dinner coat and he had never been as compelling or as handsome. Standing below her, it seemed terribly important that she rush to his side. Somehow, he was a safe harbor, a certain destination, a place she must go.
But he had every right to know what was happening to her.
She came downstairs, quickly rearranging her expression and slowing her breathing, so he would not suspect anything to be wrong. “I see we both thought to dress,” she said. She must not tell him a word of what had just happened; he would think her as mad as an inmate in an asylum! Her shame would know no bounds.
His gaze was searching. “Is anything wrong?”
She hesitated. But how could she not tell him? He was her fiancé. He had every right to know. In a way, it would be a relief to tell him that she was beginning to remember that long-ago riot. It would be a relief to fall into his arms and confess that something terrible was happening, and making her feel six years old again. But he would think her mad and he would leave her—as he should. Because if these fits didn’t cease, he deserved far better than what she had to offer.
Blanche stiffened. She was not insane. There was an explanation for what was happening; there had to be. And soon, dear God, it would all go away. The memories would vanish and be forever forgotten and she would never relive another moment from that day. It had to cease, because she was finally in love!
