by Brenda Joyce
A long moment passed.
“Do you suffer from insomnia often?” she breathed, clutching the glass to her bosom.
A beautiful smile flitted across his face. “It depends.”
It took her a moment to decipher his meaning. Somehow, she envisioned him with Anne and knew that if she were not his guest, he would be in bed with her now. Her heart thundering, even her ears feeling hot, she quickly said, “I really must go to bed.”
“Don’t.”
Blanche froze.
“Please,” he added. “I do not mind the company,” he said softly, sending her another astonishing glance. “I like it.”
She trembled. Was he inebriated? Or was he being terribly bold and frank? “I have been enjoying your company, as well, Sir Rex,” she said as lightly as possible.
He seemed amused, in a heavy-lidded way.
She swallowed and tried to find a suitable topic of conversation, a nearly impossible task, given the hour and the circumstance. “I envy you this place.”
His smile reappeared, wry but achingly beautiful. “How can you, the lady of Harrington Hall, envy me Land’s End?”
“Perhaps for exactly that reason…it is the end of the world. I have no privacy at home. I am enjoying the solitude here.”
“How long will you stay?”
And that melodic tone stirred her flesh in ways she had never before experienced, as if a spring breeze had drifted beneath her skirts. “I don’t know. I can hardly impose.”
“And if I wish for you to impose?”
She started and their gazes locked.
“Maybe I will confess,” he said slowly, and she tensed in anticipation, “that it can be lonely here.”
She was stunned. Sir Rex was lonely. But she had sensed that, and now, it was confirmed. Her compassion swelled. “You should come to town more often.”
His lashes fluttered, hiding his eyes. He murmured, as if he hadn’t heard her, “You do not have to decide this minute.”
Her mind raced. He had been awarded the estate. So in a way, he hadn’t chosen this life at all. But he had chosen to avoid town. And why, oh why, did he remain without a wife?
“Blanche?” he murmured.
She faced him, aware of his intimate and silken use of her name. She knew he had not realized the slip.
“I realize we do not meet your standards here,” he added softly. “But if you tell me what you require, I will move heaven and earth to please you.” He smiled slowly again, his gaze roaming her face before drifting to the mere edge of her bodice, where it lifted.
He meant it, she realized, feeling dazed. But why would he want to accommodate her so fully? “You do meet my standards!” Her passion shocked her. She didn’t know where such emotion had come from. “I love—I like Land’s End, very much. I should like to stay on…a bit longer.” She was going to ask him, she decided, very boldly and improperly, why he was not wed.
“Midnight is always the best time for confessions.”
“Do you have another one?” She could not imagine what he might confess next.
His smile flickered. “You have seen me in my worst light, yet you do not run for the woods. You do not even run from my great room—or from me.”
She licked her lips now. What should she say to that? And was he going to converse about his afternoon affair?
“You have an amazing grace, Lady Harrington. I sense you are thinking about running, even now.”
He was right. She breathed hard. “It is just odd…I have never conversed with a gentleman like this, at such an hour. It is very…intimate.”
His gaze narrowed, assessing her. “This is intimate?”
Blanche laughed nervously. “You know I am impossibly proper,” she said. And prudish, she added silently.
His regard was searching. “Why have you stayed? Why didn’t you run away yesterday?”
She inhaled, trembling. And her memory of his tryst loomed, graphic and vivid. “You have every right to your private…affairs.”
A long moment passed. “Have I just shattered your composure—again?”
“My composure,” she said thickly, barely able to breathe, “vanished yesterday. I am not sure I ever retrieved it.”
He stared, his eyes lingering on her throat, where she knew her pulse was visibly pounding. “Then your pretense has been admirable. I am distressing you yet again. I never meant to distress you. I am ashamed that you know the truth about me.”
She started, wide-eyed. “Have you been drinking, Sir Rex?”
A very beautiful smile formed. “I am entirely foxed.”
This explained those long smoldering stares and his shocking confessions. He didn’t desire her, not really—he was inebriated. But what was not explained was his need to find inebriation.
“What? No gentle persuasion that I must retire…no gentle reprobation for such overindulgence? No obvious scorn, no mocking disdain?”
Blanche folded her arms to her chest. “You know me well enough to know I am not malicious or unkind. And the truth is—” she hesitated “—you have every right to your love affairs.” She was aware of turning red. “Unlike others, you are not deceiving a spouse.”
His eyes glittered. “I would have never imagined having such a discussion with you. And I was referring to my excessive fondness for wine and whiskey.”
She avoided all eye contact now. “I mean—” she breathed hard “—of course you may sit up at night, enjoying a glass of wine!” Ask him, she cried silently. Just do it!
“That isn’t what you said. So you refuse to condemn my affair…. It is not a love affair, but you do know that.”
His candor was shocking. She didn’t know what to say. Nervously she whispered, “I have no wish to condemn you.”
A silence fell.
He stared so interminably she began to squirm. “Why do I have this unshakable feeling, that there is something you wish to say—or ask?”
Dear God, he was too perceptive! “I have been wondering,” she breathed, “but really, I hardly wish to be impertinent…I think I should return to my room!”
He grasped her wrist, and his gaze intensified. “Now I am intrigued. You can speak freely, you can ask me anything,” he said very softly. “Come, it is midnight, we are alone, confessing our most intimate thoughts and desires.”
She struggled as he stared. “Why haven’t you taken a wife?”
His eyes widened. “That is what you wish to ask me?”
She simply nodded.
And he glanced away, his long dark lashes fanning out on his high cheekbones. “You already know the answer.”
Blanche was breathless. She did not know the answer, not at all.
“The de Warenne men marry for love—or so it is claimed.”
CHAPTER SIX
SHE WAS STUNNED. Her mind repeated what he had said, again and again—he would marry for love. It was romantic. Sir Rex was a romantic. He hadn’t married because he was waiting for love.
“You seem surprised—and dismayed.”
She smiled brightly. “I am surprised. I hadn’t thought you to be as romantic as the rest of your family.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“No!” she cried. “Of course not, you are the last man I should ever wish to insult.”
He started, unsmiling. Then, “I am surprised that you would give my wedded life—or lack thereof—a single thought,” he said smoothly.
She helplessly shrugged. “I recently chatted with your mother and Lizzie. The subject of your bachelor status came up.”
A gleam entered his eyes. “Really? And did you participate in the conversation?”
She tensed. “They care for you, Sir Rex. Obviously they wish to see you wed and with a family of your own.”
“And you agree?”
“I am thinking that you will soon find your lady love,” she said lightly.
He made a harsh sound. “Love is highly overrated.”
She was simply stunned. �
�But you said—”
“I am drunk,” he said. “And by the way, I did not find your question impertinent.”
“Then I am fortunate,” she said, her mind racing. What had Sir Rex just meant?
“I believe it is my turn to ask you another question.” His gaze was bold.
Blanche stiffened. “Are we playing a game now?”
His smile returned, terribly lazy. “Why not? You have asked me for my advice. What if I ask you for yours?”
She felt as if they were sparring. She had to find a seat; it was that or collapse, and she took the closest chair. “I should return the favor,” she said thickly.
“Is there a reason I must cater to the women in my family?”
She tried to comprehend him. “Everyone is better off with a family,” she finally said, feeling as if he were somehow circling round her and coming closer and closer.
“So I am better off married to a harpy or a shrew?”
She knew she flushed. Now what did she say? “You might find love—as the proclivity runs in your family.”
“Perhaps I am the exception to the rule,” he said smoothly, “or, perhaps I already have.”
Her heart lurched.
His expression became hard and bitter. “Love is highly, vastly, grossly and absurdly overrated.” He limped away.
She simply sat there, gaping. Sir Rex had a broken heart. And it explained everything.
Then he whirled, effortlessly. He smiled, but coolly now. He was no longer seductive; he seemed angry. “What really kept you awake tonight?”
His abrupt change in mood disturbed her. “A dream,” she said instantly. Heat crept into her cheeks as she was not inclined to telling lies, even harmless, white ones.
He knew; she saw it in his slow smile of amusement. “I hope it was a good dream.”
She did not like his seductive tone or what it implied. She made certain to look past him, so he would never guess she had been debating her future marriage—and considering him as a prospect. And what should she do now? She could barely comprehend that his heart was scarred, and perhaps, broken.
“And who were you dreaming of?”
“Sir Rex!” she gasped.
“I thought so.” He seemed satisfied, but cool. “You are an extraordinary woman—I have always thought so. I used to simply accept the fact that you are one of the rare and true ladies of the ton, but recently, I have wondered about you.”
She decided he was very drunk. And she did not like this turn. “I must retire for the night,” she said quickly.
“You are a great lady, but you are human. You have red blood in your veins, like everyone else. Like us all, you dream. I cannot help wondering what you dream of—and who you dream of.” He took one step closer. He did not seem drunk, yet he had to be, for he never would ask such a question otherwise. Worse, his gaze was terribly intent.
She failed to breathe. And finally, “Sir Rex, I am discomfited!”
“Because I am a boor—a drunken boor. Come, do not deny it, I am aware of what they say behind my back, just as you are. Why, Blanche? Why have you chosen to stay here for two nights, when you could have stayed, out of sheer necessity, for one single one? We both know I shocked you yesterday. If I ever had your admiring regard, it was forever lost.” His expression was twisted and odd. “But you said you had no wish to insult me, so I am beyond confusion! In fact, your exact words were, ‘I am the last man you wish to insult.’ Is that a gracious pretense, Lady Blanche? For you could not mean such words.”
Blanche realized she was emphatically shaking her head. “I have always admired you, Sir Rex.”
He stared at her, allowing a huge silence to fill the great room.
“So please, do not presume to know my thoughts.”
“Are you sincere?” he demanded.
“Yes!” She bit her lip mistakenly and tasted blood. “I am so impressed by your industrious and resourceful character! I never expected such a well-run, well-kempt estate!”
His eyes widened.
“Your help today at Penthwaithe was so generous. You are a generous and noble man!”
“But I am sleeping with my serving maid.”
She clasped her hands to her flaming cheeks. “It is not my affair—and I would have never known if I hadn’t intruded, and I so regret that lapse!”
After a moment, he demanded, “How can I recover a small modicum of your respect?”
She felt moisture gathering in her eyes, which shocked her. But she could not stop now. “You have my respect. I do not know the details of your life, but I feel certain you have remained in some pain, not entirely physical, from the war. I sense, strongly, that pain causes you moments like these—and your affairs.” And she would add his broken heart to the equation, too.
He stared at her, a terrible silence falling.
She put her glass down and hugged herself, near tears, when she never wept, and so dismayed and distressed she was shaking. When the silence continued, she had to look at him. She wasn’t certain she had ever seen a man as grim and unhappy.
“You are right,” he said flatly. “Is there anything I might do which would cause you to criticize me?”
She shook her head. “It is not my nature to criticize anyone, and I will certainly not begin by criticizing you.” She took a trembling breath. “But I might suggest you remove the display of arms from your wall.”
His eyes widened.
“But you wish to torture yourself with a constant reminder of your pain—whatever it is—do you not?”
He made a harsh sound. “You are shockingly astute.”
“I know you are a hero. Everyone knows you saved the Duke of Clarewood’s second son from death—and Mowbray is now the duke, himself. Heroes deserve respect not censor. Heroes deserve approval and affection.”
“I am not a hero,” he said harshly. “For if I had to do it all over again—if Mowbray lay there, close to death, I would leave him to the devil.”
She cried out, “You cannot mean it!”
He was shaking. She saw him grapple with huge emotions, emotions she could not understand. “You know a lot about me, Lady Harrington.”
She realized he was suddenly, dangerously annoyed. Her tension escalated wildly. It was time to leave. She said, “Everyone knows that much about you, Sir Rex.”
“My family knows I rescued Mowbray—no one else recalls it.”
“You recall it.” The moment the words slipped, she wished she had not spoken.
He turned furiously away—losing his balance.
Blanche cried out, racing to him, but as she caught his arm they crashed together into the wall. And for one instant, she was in his arms. In that instant, his entire hard body pressed her against the wall and her fear for his becoming injured vanished. He was so large that she was engulfed by a mass of muscle—making her aware of being vulnerable and small and so terribly female. She had never been in a man’s arms, not like this. A shocking tremor passed through her loins. Stunned, she looked up—and found him staring at her mouth.
And in that moment, she realized that Rex de Warenne wanted her.
In that moment, she realized that Rex de Warenne, the most virile man she knew, was going to kiss her.
Excitement and fear merged helplessly. For this was truly desire.
But he did not bend over her and press his mouth to hers. He gave her a very dark look instead, swinging a step away from her, breathing hard.
Blanche leaned on the wall, incapable of movement, suddenly trembling again. Her knees felt useless, and that stabbing continued, although fainter now, like the pinpricks of needles in her suddenly swollen flesh.
“There is a saying. One does not confront the lion in his den.”
It took her a moment. “I came downstairs for a drink. I did not expect for you to be here.” She somehow met his eyes and was shocked to find them blazing with anger.
“Yes, just as you walked into my study yesterday.”
She flamed. �
��I…”
“Confront the beast and you will get bitten,” he cried, frustration written all over his face.
She tensed, dismayed. But he was right. She had been asking terribly intimate questions and offering advice on his most private affairs. She deserved his anger, but not to this extent. “I am sorry.” She turned to go—the night had become a disaster.
He suddenly barred her way. His face terribly close to hers, impossibly beautiful, he demanded, “So tell me, really, truthfully, the thought of which young stud has kept you up tonight? Which paragon of manhood do you really wish to wed—and bed? It is your turn to confess, Blanche,” he purred.
She was aghast. No man had ever spoken to her with such anger—and somehow, she knew that desire was wrapped up in his rage and frustration. It crossed her mind that she could blurt out that she was considering him as a possible husband—with separate bedrooms, of course. “I will make a sensible decision,” she gasped.
“Without any romantic consideration?” He demanded.
“I will choose sensibly,” she cried.
He made a harsh sound. “You deserve more.”
Her eyes widened.
“I am foxed so I will tell you exactly what I think. You deserve an honest man, a man with innately good character.” His eyes blazed. “You deserve a man who will admire you, defend you, respect you…and cherish you.”
What diatribe was this? She gasped.
He reached up—and stroked his fingers against her cheek. Blanche went still. Panic assailed her—and so did the needlelike pricking of desire. “You deserve a man who can make your heart race—and who will make you weep in pleasure.”
She failed to breathe.
He dropped his hand. “I wish you luck in finding your paragon of manhood.”
Blanche cried out.
Sir Rex left.
SIR REX HAD ALMOST KISSED HER.
Blanche stared at her tea, which was cold. She sat alone at the breakfast table, recalling every moment of the previous evening in utter detail, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest. Sir Rex had been inebriated, brazen, far too masculine and terribly bold. He had a broken heart, he was haunted by the war, and he thought she deserved admiration, respect and passion.