by Brenda Joyce
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Linney gasped. “I did not mean to be so rude!”
Blanche stared, thinking about the ton. She was the only woman she knew who did not care for gossip at all, although she heard it all the time, as Bess loved gossip. Gossip was always ugly, it usually hurt the victim, and it was the rage. Her temples hurt her now. She had spent her entire adult life entertaining, somehow ignoring the slander and half truths and half lies swirling about her salon. She had never taken any gossip to heart. Suddenly it wasn’t so easy to dismiss. Suddenly the gossip was as painful as a real wound. And she became confused. Why had she enjoyed entertaining—or had she? It had been her role as Harrington’s daughter. She had never questioned it. There had been three or four supper parties every single week.
This supper party had been pleasant enough until now, but the private suppers, shared solely with Sir Rex, had been far more enjoyable, she thought.
She took a calming breath but could not smile. “I would appreciate it if you set the gossips straight, Mrs. Linney.”
“I will do my best,” Mrs. Linney said slowly. “You know I will refute this entire matter! After all, we are dear acquaintances now.”
Blanche knew she had hardly convinced her of Sir Rex’s innocence, but Mrs. Linney was no fool. She wanted another invitation to Bodenick, and it would not be forthcoming if she did not comply. “Thank you. And yes, I treasure our new friendship, which is why I am certain this foul subject will be swiftly laid to rest.”
Margaret sent her a worried look. “Do you wish to sit down, my lady? Should I ask for tea?”
Blanche smiled. Margaret Farrow was a very decent and sweet young woman. “I was disturbed with such slander, but I am fine now.” Then she realized Sir Rex stood in the doorway, just where she had been eavesdropping a moment ago. She didn’t have to wonder how much he had overheard; from the dark look on his face, she knew he’d heard everything.
He limped into the great room. “I know you are tired and I suggested the evening end prematurely.” His face was so tight Blanche suspected he was holding a vast fury in check.
“Of course! “Margaret cried nervously. “Lady Harrington has so much on her mind, she must be overcome.” Margaret turned to her. “I would love to be of help, if I can. Please, do not hesitate to ask, and thank you so much for supper. It was lovely.”
Blanche thanked her as the gentlemen came into the hall. Mrs. Linney took her hands. “I do hope I did not offend you. I am so thrilled for you and Sir Rex! I will call later in the week,” she said quickly, “if you do not mind.”
Blanche forced a smile. “Of course not. Good night.”
A moment later, she watched Fenwick closing the front door behind the last of their guests. As Sir Rex swung back into the room, she firmed her smile. “That was a very pleasant evening, wasn’t it?” she said lightly, hoping he would agree. She did not feel up to an intimate and frank exchange now.
He gave her a dark look.
She felt her anxiety escalate. “It went well,” she stressed.
“Did it?” he mocked dangerously.
In that instant, she knew his mood was black. “I am sorry you had to hear that! But you were the perfect host!”
“No, you were—and are—the perfect hostess. But you agreed to marry me…and this is what you get. Vicious truths.”
She inhaled. “But I have already accepted that truth, Sir Rex. We have gotten past it. Somehow, we have developed a deep affection, in spite of certain challenges.”
He gave her a hard, sidelong look. “I will hand this much to you. Margaret Farrow is a pleasant young woman and I hope you two become friends.”
A very small relief began. “And Paul is a pleasant sort—”
“He is weak and ineffectual. I can tolerate him for an evening, if I must.”
That was boorish, she thought helplessly. “I don’t want to argue over the evening—or anything else. I am tired.”
He limped to the bar cart. She watched him pour a brandy. He did not seem foxed, but she worried now about how much he was drinking. He turned. “I warned you I have no tolerance for such foolish frippery.”
Blanche hugged herself. “Are you angry at me for wishing to foist this evening on you? Or is it yourself you are angry with—for succumbing to your needs with a servant?”
He stiffened, incredulous. “So, finally, you condemn me.”
She realized she had done just that. But that was not what she wished to do, ever. “No. I only know that if the affair hadn’t happened, there would not be such malicious gossip.”
He stared at her, his gaze dark and hard.
“I am not condemning you,” she tried desperately. “And I did think the evening a success!”
“You are right,” he said bluntly. “I should have had an affair with Mrs. Farrow—or one of her friends—for that would be acceptable.”
Tears came to Blanche’s eyes.
“And I regret my needs. And even more than that, I regret not caring that I was defying society. I regret my indifference to the damned gossips. But I care now. Now I care what the gossips say and what they think. I care now because of you.”
She wiped an errant tear. “It doesn’t matter. There is always gossip. They will gossip about us at first, because we will be a source of speculation and entertainment. But in a year or so, they will set their sights on someone else.”
He swung to the hearth and drank his brandy grimly, downing the entire glass.
Blanche hesitated. She was exhausted and she hated this confrontation, but she also wished to comfort him. She did not want to go to bed with any unresolved conflict, either. “Sir Rex? The evening was pleasant, in spite of Paul’s lapse—until Mrs. Linney started to gossip.”
He turned slowly to her. “You are right. However, there are numerous skeletons in my closet. And every evening might turn out like this one. Are you certain this is the life you wish for yourself? Because you need only say the word, and I will release you from the engagement.”
Blanche stiffened, unpleasantly surprised. She did not know what to think or what to say.
He made a harsh sound.
“No!” She cried quickly. “Do not misconstrue my hesitation. I am so fond of you—and I want to marry you, I do. But Sir Rex, when you are dark like this, I become confused and I do not know what to say or do! I don’t know if I should hold your hand or run from you!”
“Then you should think long and hard on the future we are planning,” he said tersely. “Because I never promised you that you would not find me brooding at midnight.”
Blanche bit her lip in dismay.
He refilled his drink and went into the tower room, his crutch thudding with his displeasure. She stared as the door shut behind him.
Blanche began to shake. How had they gotten to this place, a dangerous crossroads where one false word or move might break them apart? She was falling in love with Sir Rex. Did he want her to end things? And how would they manage if one single simple supper party could so disrupt them?
Her distress abruptly changed. Grief flooded her. It was so much like a rising tide that briefly, she could not breathe and it felt as if the air alone was smothering her.
And she knew she could not lose Sir Rex. Her heart broke at the notion. She would seek him out in the tower and tell him how much she cared. But the anguish intensified. It was stunning, paralyzing and unbearable. In that moment, Blanche knew it was not grief over the prospect of losing Sir Rex.
Somehow, she knew it was far more.
Her father’s image danced through her mind. And it was followed by an image of the portrait of her mother, which continued to hang over the staircase at Harrington Hall.
She cried out, sitting, holding her chest. She had not shed a tear when her father died, and she could not recall her mother at all, much less her death, but now, suddenly, she wanted to weep and sob and scream in outrage. The sense of loss was acute. The sense of being lost was even worse. She felt six years old, not t
wenty-seven.
“Blanche?”
She turned as Sir Rex thudded rapidly over to her.
His eyes widened. “Don’t cry!” He sat, pulling her into his arms. “I am sorry; I am a bastard.”
She moved into his arms, helplessly crying, helplessly grieving; he cradled her face.
“I am sorry. Please don’t cry!” He was aghast.
She wanted to tell him this was not his fault, not at all, but she couldn’t. She wanted to beg him to help her find happiness and joy, so she might escape the anguish, but she couldn’t. She could only shake her head, incapable of speech, and try to bury herself in the circle of his arms, against his large, powerful body, a place she knew was secure and safe. His grasp tightened.
Images danced through her head—the dead horse, its eyes wide and sightless, its body bloody and battered, the leering monster-man, with his dripping yellow teeth, the bloody tines of a pitchfork, and Mama’s portrait-perfect face, smiling just as she had done for the painter.
Father had died six months ago and she couldn’t even remember one moment with her mother. Why did she have to grieve now? It was too much to bear! Everything was happening at once, and she couldn’t handle so much emotion. She began to understand what was happening to her. Upon coming to Land’s End, her heart had been awakened. First there had been confusion, then desire, then love. Her heart was a whole, beating, functioning organ now. And its experience would not be limited to a few positive, kinder emotions. For there had recently been anger and fear. Now, her heart hurt with grief.
In that instant, she would give anything for the placid existence she had known for most of her life.
“Blanche,” he whispered, caressing her back and holding her tightly. “I am so sorry! Forgive me!”
She turned her face into the warm skin of his neck and jaw. She breathed there, inhaling so much male scent. Her lips touched his skin and her own flesh fired wildly; the grief diminished, an urgency arising in its stead. Blanche clasped his shoulders, marveling at his breadth and strength, rubbing her face against his throat. She felt his body tense.
He was so large, so strong and somehow intoxicating. She ran her hands down his biceps, which instantly flexed beneath her palms. She moved her mouth tentatively against his throat. She heard him exhale. Her heart jumped wildly and a pulsing began beneath the many layers of her clothing.
“Blanche,” he said thickly, one large hand clasping her waist.
She breathed in his scent and pulled her face reluctantly from the crook of his shoulder and neck. His gaze was wide and bright, meeting hers. She took a deep, trembling breath as she glanced at his firm, bowed mouth. More desire lanced through her as she thought about what his mouth felt and tasted like. She lifted her gaze back to his. “Make love to me.”
His eyes widened.
Blanche just sat there, heart pounding, body thrumming.
He touched her cheek. “You are distraught. You don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it,” she breathed. “I’m twenty-seven years old and I am still a virgin. But my body is somehow begging for yours.”
His eyes darkened. Then his hand clasped the back of her head and he pulled her close as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Blanche’s heart went wild as he feathered her mouth. She felt him shudder and knew he was exercising great restraint and control. She kissed him back, hard, wanting his lips to open. When they did, she heard herself moan—soft, feminine, breathless.
The kiss deepened. Blanche fell back onto the sofa, Sir Rex on top of her, their mouths fusing hungrily. She was vaguely aware of spreading her thighs. And she felt his manhood, hard and huge, against her inner thigh and pelvis, through her skirts.
He broke the kiss and she lay back, gasping for air, her heart pounding so swiftly it was almost frightening.
“It’s late,” he said roughly, but he kissed her throat, and then he kissed the skin below her diamond necklace, and went lower, kissing the hint of cleavage revealed by the bodice.
Blanche gasped with pleasure, stunned by the heady sensation of his lips between her breasts and his manhood against her thigh. “No, it’s not late. Sir Rex…take me upstairs.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
REX HESITATED, his pulse pounding, the small, delicate and somehow fragile woman who was to be his wife in his arms. He could barely think straight. It was so hard not to shift his weight and push himself where he wished to be, instead of remaining against her thigh and hip, where he throbbed dangerously.
She smiled tremulously at him.
She wanted to go upstairs. She wanted him to make love to her. Why not?
He breathed hard. “Blanche…I would like nothing more than to take you to my bed. But I do not want you to regret this tomorrow.”
She shook her head and clasped his cheek, unspeaking.
His heart thundered. He leaned low and took her mouth, no longer able to control the pressure of his lips. He opened her and sparred with her tongue. He wanted to taste every inch of her, not just her mouth. He shifted and pushed directly between her thighs, over her skirts. She gasped softly, arching for the pressure he could give her—and the release.
His male lust escalated. It was determined, intent, predatory. She was a virgin. She was more than ready. They would be married, sooner, not later. She wanted his children and he wanted to make her his….
He tore his mouth from hers. Smiling, he said roughly, “Come. Come with me.”
She gasped, her gaze riveted to his. He saw so much trust and so much innocence. A savage exhilaration arose.
Why not? He was a man and she was the woman he wanted. She was the woman he had always wanted. He was still in some disbelief. But the urge to possess was rapidly chasing away any lingering disbelief.
He found his crutch, took her hand and stood. In another moment, Blanche Harrington would be in his bed. Impossibly, more blood filled his painfully erect loins. Rational thought vanished. Urgency raged.
But as they went upstairs, he looked at her carefully. “You may change your mind at any moment,” he said thickly.
She paused on the landing, staring. “I don’t want to change my mind,” she murmured. Her gaze fell to the obvious bulge in his trousers. Her cheeks were already pink but the flush deepened.
“Any time,” he stressed, taking her hand and leading her toward his bedchamber. His heart kept pumping his blood into his lower body, sure and rhythmic. “But sooner,” he said, entering the room, “would be better than later.”
She stared at the four-poster bed, shaking her head.
He closed the door and pulled her into his embrace. She was trembling but not as violently as he. “I want you so badly,” he murmured, caressing her cheek. “I feel like a green boy again. Blanche, I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Her gaze held his. “I like it,” she whispered, “when you are gentle.”
He hesitated, as he wasn’t certain of his ability to be gentle, but her message was clear. She did not wish for a frenzied barbarian in her bed and he did not blame her. He smiled and feathered her lips once with his. Then he led her to the bed.
A small fire blazed in the hearth so he did not light a lamp. Swiftly, he shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Then he pulled her into his arms and to the bed, remaining aware of her uncertainty. As they sank onto the mattress, he kissed her earlobe and then her neck. She shivered and sighed.
That raging urgency instantly renewed itself. The anticipation was in the forefront of his mind—that precise moment when he would be so deeply inside of her, coming. He smiled at her and kissed her gently, stroking her arms, her waist. She sighed again, longer and lower this time.
“I want to touch you everywhere,” he whispered, running his shaking palm over her bodice and breast. He palmed her, showering soft kisses on her throat and chest. She trembled and began writhing, throwing her head back.
He reached behind her and began unbuttoning her dress. Her eyes flew open and he smiled reassuringly, no easy ta
sk. She glanced at the fire. He understood. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, “and I want to look at you.” He wished he could stop shaking.
“Sir Rex, how can I be beautiful when I am ancient by most standards?” she protested very seriously.
He was actually amused and he chuckled. “You are not ancient and I want you to stop thinking.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her slowly and deeply. “I want you to feel.” He slid the dress down to her waist and tried not to inhale harshly. But her chemise was transparent, her stays ivory lace. He slid his hand over her breast and heard himself groan. His arousal leaped erratically.
Her eyes closed, lashes fanning out. He could not think and he did not want to; he tugged the chemise down over the corset and bent and tongued her very erect nipple. She gasped wildly.
Rex saw only a red haze. He pushed her against the pillows, fumbling with her stays. She gasped again. He threw the stays aside, wrapped his arms around her and turned to lave and play with her other nipple. She shuddered convulsively and he knew.
Her bodice and chemise were all bunched up around her waist; he lifted her skirts and petticoats and slid his hand up her smooth, slim thigh. She cried out as he rotated inward, stroking her inner thigh, and finally brushing her sex. She was hot and swollen and wet.
He cried out. “Blanche, darling.” And he slid his hand firmly over her, spreading her folds and she gasped and writhed, arching. He didn’t hesitate. He jerked down and sent his tongue feathering over her. She stiffened, undoubtedly in shock, but he pressed more intimately, laving all of her that he could. She shuddered again.
“Give over to me,” he whispered, and it was not a request. “Relax, Blanche, and let me pleasure you.”
There was silence. He felt her body soften and heard her cry, “Oh God.”
And then she gasped, shuddering, and he felt her coming against his tongue and cheek. He smiled, triumph surging in his red-hot blood.
When she lay still, he moved away, took some water and shed his shirt. He turned and saw her gazing at him and he smiled, just once. She pulled a sheet over her breasts and then reached out, touching his chest. Instantly he caught her palm and pressed it more firmly there.
