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The Perfect Bride
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CHAPTER THREE
REX SAT ON THE SOFA, stunned. Lady Blanche Harrington, a woman he admired as no other, had walked in on him and Anne!
He breathed hard, praying he was in some terrible nightmare and that when he awoke, he would realize Blanche Harrington had not just caught him with his lover.
Anne whispered, “Who was that, my lord?”
Oh, God, he wasn’t in a terrible dream—Blanche Harrington had caught him in bed with his maid! He covered his face with his hands and was overwhelmed with mortification and shame.
For one long moment, he succumbed to absolute horror and utter embarrassment. He did not know Blanche Harrington well, even though she had once, briefly, been betrothed to Tyrell. He had probably run into her half a dozen times since first meeting her eight years ago. But he had admired her instantly, as her grace, elegance and gracious behavior were truly remarkable, and had thought his brother mad and blind to have no interest in her. The few times they had conversed, he had done his best to be courtly, correct and polite. He had been determined to be a perfect gentleman in her presence. How in God’s name would he face her now? And what on earth was she doing at Land’s End?
“Is she your intended?”
He became aware that Anne sat beside him. He slowly dropped his hands, aware now of the heat in his cheeks. Anne had arranged her clothing, but her braided hair was entirely mussed and she looked as if she’d been in bed with someone—with him. “No,” he managed harshly. Why would she think that?
She was pale and stricken, apparently taking her cue from him. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she began.
“You have no reason to apologize. The lapse of judgment—and good manners—was mine.” And he began to despise himself. What had he been thinking, to dally in the middle of the day in his study? Oh, yes, of course, he had wanted to forget about Stephen. Well, that had certainly been achieved. Could this day possibly get any worse? And what should he do—and say—the next time he encountered Lady Harrington?
God, it would be the most awkward possible moment. He could not think of an encounter he wished to avoid as much. Perhaps, if he were fortunate, he could disappear off the face of the earth.
Anne had risen and was now gathering up the papers strewn about the floor. He saw, but couldn’t really comprehend, what she was doing. He was never going to recover from this crisis, he thought. Because even though he was no one in comparison to such a great lady, he had always been the perfect gentleman around her—in the guarded hope of at least garnering her respect. Well, he had earned her utter reprobation instead.
And eventually, he had to leave Land’s End. In fact, he was due in town in May. And he wasn’t foolish enough to think that by then, she would have forgotten his little tryst.
But why had she been at Land’s End?
And was there any possible way to excuse his behavior, explain it, so she might not find him so entirely loathsome?
Beyond shame, Rex reached for his crutch and stood. The moment he did so, he saw the large black Harrington coach in his courtyard. Disbelief began.
She was still at Bodenick.
He was breathless once again.
He swung rapidly to the window and saw her standing by her coachman and a maid. Her back was to the window and a conversation seemed to be in progress. He stared. Her carriage was always terribly correct, but her shoulders seemed even higher than usual, her bearing stiff and set. She was distressed—as she should be.
He fought the urge to hide until she left—the battle was over before it began. If she remained in his drive, he had to go outside and greet her and learn what brought her so far south. But he was amazed that she hadn’t climbed in her carriage and driven off at a mad gallop. Whatever her reason for appearing at Land’s End, it had to be important.
He cursed. There was no avoiding her now. An apology was in order, and there was no way around it. Except, such an apology would only bring forward even more awkwardness—and for him, humiliation. But if he did not apologize, it was even worse. And damn it, there was no graceful way to tender his regrets.
He wished he had offended anyone else, anyone other than Blanche Harrington.
He looked down at his bare chest. “Anne, please retrieve a shirt and jacket for me—quickly.” And now he wondered how long she had been standing there—and how much had she seen.
Instantly, he chastised himself. Blanche Harrington was not a depraved voyeur. She could not have been standing there for more than an instant. Unfortunately, she had chosen the exact instant when his passion had been at its greatest. His cheeks flamed.
Anne laid his papers on the desk and fled the study to do as he had asked.
He continued to stare out of the window, deciding he must not dwell on what she had seen. He must not dwell on his shame. Instead, he must discover an apology that might, at least, smooth the waters somewhat. Oddly, not a single word came to mind.
Blanche suddenly turned and looked at the house.
Rex jumped away from the window, realizing that he now cowered behind the draperies, out of her sight. From depravity to cowardice, he thought grimly, and neither one would do. There was no damned way out of his predicament, he thought. She would never see him as a gentleman, not after this day. He could spend years atoning to her, years trying to reprise his character, but nothing he could say or do, now or in the future, would erase what he had just done.
Anne returned, carrying a beautiful lawn shirt with a ruffled collar and a severe, but elegant, navy-blue jacket. “Will these do?” she asked somberly.
“Yes, thank you. Help me, please.” Although he could dress himself, as he could balance perfectly on the crutch without holding it, her help would speed him on his way. As she helped him with the shirt, she whispered, “Is she a great lady, Sir Rex?”
“Yes, a very great lady. Why do you ask?”
“You are so concerned.”
He shrugged on the jacket. “I have known Lady Harrington in passing for years. There are ladies in society who would hardly care to witness such an event. Unfortunately, Lady Harrington’s character is stellar and she is not of that ilk.”
His time had run out. Rex hurried from the study and across the hall, feeling very much as if he were on his way to doom. The front door was open and his heart began to race erratically. The heat in his cheeks intensified and by the time he was crossing the single step outside to the shell drive, he knew he was crimson.
Her back was to the house again—she faced her carriage.
He inhaled, rapidly approaching. “Lady Harrington,” he said tersely.
Tension rippled through her and she turned. She was smiling, but her cheeks were as pink as the ribbon in Anne’s hair. “Sir Rex! How pleasant to see you again,” she breathed. “Good day, sir. It has been some time!”
He halted before her. Did she really think to pretend she had not witnessed him making love to his housemaid? He stared, and for one moment, before she ducked her head, their gazes locked.
A fist seemed to land in his chest, hard. It winded him. She had always had the most beautiful blue-green eyes, tipped up wildly at the outer corners, and he had forgotten how petite and lovely she was. But he had never seen her like this—trembling and flushed with distress and dismay. It took him a moment to speak. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he said harshly.
“I am on my way to Penthwaithe,” she said, her strain evident in her tone and the fact that she now refused to look at him. “But knowing your home was so close by, I thought to call here, first.”
Penthwaithe? He was confused. He had never been to the manor, but his understanding was that the owner resided in London and had left the estate in near ruins. Why would she be on her way to Penthwaithe?
She slowly looked up at him, her smile fading.
He became still, looking into huge eyes that were wide and mirroring so many turbulent emotions, he could not decipher any of them. Blanche Harrington always had the appearance of an angel—her smile genuine, kind and terribly serene, her grace unshakable. Suddenly he was looking at someone he did not quite recognize. She was an elegant woman of outstanding character, and he had to have distressed her greatly with his display of depraved lust. Other women might have enjoyed such a show, but she was not one of them.
“I must apologize for offending you,” he said thickly. He truly hated himself.
“You have not offended me!” She was firm, but he caught a slight tremor in her tone. “It is a lovely afternoon and I should have gone directly to Penthwaithe and sent you my card, giving you some notice of my intentions. I must apologize for inconveniencing you, Sir Rex. But we were chilled through and through and when no one answered the door, we hoped to warm ourselves in your hall.” She breathed. “Your home is lovely, sir. Just lovely.”
He could not stand seeing her in such a state of discomfiture. And worse, she was now apologizing to him. “You could never inconvenience me,” he said as firmly. “You must not apologize. Of course you should have come inside to sit by the fire.” His mind raced. Should he play along with her as if he hadn’t seen her watching him make love to Anne? It would be easier for them both, he thought grimly. They could casually converse, the kind of idle chatter he despised, until she went on her way.
His heart lurched with even more dread. They had conversed briefly no more than five or six times in as many years, and suddenly she was at his home in Cornwall. He despaired. He had never wanted her to see him as he truly was, and he wanted absolution, although he knew he would not ever gain it. But some noble part of him couldn’t allow her to leave until she knew how sincerely he regretted his immoral behavior.
He inhaled. “Please, Lady Harrington, accept my most profound and sincere apologies—”
She cut him off, which was shockingly rude. “The fault is mine, to call so precipitously!” she cried breathlessly.
Aware of turning red, and in disbelief, he said, “Please accept my apologies…for not having seen your coach in the drive…and for failing to greet you properly…or having a servant at your disposal.”
The fluttering smile vanished and she stared. He somehow stared back. Although disguised, he had tendered his terrible regrets and she knew it, but would never admit it openly. He desperately waited for her response.
She smiled oddly. “If you must apologize for…not remarking my coach, then I must accept that apology! However, I realize you are not prepared for company. I am not…distressed… that a servant failed to usher us inside. I am so used to the ton, or my group, anyway—we call at whim, without our cards…we are such a close circle of friends!” She laughed, and he realized he had never heard such a forced sound. “I simply forgot the country is so different!”
He could not decide how deeply she condemned him—and he could only be relieved that she would act so gracefully now. Her behavior was generous, but then, that was the kind of lady she was. She wouldn’t stare coldly or sneer. She would not go home and gossip, either. Of that, he had not a doubt.
“It is so cold in Cornwall!” Her words jerked him to attention. And she smiled, shivering. “We will be on our way. Clarence needs to water the team, however, if you do not mind.”
He breathed hard, relieved that the terrible subject was over. “Of course you may water the horses,” he said.
He turned away to hail his own grooms to aid her servants. He felt her gaze on him as he did so, and his tension escalated impossibly. But an insincere round of graceful apologies was not going to mitigate any awkwardness. Surely he was now the object of her scorn.
He felt as if the irony might kill him. He had always wished to impress her with his manner, secretly wanting her to admire him in some small way, and instead, he had allowed her to glimpse his true nature.
When the team was being led to the stables, he returned to find her standing silently with her maid. Before she noticed him, he noted her grim, even glum, and very strained demeanor. And now, he noticed that the tip of her nose was red from the chill of the day.
He took one last breath, watching her. Somehow they had weathered this crisis, even if only superficially. Somehow the waters had been smoothed over, even if beneath lay huge, frightening currents. And they were on speaking terms. But now what? He remained terribly embarrassed. So, clearly, did she. He had no right to invite her in for some refreshment, but she was chilled, and that is what a true gentleman would do. He was afraid she might refuse the offer—and that would be a rejection he deserved but dreaded. On the other hand, what if she became ill, and all because of his uncontrollable virility?
He had never dreamed Blanche would magically appear at Land’s End. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years. He didn’t have to even think about it to know he had last glimpsed her at the Carrington ball, when his sister-in-law had made her debut into society. Two years was a terribly long time. And now she was about to leave.
It was more than embarrassment. It was more than a fear for her catching a chill. He did not wish for her to go. Not now, not yet.
The sun had been pale and amber in the sky; now, it burned gold.
I am a fool, he thought grimly.
For what he really wished was to pass a pleasant call with her. But how could he possibly achieve that now?
Before he could debate any longer, he took his chances and spoke with great care. “Lady Harrington, it is late afternoon and you seem fatigued. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some warm tea?”
She turned slowly, unsmiling. And she hesitated, clearly indecisive. “It has been a long journey from London,” she said. “I am not that chilled, but my poor maid is frozen and has been so all day. If I am not imposing, I would love a cup, as would Meg.” And her wide eyes gently met his.
And he thought he saw so much uncertainty there. “You could never impose,” he said gruffly, but he meant his every word. He managed a stiff smile. “Please.” He gestured and she preceded him back into the house, calling for her maid to follow. And then Anne met them in the hall.
He knew he blushed. He was dismayed but his other servant was off the premises. He was careful not to look at Blanche now. “Anne, I will need tea for two and sandwiches, if you will. And please show Lady Harrington’s maid into the kitchens, so she might take some refreshment, as well, and warm herself there.”
Anne nodded before leaving with the other maid.
Rex watched Blanche stare after her. He didn’t have to glance into a crystal ball to know she was wondering about his relationship with the housemaid—and possibly recalling what she had just seen. But when she realized he had noticed her gazing after Anne, she flushed and jerked her eyes to the window. “I had no idea the coast here is so beautiful.”
“If you decide to walk upon the beaches, you must exercise care. The tides are strong and come in swiftly.”
Her gaze skidded to his and darted away. “I will certainly remember that.”
Apparently they would not get past the awkwardness of this disaster after all. Or at least, not with Anne about, as a reminder of his excessively virile and inappropriate needs.
But if she found him reprehensible, she hid it entirely. He decided that if she now despised him, she would take her tea and leave as soon as gracefully possible. The length of her visit might very well be a gauge of her feelings, he decided. “The best time to stroll the beach is an hour or two before noon.”
Blanche actually smiled at him. “I will make sure to stroll along the beach before I return to town.”
He tensed, surprised, because she seemed to have finally recovered her composure. Anne now out of sight, Blanche perused the great room and turned to him. The moment she spoke, he knew she was being sincere. “Your home is lovely, Sir Rex.”
Blanche moved to a chair and he followed. His home was modest, but she had meant it—he was certain. “I have spent many years renovating not just the castle, but the entire estate. I find it pleasing enough. Thank you.”
“I hadn’t expected a castle,” she said, and their gazes met and instantly danced apart.
His heart began an odd little dance, too. “Neither did I, not when I was first awarded Land’s End and my title.”
She looked up. His breath vanished. So did the terrible incident she had witnessed.
It was unbelievable, a dream. Blanche Harrington was sitting with him in his great hall. She lit up the room as the sun never had and never would. But then, hadn’t his sisters-in-law and his sister begun to harp on him for his bachelor status? No fool, he knew they were determined to see him wed.
He would never find a woman like this one, he thought grimly. And he did not want to settle for less. For he did not have to know her well to know she was a lady to the core and as such, she was incapable of betrayal and treachery. His painful past had made him distrustful of ladies who wished for a relationship with him, but inexplicably, he knew Blanche Harrington was utterly trustworthy.
And of course, she was not for him. She would one day inherit a vast fortune, and she would marry a great and probably impoverished title, not a thirty-year-old knight who toiled like a common laborer on land no sane gentleman would ever wish to possess.
And he still couldn’t grasp the fact that she had not looked at him with any condescension.
He cleared his throat. “May I ask why you are on your way to Penthwaithe?”
She smoothed her pale gray silk skirts with innate grace, a color that suited her eyes and her hair. “I have decided to escape my suitors,” she said wryly. “Do you recall my friend, Lady Waverly? She suggested Father’s estate.”
He stared, mind racing. Everyone knew that Blanche Harrington had no wish to wed. He had always been certain that one day she would change her mind, and apparently, he had been correct. “What does Penthwaithe have to do with Harrington?”
She blinked. “I have just learned the manor is a part of the Harrington fortune. I am afraid Father kept me in the dark about his affairs, and now, of course, I must make sense of them.”
He became even more perplexed. “I was under the impression that Penthwaithe belongs to a gentleman who so prefers the city that he has allowed it to fall into utter ruin. I am not sure there are even any tenants.”
She sat up straighter. “You must be mistaken. Penthwaithe belonged to my father. My solicitors have recently found the title to the estate.”
“You have used the past tense.”
Her eyes went wide. “You do not know?”
He did not like this. “I do not know what, Lady Harrington?”
She hesitated, their gazes locked. “Father passed.”
He was stunned. “I had no idea!” he exclaimed. And then, knowing how close Blanche had been to her father, how she had doted on him—and he on her—he was stricken for her. “Bl…Lady Harrington, I hadn’t heard. I am so terribly sorry!” The urge to touch her—perhaps even take her hand—overcame him, but he would never do such a thing.
She continued to gaze at him, absolutely tearless, fully composed. “Thank you. He passed six months ago—he was stricken with pneumonia and it happened quickly. I have just come out of mourning.”
He finally took a chair facing Blanche. He could not quite believe her composure. Her father had been the center of her life. Had she shed all of her tears, vanquished all grief, in six short months? He was doubtful.
And as much as he had always admired her, the one thing he had wondered was what it would take to shake her seemingly unflappable composure. He had always known great passion lay beneath the perfect exterior. He had even wondered, when thoroughly besotted, what she was like in bed.
Well, if Blanche still grieved, she would never do so in company. For all he knew, she wept privately every night, as was her right. And he had finally shaken her composure—with his little tryst. But she had bounced quickly back.
And he realized his admiration for her had increased. It was ironic, because he had little doubt that any admiration she had held for him, was now in ashes.
“I wish I had known,” he said. “I would have come directly to London to offer my condolences personally.”
She smiled at him. After a pause, she said, “I hadn’t realized you didn’t send your condolences.” She glanced past him, out of the window.
Anne entered, bearing a sterling tray with a porcelain teapot, two cups and saucers. As she set the items down on the small table near Blanche, he told her he would serve. Surprise flicked in her blue-green eyes. “Sir Rex, allow me.”
He tensed. “I will pour,” he insisted. He knew the offer had been made because he had one leg and she did not realize he could get up and pour tea in spite of the injury. He despised pity and he adeptly served her first.
When he was seated with his own tea, he saw that the sun was now beginning to set. Outside of Bodenick, the sky was stained crimson over the darkening moors. Instantly he was concerned. “Lady Harrington, it is an hour to Penthwaithe. And frankly, I am worried about there having been a mix-up in estate affairs. And even if not, I am certain you cannot possibly find decent accommodations there.” If he offered, would she stay the night?
Blanche set her cup and saucer down. And she looked at him—right into his eyes. “I doubt I have a choice.”
His heart turned over hard. How could he not offer her accommodations? She would refuse—she had to hold him in scorn now. And although gentlemen did not sleep with their servants, he did consider himself a gentleman, or at least, he had been raised to be one. “I may have a solution—although I do not know if it will interest you.”
“I am all ears,” she said softly, the angelic smile he so often recalled in his dreams finally appearing.
He hesitated, then plunged on, trying to sound casual. “Bodenick is rather spartan, as you can see. But I have several guest rooms, and one, the countess has furnished for her own comfort. It is yours if you so wish.”
Her eyes widened.
He wet his lips. “And of course, there is a room for your maid and lodgings for your coachman and footmen in the servants’ wing.”
She smiled again, fully. “Thank you. I would love to spend the night here, Sir Rex.”
BLANCHE KNEW she kept staring at the housemaid as the pretty woman set a pitcher of water on the table beside the four-poster bed. The chamber was very pleasantly appointed in shades of gold, green and beige. A small settee in gold brocade was at the foot of the bed, facing the stone hearth. The bed had dark green coverings and two gold floral Persian rugs covered the floor. The walls had been painted bright yellow and a cherrywood armoire graced one wall, while a secretaire adorned the other. There was one plush moss-green chaise. The countess had clearly furnished this room, making it warm and inviting.
Sir Rex stood just behind her, remaining in the hall. Blanche was acutely aware of his presence. He cleared his throat. “I hope the chamber suits.”
Somehow, impossibly, she had found most of her composure in the aftermath of her shocking discovery. Her composure and common sense had always been terribly important to her. But for the first time in her life, it felt fragile—as if it might vanish in an instant, with very little provocation. It felt as if she must fiercely cling to it, or face a vast, bottomless gulf of confusion. And in order to do so, she must not recall her memory of that tryst. She must not think about Sir Rex’s extremely passionate—too passionate—nature.
She found a smile, anchored it firmly, and turned to face him. “The room is lovely—perfect, really. I cannot thank you enough.”
“It is my pleasure,” he said. “Supper is at seven, but if you need anything, simply send your maid.” He bowed.
Blanche smiled, relieved when he turned to stride rapidly down the hall. His presence was simply too much to bear. Meg remained in the hall, wide-eyed, while Anne slipped past them both and hurried after her lord…and her lover.
Blanche instantly collapsed on the settee. He was as virile as the rumors said. All composure vanished. “Open a window, please,” she managed.
Meg rushed to do so, her expression one of vast concern. “My lady, are you ill? You have been behaving so strangely!”
Blanche closed her eyes tightly and gave up all pretense. And all she saw was Sir Rex, impossibly masculine, terribly handsome, straining over that woman, a mass of wet, glistening flesh. So much muscle, so much strength and so much passion, she thought wildly. Opening her eyes, she tried to cool her cheeks with her hands and she tried to breathe. She was spinning in a whirlwind of confusion.
Meg handed her a glass of water, looking very frightened now.
Blanche accepted it and sipped until she had regained some fragments of composure. She must somehow forget what she had seen. She must never think of Sir Rex in a moment of passion.
“Find me a fan, please,” Blanche whispered. If she did not erase the incident from her mind, how would she dine with Sir Rex at seven?
His dark, and yes, frankly handsome image came to mind. She softened then, because as embarrassed as she had been, she had seen the mortification in his eyes. Compassion began.
What kind of man isolated himself at the end of the world, rarely coming to town? What kind of man dallied with a housemaid in the middle of the day? Why did he prefer servants to ladies? Surely there was a plausible explanation, for Sir Rex was neither crude nor base. And most importantly, why was he unwed at his age?
“Do you have a fever?” Meg asked worriedly.
It was incomprehensible. Blanche handed her the glass. She hated gossip—as it was usually malicious in intent. But now, she wished to understand her host—and she needed a confidante. “I will tell you why I am distressed, if you swear you will tell no one what I have seen.”
Meg nodded, clearly surprised that her mistress wished to speak with her in such a way.
“I intruded upon Sir Rex while he was with the housemaid—in a moment of indiscretion.”
Meg gasped in comprehension.
“Do you think Sir Rex is fond of her?” And even as she asked, she knew it was not her concern, but she was rather dismayed by the notion.
Meg stared. “I don’t know, my lady.”
Blanche walked away thoughtfully. “Sir Rex is a war hero and a gentleman, Meg. I have known him for many years now. He is one of the most courteous and respectful men I know and I do not care what the gossips say. But his behavior is unusual.”
Meg bit her lip.
“What do you think?” Blanche asked, wishing Bess were present to tell her exactly what was happening with Sir Rex and Anne even though she should not be giving the incident another thought. Bess wouldn’t—and neither would Felicia. They would laugh about it and then forget about it. Blanche hoped she would soon forget what she had seen, too.
“You want my opinion?” Meg gasped, her gray eyes wide.
“I do.”
Meg hesitated. “He’s lusty, my lady, that’s all.”
Blanche stared.
“It’s lonely out here,” Meg continued. “Look around. We passed the village hours ago. Of course a handsome man like that would have a woman in his bed.” She added, “When he tires of this one, there will be someone else. That’s how these lords are. And, my lady? I don’t know if he cares for her or not. He isn’t bedding the maid because he cares for her.” She blushed.
Blanche stared. Leave it to her maid to comprehend the situation, she thought. Sir Rex lived alone, in the middle of nowhere, and he was virile. Anne could ease his needs and it was as simple as that. She knew she was blushing now. And one day, he would take a new lover. His affair was not about affection, it was about passion. She felt more heat gather in her cheeks.
Bess fell in and out of love on a monthly basis. But she also freely admitted that her needs had nothing to do with love. The parade of men in her life was a parade of men Bess lusted after. The ton was filled with frenzied affairs. Sir Rex was having a passionate affair, as well. And now that she understood, she must stop thinking about it.
“Should I unpack your things? And what will you wear to supper?”
Blanche tensed. They had barely gotten past a terrible beginning, and as long as she kept a grip on her memory, as long as she remained composed, supper would be manageable, she thought. Perhaps by the evening, she could forget what she had seen, or dismiss it, and enjoy the evening. It was not her place to approve or disapprove of his choices, and she had always thought him an interesting man.
“Can you press my gray taffeta gown, Meg?”
Meg nodded. Blanche hadn’t worn anything but gray since coming out of mourning. It didn’t seem right to strut about like a fancy peacock.
As Meg began to unpack a trunk, Blanche walked over to a window. She faced the ocean below, pale gray now and sweeping into the horizon so it seemed to go on for an infinity, but directly below, violent, frothing waves now pounded the rock beaches. As magnificent as the scene was, there was no question now that she stood at the very tip of the realm, and she was acutely aware of it. An extreme sense of isolation swept her. Land’s End was isolated, she thought. And with such awareness, she felt the enormity of the solitude.
The scene of endless ocean and dark rock, of pale beaches and towering cliffs, was stark, desolate and magnificent, very much like her host. And if she, one of society’s great hostesses, felt such separateness upon gazing out at the view, if she could be so conscious of being so far removed from everyone and everything, what did Sir Rex feel when he went to his window? Could anyone live this far from society, on the edge of the world, so to speak, and not feel detached and alone?
Was Sir Rex lonely?
More unease crept over her, and with it, a sense of confusion. Blanche decided she was a bit too intrigued with her host. Still, she was a close family friend, and even his family was concerned about him. And she did not think Sir Rex could outmaneuver the countess, his sister and his three sisters-in-law, which meant his bachelor days were numbered.
He was hardly a perfect man. This afternoon had proven that. But he deserved more than a solitary existence on his Cornish estate, just as she deserved more than the Harrington fortune. Being kind and fond of his family, she wished him the very best. And she had not a doubt that when the day came that Sir Rex wed, he would give up his preference for housemaids. Somehow, she knew he would be a good, kind and loyal husband. All the de Warenne men were that way.
She didn’t want to think it, but she did. He needed a wife, and she needed a husband. However, she had meant it when she said he would make a terrible husband for her. They were far too different, like night and day, and she sensed grave complications beneath his dark exterior. And his masculinity was far too overpowering for someone like herself. She didn’t know why she had even thought about his future in the same breath as she had thought about hers.
She turned. Meg was shaking out the dove-gray. “Meg? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll wear the green silk with my emeralds.”
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