The Perfect Bride

by Brenda Joyce

  It was a matter of great control not to touch her. And he gave up. He laid his fingertips on her cheek. Their gazes flew together and held. “Tell me what you meant. I think I have misunderstood.”

  Her mouth opened and there was no mistaking the throbbing tension between them. It thickened the air; it thickened him. It made him savagely satisfied.

  “I am afraid I do not recall the topic.”

  Oh, he did like this tangent. He leaned toward her. “Shall I help you remember?” He took a good long look at her mouth and then, unable to help himself, at the hint of cleavage exposed by her very modest bodice.

  She trembled and lifted her gaze, her regard beseeching and dazed.

  He slid his hand around to her nape, clasping her firmly, and as he lowered his mouth to hers, so much desire swelled, he could not bear it. He exhaled harshly, pulled her closer and touched her lips with his own. A savage need to possess began and he gave in, claiming them fiercely, opening them wide and pressing deeply inside her with his tongue, and all the while, with the back of his mind, knowing what it would be like to have his male body pushing deep within hers, again and again.

  She gasped, and then she kissed him back, using her tongue.

  He told himself to stay in control, no simple task, because he saw red, and he was terribly close to giving up and allowing himself a frenzy of desire. He could not stand the pressure of his breeches now. Gasping, he somehow pulled her closer, somehow went deeper into her mouth, until she was shaking and gasping in his arms. He pulled back, dazed and dizzy, yet he murmured her name. “Blanche.”

  Her blue-green eyes met his.

  He wanted more. He was a man, he admired her so; he could not help it. But he breathed and murmured, “Have I refreshed your memory at all?” And because he could not keep his hands to himself, he rubbed his knuckles against her jaw.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  He started, for she began to cry yet again.

  She touched her lips, as if stunned.

  “Why are you crying? Have I hurt you?”

  She shook her head, breathing hard, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “How could you hurt me with a kiss? Even a kiss like that?”

  He felt like telling her that kiss was a bare shadow of the kind of kiss he wished to give her. He felt like also telling her that, given the opportunity, he would put his mouth everywhere he could on her slender body, savoring every possible inch of her flesh. Given that opportunity, he would worship her until she begged for mercy. And then maybe he would continue, anyway.

  “I have only been kissed two times,” she said breathlessly. “And those kisses were chaste and dutiful. I had no idea!”

  He was stunned. “What?”

  She shrugged, glancing aside and briefly closing her eyes. “Do you really wish to know?” she cried breathlessly.

  “You have only been kissed twice?” His mind raced furiously. If she had only been kissed twice, two single times, she had never been with a man. He stared at her in disbelief.

  “We should not discuss this,” she cried in determination.

  Shock shifted to tension. She had not been with a lover, but the man who had kissed her had to have been his brother Tyrell.

  She turned her head away, continuing to tremble, clearly distressed. He finally breathed. Of course Tyrell had kissed her. They had been engaged for a few months, long ago—eight years ago. He had assumed Ty had kissed her during their engagement, but he had refused to think about it. Now, he did. “Ty was in love with Lizzie.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him in dismay. “We were both doing our duty,” she said tremulously. “There was no attraction.”

  He kept staring at her. Ty had only kissed her twice—chastely. Blanche Harrington had never known a real kiss until a moment ago.

  And she had never known the pleasure—and the ecstasy—a man could give her in bed.

  She had never known the pleasure he could give her in bed…. He could be the first.

  He looked down at the grass, trembling. A savage sense of triumph arose. He had made a sensible but erroneous assumption. Blanche Harrington, at times, acted as inexperienced and anxious as a fifteen-year-old girl, and now he knew why.

  And, dear God, there were two hundred and twenty-eight rakes lined up in town, waiting to prey on her. The thought sickened him.

  He could not let her be ravaged by a single one of them. But how on earth would he protect her? God, she was a sheep about to be put out in a pasture infested with wolves.

  “Why are you so dismayed?”

  He slowly looked at her, quickly recovering from the shocking swing of his emotions. He would debate her future later—and find a way, perhaps with the countess’s help, to protect her best interests. For now, he would concentrate on the impossible revelation she had just made.

  “I am sorry,” he said softly. “I assumed that a beautiful woman of your age had surely enjoyed several discreet encounters.”

  “I do not take passion lightly.”

  His heart foolishly soared. “Neither do I.”

  She gave him an incredulous look.

  Instantly, he realized that she would never believe him. But she did not understand the difference between lust and passion. He wasn’t certain that this was the time to explain that difference, either. Especially as he continued to reel as if struck by lightning.

  “Are you dismayed that Tyrell kissed me?”

  He tried to smile. “When I first glimpsed you at Adare, I thought him mad to be so indifferent. I had assumed there were many moments you both shared. I did not really think about it…until now.”

  She relaxed. “He was so terribly in love with Lizzie.”

  “I know.” She was regarding him closely, even anxiously, and he stared back. “The truth is,” he said slowly, “I am honored you allowed me such liberties.”

  She blushed. Hesitantly, she said, “It was about time, don’t you think, that someone finally kissed me?”

  His errant heart soared yet another time. “Yes, it was.”

  She added, “Besides, it felt right to allow you the moment.”

  “MY LADY? Did you need something?” Meg asked.

  Blanche whirled. They had returned from their hack an hour ago, and she had been pacing her chamber ever since—her mind racing frantically, her body feverish. She stared at her maid, who started, her eyes widening. “Come in,” Blanche said tersely. “Meg, I need your advice.”

  Meg quickly entered the bedchamber, closing the door. “You want my advice?” She was disbelieving.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you all right?” Meg asked with worry.

  Blanche inhaled, shaking. “I do not think I can wait for Bess’s reply. I sent her a letter, hoping for her advice. Meg! I am considering asking Sir Rex to marry me.”

  Meg started to smile. “Really, my lady?”

  “You are not stunned?” Blanche cried.

  “I am a bit surprised, perhaps, but the two of you seem very fond of one another. And he is handsome, and solid, if you know what I mean. All those suitors in town, not one of them is as solid as Sir Rex.”

  Blanche allowed herself a deep breath, hugging herself. “You are so astute,” she cried, meaning it. Leave it to her maid to get to the heart of the matter so swiftly. Reclusive or not, dark or not, Sir Rex was solid. He was the kind of man she could count on even now, when they were just friends.

  But that had changed, hadn’t it? She touched her mouth, still stunned by what had happened on the moors. She hadn’t realized a kiss could be so consuming—so intense—so wonderful!

  “So you will propose marriage to him?” Meg asked eagerly, grinning.

  Blanche inhaled. “You do know he drinks…and he hates town. In some ways, we are very opposite.”

  “Most men drink. As long as he doesn’t mistreat you, as long as he can manage his estate, why should it matter? Besides, I think he is lonely. I haven’t seen him drinking recently.�
�� Meg shrugged. “If he dislikes town, he can spend more time in the country while you entertain there. Many couples reside apart for some of the time.”

  “Yes, they do, and it would be considered normal for us to have our separate lives, too,” she said, but she somehow disliked the notion. But separate lives would be required in such a union. She knew Sir Rex would never spend an entire Season with her in town. “I don’t even know if he will accept me,” she said hesitantly.

  “He looks at you as if you were a fairy princess,” Meg smiled. “I can’t imagine why he would refuse your offer.”

  Blanche could think of a dozen reasons why, including the fact that a woman whom he had loved had broken his heart—and he was a de Warenne. His denial had obviously been a falsehood. However, their marriage was not going to be based on love. It was going to be based on friendship, convenience and economy, among other things. She wet her lips, which still seemed swollen from his kisses. And it would also be based on desire. “He kissed me.”

  Meg stifled a smile.

  “It was wonderful,” Blanche said, and more tears came. She realized they were tears of happiness, and perhaps relief—she had hoped the kiss would last forever. She had been consumed with desire, just like any other woman. Although she still felt certain she would never be as passionate as he required, she no longer thought separate bedrooms a necessity. “I never thought I’d want a man’s passionate kisses,” she added in a whisper. “I never thought I’d wish for a man’s passion, either.”

  “Maybe you’re in love,” Meg said, smiling. “My lady, you are the kindest lady I have ever met—of all ladies, you should marry for love!”

  Blanche simply stared at her maid, her heart lurching. Surely Meg was mad now, for she was incapable of love. Wasn’t she? “When Sir Rex walks into the room, I am so pleased to see him.” She trembled. “When he is not in the room, I am thinking about him anyway. I have worried about his life, his past, the way he lives, his being alone…. I was terrified when that horse hurt him!”

  “That sounds like love to me,” Meg said cheerfully.

  Blanche stared at her, seeing Sir Rex instead. Her heart danced and she touched her chest. She cared about Sir Rex, terribly, and she would not deny it. But love? Was she falling in love after all these years?

  Was she like other women after all?

  She dared to do more than hope; she prayed it was so. She so wanted to be an ordinary woman, capable of heartfelt passions and deep emotions. But the notion was also frightening—for she still feared Sir Rex’s rejection. And now she trembled with uncertainty, for once again, she was sliding off the precipice of a cliff. But hadn’t it been that way from the moment of her arrival at Land’s End?

  What should she do? What could she do? Sir Rex had become so dear to her.

  And as she trembled, overcome with confusion, shadows infested her mind. She tensed, knowing what was within the darkness inside her head—a monster waited there, and he wielded death.

  A pain knifed through her head.

  It was so debilitating that she sank to her knees, cradling her head in her hands, blinded by the pain.

  Meg cried out, rushing to her.

  All thoughts of Sir Rex were gone—her head felt cleaved in two. And she saw the monster, half beast, half man, his teeth yellow and dripping saliva, his eyes filled with vicious hatred. Behind him was a vague, shadowy crowd of other vicious monsters. The knife stabbed into her head again, through her right temple. Blanche screamed, clasping her hands to her ears.

  Meg cradled her. “My lady, what is it? Oh, God, what’s happening?”

  The monster leered at her, holding up a pitchfork which dripped blood.

  Panic consumed her. Blanche couldn’t breathe. She fought for air. The world swam. She somehow saw Meg peering down at her—and then she saw Sir Rex, staring down at her instead, entirely alarmed. She wanted to beg him to save her, but when she opened her mouth to speak, everything went black.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “DR. LINNEY IS HERE,” Sir Rex said from the threshold of her bedchamber.

  Blanche sat in her bed, fully dressed, on top of the covers. Sir Rex had apparently carried her to her bed while she remained in a dead faint, and then he had revived her with salts. He had insisted she cover herself with a cashmere throw, which she had dutifully done even though she was not cold. He had then left to summon the doctor, less than an hour before.

  Blanche smiled tremulously at him. “He must have been close by.”

  “He was,” Sir Rex said, striding into the room. His gaze was dark with concern. He seemed distressed, and worse, dismayed. Did he think her mad? Blanche wanted to reassure him, but she could not. She had fainted for the second time in less than a week, and she was alarmed, too. What was happening to her?

  Dear God, was she actually beginning to recall something from the riot? Those images had been real, even if for so briefly. And she didn’t want to recall a single detail of that day.

  Dr. Linney followed Sir Rex into the room. A small, dapper man, he was smiling cheerfully. “I wish we were making our acquaintance under other circumstances, Lady Harrington,” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you for coming,” she somehow said.

  “I very much admired your handiwork the other day,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  Blanche could not relax. “I wish it had been the surgeon’s handiwork,” she said truthfully.

  He smiled, standing over her, Sir Rex beside him. “If you ever wish to become a nurse, you need only let me know.”

  Blanche finally smiled. Then she looked at Sir Rex, whose face was so tight, his skin seemed about to crack. She felt her own smile vanish, her tension escalate. How ill was she?

  “Sir Rex said you fainted—for the second time in five days. Why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked kindly.

  She somehow tore her gaze from Sir Rex. “There isn’t much to tell. I fainted earlier in the week when I walked into the miner’s assembly at the church. I simply could not breathe. I have always disliked crowds.”

  He nodded. “And today?”

  Images flashed—their ride upon the moors, her first genuine kiss, her body’s feverish longing, and her frantic debate over whether or not to ask Sir Rex for marriage. And then the monsters had appeared in her head. They had appeared amidst blood and pitchforks. What could she possibly tell Dr. Linney? It was unclear if she was remembering the past or not. Her father had never said a word about the mob being armed with pitchforks. He had not mentioned there being blood.

  Mama had stumbled and fallen, tragically hitting her head. Hadn’t she?

  Blanche closed her eyes tightly. She had dared to tell Sir Rex about the riot and her fear of crowds, but she would never tell him the entire truth. She wasn’t going to allow him to know that she had an odd, defective nature and that she had lived an entirely emotionless life until recently. And she didn’t want the physician knowing any such thing, either. Those were very private matters.

  But she was afraid. She was afraid to have those violent images reappear…and she was afraid of what they might mean. She was afraid of that pain in her head. And if those monsters weren’t memories, what were they? If they were memories, why were they returning now?

  Blanche reluctantly smiled at the physician. She would tell him what she could and hope her headaches had a medical explanation. “Sir Rex and I had been hacking across the countryside,” she said, aware of her host’s unwavering stare. “It was a pleasant ride. I had returned a half an hour before and I was chatting with my maid when I had a terrible pain in my head. It was very much like a knife cutting into me. And the next thing I knew, I had fallen, because I could not stand the pain. I saw Meg and Sir Rex, and then everything went dark.”

  “Have you ever had such a headache before?”

  She stiffened. “I have had the occasional headache, but rarely. This was not a headache. It was far greater than a headache.”

  “So you have never had this kind of
head pain before?”

  “Never,” Blanche said emphatically, glancing at Sir Rex.

  He looked displeased, dismayed and distressed. Their gazes held. She knew he was thinking about what she had said and the passion they had shared—and suddenly she wondered if he was blaming himself for her episode.

  “And how is your health, generally?”

  “I am rarely ill. My health is good,” Blanche said.

  “She barely eats,” Sir Rex interrupted. “She takes a single slice of toast for breakfast. And we rode before dinner.”

  Blanche looked at him. “This is not your fault.”

  He stared back, clearly blaming himself.

  “Maybe you fainted from hunger,” Doctor Linney said pleasantly. “Many ladies do. You are a slender woman, Lady Harrington. You do not need to starve yourself.”

  “I have never had a hearty appetite,” Blanche defended herself. “I do not follow a regime as my friends do—it has never been necessary.”

  “Her father died six months ago,” Sir Rex said harshly. “I have known Lady Harrington for years. He was her only family…they were very close. Since then, she has been deluged with suitors, as she has a great fortune. She came to Land’s End for peace of mind.” He grimaced. “Yet my household has not been peaceful, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you suggesting the toll of these past months has caught up with her?”

  “It is only a suggestion, as I am not a physician,” Sir Rex said tersely.

  “Is there anything else you wish to add?” the doctor asked Blanche.

  She hesitated. Was Sir Rex correct? She had taken her beloved father’s death in stride, without even shedding a tear over his passing. She had wished to grieve, but hadn’t been able to do so. Had his death caused a severe strain upon her? Having to tolerate 228 suitors was certainly a burden, and she was very worried about her future. She had lived her entire life in a serene and pleasantly dispassionate manner—until now. Suddenly she was in a whirlwind of passion. But did she dare confess to the rampant confusion which now ruled her days? Was this the strain that had caused her to faint?