by Brenda Joyce
Blanche asked softly, “Sir Rex? What shall we do about tonight’s sleeping arrangements? I realize we have married in a flash, and there has been no time to prepare a master suite, and your family is certainly expecting your return—”
He took her hand. “I wish only to please you,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth. “And my family, by now, knows every detail of our wedding. No one is expecting me and I prefer to stay here.”
She wanted him to stay. She could not get the words out. She could not remind him that it would take a few hours at least to prepare a honeymoon suite for fear of a rejection. It would take longer to prepare a new master suite if they ever decided to share one.
“I will take any guest chamber,” he said softly.
Blanche smiled but jerked her gaze away, dismayed by his preference. “Prepare the Emerald Suite, Meg.”
Meg nodded and rushed off.
“It won’t take long. Guests often stay there and it is always ready,” she said swiftly, smiling very brightly.
He clasped her hand. “What is wrong?”
She tensed, her gaze rushing to his. “How can anything be wrong when you have just rescued me from a terrible fate?”
He dimpled. “With Dashwood?”
“I do not know what I was thinking!”
“I know what I was thinking,” he said, his voice low and swift.
She looked into his bold stare. Such a masculine look made her knees weaken.
“Are you ready to collapse?” he asked softly, taking her elbow.
“I don’t know how I feel,” she said truthfully. “I am a jumble of giddy emotions! Except I am relieved, of course, I am so relieved. It has been a nightmare…but that nightmare seems to be ending.”
“That nightmare is over,” he said firmly. Then, “I want you to be happy.”
“I am,” she managed. “I am so very happy, but I realize you are merely doing your duty.”
His gaze briefly widened. “Let’s sit down.”
Blanche nodded and when they were seated in the Blue Room, he said, “Blanche, I do have a duty to you and our child, but I have not been forthright if you believe I have only done my duty in marrying you.”
Blanche couldn’t smile. “Even if I recover, I am not the same woman who enjoyed your hospitality at Land’s End.”
He stiffened. “I beg to differ! You are the same woman—a woman I am terribly fond of—and there is no ‘if.’ You will recover. I thought we had cleared that up.”
“At Land’s End, I was the perfect bride.”
“You are the perfect bride now,” he said firmly.
“Are you ever unkind?” she gasped.
“It is not my nature,” he said, somewhat perplexed.
Suddenly Blanche realized she hadn’t thought about the riot and her mother’s murder since her conversation early that afternoon with Sir Rex. There had not been one single memory, but now, perversely, the bloody images loomed. She saw the dead horse and her mangled mother. The mob hovered. She tensed.
“Blanche?”
She stiffened with dread, wishing she hadn’t thought about that terrible day, waiting for that knife to pierce her temples. It did not.
Sir Rex clasped her face. “Stay with me,” he said softly.
Still, she expected to hear her mother’s screams; she expected to be thrust into the midst of that riot, all of six years old again.
“It is such a beautiful night,” Sir Rex commented. At first, Blanche did not quite hear him. “Can you hear the crickets?” he asked.
She met his gaze, suddenly aware of the chirping in the gardens outside, the images vanishing as she looked into his brown-and-gold eyes. She trembled with uncertainty. “They were only memories, I think.” Dear God, she hadn’t been jerked into the past.
He smiled as if they were discussing a picnic or the races. “Did you enjoy the ceremony—as brief as it was?”
She smiled back. “It was lovely.”
He laughed. “I don’t think my brother had a clue as to what he was doing, my dear.”
Blanche became still. His laughter washed through her like a warm, sensual wave and her heart sped while her skin heated, everywhere. And he had called her “dear.” She wanted to be in Sir Rex’s arms. She wanted far more than a feathery kiss. And she wanted him to call her “my dear” again.
His eyes darkened. His hand drifted across her cheek. “I do not know if I can be a proper gentleman when you look at me with such invitation,” he said softly.
Her heart thudded. “We are married,” she whispered. “I know I am hardly attractive now, but you need not be gentlemanly, not at all.”
His eyes widened fractionally. And his regard turned to smoke. “Blanche, you appear as fragile as the newest bud on a rose. I don’t want to hurt you, discomfit you or distress you in any way. You have been through enough.”
She was so surprised, but she should have known Sir Rex would think of her welfare before anything else. “I won’t break, Sir Rex,” she said tremulously. “I am certain of that.” But she wasn’t certain, because the last time they had made love, she had broken mentally and emotionally and maybe in spirit, as well. This time, though, she would take the risk.
He hesitated and then he clasped her shoulders. “I have never desired anyone more. Blanche, I will always desire you.” His gaze was searching. “I will always love you.”
She went still on the outside while her heart exploded in joy on the inside. Then she breathed, throwing all caution to the wind, “Please.”
His eyes turned to black flames. He bent over her as his lips claimed hers. And suddenly she was crushed in his arms, weeping silently with joy and need, as he kissed her deeply, again and again.
Blanche felt every inch of her body flame. Wet heat gathered. She wanted to explode and she wanted his touch and his invasion so urgently that she trembled in his arms, moaning. His kisses changed, veering down the soft column of her throat.
Blanche heard the door close.
She tensed, as did Sir Rex, glancing at the door, which was now solidly closed. They had left it open. Sir Rex turned to her, his gaze brilliant, and Blanche cupped his cheek, relieved to realize he still wanted her as he had at Land’s End. “Don’t stop. Take me upstairs, please,” she cried.
He pulled her close. “Are you certain I will not hurt you? Blanche, we are husband and wife now. We have our entire lives ahead.”
“I am certain. I need you so.”
IT WAS HARD to exercise control. But he had meant his every word, and no matter how he had missed her and how urgently he wished to move inside her now, he did not want to hurt her or cause more strain. Rex unbuttoned the back of Blanche’s pale gray silk gown, aware that his fingers were clumsy and his hands were shaking and inept.
She was breathing in a rapid, shallow manner. As her gown parted, revealing her chemise and corset, he could not resist. Inhaling, he bent and kissed her skin on the ridge of her spine, between her shoulder blades. Instantly her skin prickled with goose bumps.
Blanche gasped in pleasure.
He was already painfully aroused and he fought it; he turned her as the dress fell in a pool at their feet. Blanche’s eyes became blue-green smoke. She was so beautiful and so feminine, he thought. He cupped her face and kissed her, long and deep, rising up high and hard against her hip. She moaned.
He became frantic; all he wanted to do was bring her pleasure now.
And he crushed her against his chest, his torso, his hips and loins. She gasped again and he pulled her up even more tightly against the firm ridge of his manhood, briefly resting his mouth against her cheek when he wanted to invade her body and plunder, sweetly and savagely, now. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she cried, clinging to his shoulders.
A flurry followed—the rest of her clothes and all of his vanished. They crashed onto the bed and he moved over her, kneeing her pale thighs apart. Rex knew he had no control left. But he somehow paused. “I am so pleased to
be your husband,” he murmured.
Her gaze widened.
And he smiled, slowly easing his swollen length into her, watching her expression tighten, her eyes glaze.
She cried out, feeling the same hot, exquisite friction, cheeks turning pink, eyes losing all focus, and he could not stand it. He gave in, his sanity finally vanishing, and there was only the savage need to hear her climax and to find his own explosive release. Slick sensation and intense pleasure became a passionate frenzy. She gasped, eyes flying wide-open and he felt a terrible sense of triumph.
He was blinded by the sight of her climax. He drove deep into her wet heat and gave over to his manhood. The ecstasy was white-hot and consuming. He gasped again and again. “Blanche.”
A long time passed and he held her, breathing harshly. When he had recovered somewhat, he moved to her side because she had become as small as a young girl and he truly feared hurting her accidentally. Cradling her in his arms, he kissed her temples and hair, still breathless. My wife, he thought. My perfect, beautiful wife.
“I think I am the most fortunate man on this earth,” he murmured.
Her lashes lifted and she looked at him, the dazed expression on her face slowly receding. She smiled and he thrilled; she laid her small palm on his broad chest and pressed it there.
Unable to control himself, he reached for her hand and lifted it to his mouth. He was bursting with love. He had meant his every word. Dear God, they were wed now, and Blanche Harrington was his. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“I am wonderful,” she said as softly. And then she shocked him, taking his hand and pressing her mouth to it. A beautiful and delicate flush covered her face.
He leaned up on one elbow. Finally breathing naturally, he had to admire her face and her figure. Although thin, he found her slender body impossibly attractive. “You are so beautiful, Blanche.” He slid his hand over one small breast.
Her eyes widened. “You must be the mad one,” she began, and when she realized what she had said, she tensed.
But he smiled. “And you are so modest!” He moved his hand down to her narrow waist.
Blanche hesitated, studying him. “I am glad you think me pretty.”
“I think you beautiful—and next time, do not attempt a refutation,” he said gently. Now he caressed the small mound of her belly where their child grew. He thrilled and smiled. And he could not help it; her pale curls drew his gaze.
A lovely smile began. “Only if I can be as bold.”
He grinned, tearing his eyes to her face. “How bold?”
“You are so handsome!” she cried, running her hand over his hard chest. “And talented,” she added, biting her lip.
Rex laughed, terribly pleased.
Blanche became still, her smile fading. She looked past him, as if expecting an intruder. In that instant, he knew. She was thinking about the riot. His concern knew no bounds. “Darling, you do not know the difference yet, but such speedy lovemaking is not desirable. However, I am glad you think me talented and I assure you, once some time has passed, you will be very pleased. I intend a long and enjoyable honeymoon.”
Her gaze moved back to his; she smiled. “But I wished for speedy lovemaking.”
He became still and entirely hard. “I’m glad,” he said roughly.
“You always know when I need you,” she said softly.
He bent over her and kissed her, comprehending exactly what she meant. “Do you wish to talk about it now?”
She hesitated, her gaze moving past him again. “No,” she breathed.
He stared closely and felt certain she was not in danger of slipping away. Although he could so easily shift his weight and do what he wished to do, he said, “I know you are exhausted now—”
She slid her hand down his belly. “Not really.”
And she gave him the most seductive look he had ever received.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BLANCHE AWOKE with her cheek on Sir Rex’s naked chest, her body entirely pressed against his, one of her legs between his thighs. Sun was streaming into the bedroom, as no one had dared come in to pull the draperies. Her ivory-and-pink quilt was pulled to their waists but no higher. Joy swelled.
I love my husband so, she thought, smiling. She inhaled his scent, relishing it, cherished the feel of his skin, muscles and even his hair, and she thought about the miraculous fact that they were man and wife. Last night he had made love to her twice. She had been exhausted, because she recalled his lovemaking, but not the aftermath—she must have dozed off immediately. Sir Rex was a wonderful lover as well as a wonderful man.
She loved him so much her heart ached in a delirium of emotion.
Her gaze moved past him, to the windows on the other side of the bedroom. Images began to form, images she hated, dreaded and wished would go forever away. At Land’s End, after he had made love to her, she had been assailed with her memories—and she had been flung back into the horrible past.
She had been in love with Sir Rex then, too. She had realized that joy and passion also brought recollection and pain. Blanche tensed.
Her temples throbbed but not with knifelike intensity. The images were vivid—she would never forget the sight of that beaten horse, the monster-man, or her murdered mother. She waited for her mother’s screams to sound, driving her from the bed and into another world.
“Blanche?”
Her mother’s face was white and pinched with fear—an expression Blanche would never forget as the monster demanded she get out of the carriage. She knew the words by heart. Get out of the carriage, lady.
Blanche was assailed with dread, even though she felt as if she were rehearsing the memory, not reliving it. The bed dipped. She glanced up and saw that Sir Rex was sitting up.
Her mother’s face had become frozen with fear. The monster-man was waiting and Blanche waited to feel her mother’s grip, hurting her own hand. She waited for her mother to be seized and dragged from the coach; she waited for fear to consume her.
A light caress drifted from her shoulder to her arm. Blanche jerked, looking up at Sir Rex.
“We’re at Harrington Hall,” he said quietly. “We are man and wife.”
She sat up, now remarking his splendid torso, delineated with so much muscle, tendon and ligament that her body flushed with the stirrings of desire once again. It had been so long since she had been able to admire him in broad daylight. “I know,” she said as quietly.
The image of her mother’s masklike face remained, as did the pale, manic eyes of the monster-man. The images whirled and changed into the dead horse and her equally dead and brutalized mother. Pain stabbed through Blanche, very much like a knife, but it was in her chest, not her head, and she recognized the pain as grief.
“Tell me what is happening, Blanche.”
She flinched. “I am remembering how my mother looked after they stabbed her to death.”
Sir Rex nodded, and he paled. “Can you stay with me?” he asked, moving a mass of her light hair back over her shoulder.
Blanche realized how naked she was and she dragged a cover up to her chin. “I am waiting for my mother’s screams to erupt in my head,” she said. “I am waiting to become six years old again, but instead, there are these images, as clear as ghastly portraits, and there is so much grief.”
He clasped her shoulder. “You never had a chance to mourn your mother, as you forgot the riot and her murder, instead. Maybe it is time for you to grieve.”
Blanche was horrified when she realized she wished to weep over her mother’s loss—and then, over her father’s death, as well.
He amazed her by saying, “And you never grieved for Harrington. Do what you must, Blanche. Everyone must grieve for the loss of loved ones.”
She looked at him, her vision blurring. “I loved her so. She was the sweetest, kindest mother a child could have. I recall all of that now.”
“That is a good memory to have.”
“Why did they have to kil
l her? Why?”
He slid his arm around her. “When a crowd becomes a mob, it is like a pet dog becoming rabid. There is no rhyme, no reason. The mob becomes a savage, uncontrollable beast. There will never be an explanation for what happened that day, Blanche.”
She wiped her eyes, silently mourning her mother now. And Father, how well she recalled his grief, twenty-two years ago. “Father never recovered from that day. He loved my mother—I remember now, how grim and pale he was, how red his eyes were. I recall being confused.”
Sir Rex merely stroked her shoulder.
Blanche wiped her eyes. “I wasn’t able to cry when Father died, but I told you that. It was like a dream. I knew he was gone, but I just couldn’t feel.” She suddenly turned to Sir Rex. “It hurts so much now.”
“I know it does. But there is no avoiding this, Blanche. You are human and you must mourn your parents, sooner or later.”
“I think it is sooner,” she whispered, because the tears were streaming, and so was the grief. She hadn’t realized how much she missed her father—and how much she had loved her mother.
Sir Rex pulled her into his arms.
BLANCHE LEANED OUT of the carriage window as the Harrington coach entered the short shell drive leading to Bodenick Castle. She started, for she saw the ruined tower had been restored, changing the castle’s silhouette as it jutted into the cloudless, brilliantly blue sky. The moors beyond were awash in purple and gold and she saw a band of mares racing with their young foals. Ahead, past the far tower, she saw the ocean frothing below against the sheer black cliffs leading to the beach head. Three days ago Sir Rex had suddenly suggested they leave town and retire to the country for the summer. Blanche had been eager to agree.
But there had been apprehension as well as anticipation. She could not forget that her memory had started to return at Land’s End, and subsequently, those fits hurling her backward in time had begun there, as well. In the past three days since becoming husband and wife, there had been many memories, but she had not been jettisoned into the past. Her husband, Blanche thought, had been a huge part of that. He had been doting on her the way a parent did an ill child. When she became consumed with her memories, he had a knack for distracting her. Blanche knew his concern for her was absolute. She didn’t mind. He had become such an anchor, helping her though this difficult time.
