The Perfect Bride

by Brenda Joyce

  Meg stared, unmoving.

  “Please, Meg, do make haste,” Blanche said quietly.

  “We are leaving?” Meg gasped. “But…what about Sir Rex? My lady, are you all right? You seem…strange!”

  “I am fine,” Blanche said. She walked to her bedside table and poured a glass of water with steady hands. “I am afraid I am breaking things off with his lordship.”

  There—it was better not to say his name. She couldn’t go forward as planned. No amount of joy was worth the pain and fear. No amount of passion was worth the pain. It had all started upon her arrival at Land’s End. She wasn’t blaming the place and she would not blame her host, even if both were huge factors in her insanity. She had been awakened as a woman at Land’s End, body, heart and soul. But she could not pick and choose her emotions. And somehow her emotions had led her to those terrible, forgotten memories. Her memories had made her mad.

  She wasn’t going to remain at Land’s End, not after what she had survived that morning. She couldn’t wait to leave. Whatever had happened in the past week and a half, it was over, all of it. She had found calm. It was what she wanted. She never wanted to ride that seesaw again. In fact, she must remain in this impassive limbo for the rest of her life.

  And while she did not want to think about Sir Rex, she had to face him directly to explain that their engagement was a terrible mistake. She felt certain he would be disappointed when she broke it off. But he would manage, and he would find someone else, someone prettier, younger and far more passionate than she could ever be. And she would return to her quiet existence at Harrington Hall. He would marry a sane woman, not a mad one. She was doing what was best for him in the end, too.

  But her heart lurched, as if with dismay. Blanche drank more water, refusing to entertain dismay or any other emotion. A slight throbbing had begun in her temples, so she shut off her thoughts. Thinking about Sir Rex was dangerous. Every thought and every action was dangerous. She must remain composed at all costs. She must not allow her heart any leeway. So she thought about the agents and affairs awaiting her in London. She could not imagine how she would ever sort out her father’s finances. She would have to hire someone to help, she thought. And then there were her suitors. She wasn’t marrying anyone now. But it wouldn’t be all that difficult to get rid of the entire lot.

  In fact, if ever a whisper of her insanity surfaced, they’d all flee.

  “Oh, my lady, what happened?” Meg whispered, hugging herself.

  Blanche started and smiled. “I have come to my senses, Meg. That is all. Do not be so distressed. I cannot wait to go home. I have had enough of the country—haven’t you?”

  Meg simply stared at her with confusion and pity. “But Sir Rex,” she said slowly. “He will be crushed.”

  Blanche felt tension stab through her. She did not want to hurt Sir Rex.

  She clasped her cheeks, breathless now, an aching in her chest. Please stop.

  Please stop, please stop, please stop.

  Blanche breathed naturally. She had found that calm, gray place again. “I will speak with Sir Rex now. Hurry, Meg.” This was best for herself and it was best for Sir Rex.

  Blanche had no doubt.

  HE THUDDED into the tower room and sat down at his desk, smiling. His favorite broodmare had foaled last night, but that wasn’t the cause of his extremely good mood. He stared at the papers spread before him, but saw Blanche instead. So lovely, so kind, and even now, so innocent that she touched him as no woman ever had. He was fiercely glad he was the first man to make love to her—and he would be the last.

  He glanced at the desk clock. It was noon and she should be up by now. On the other hand, they had made love four times, so maybe she remained abed. He hadn’t meant to be selfish, and he had been concerned he might hurt her, but she had been as eager last night as he. In the end, he had insisted they sleep and she had fallen asleep in his arms, her small hands pressed against his chest.

  He stirred, just thinking about it. He was, without a doubt, the most fortunate man on this earth. And it was too late to regroup or retreat now. He was head over heels in love with his fiancée, and maybe, if he dared admit it, he’d been in love with her these past eight years.

  His door was widely ajar, but a knock sounded there. He looked up, saw Blanche and began to smile. And then he stood, his smile failing. Her expression was so odd, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize her. She reminded him of a very beautiful porcelain doll.

  “Sir Rex? May I have a word?” she asked quietly, unsmiling.

  In that instant, he knew everything was about to go up in smoke. In that instant, his heart stopped and there was a peculiar certainty that his life was about to implode. There was knowledge and there was dread.

  He moved around his desk, calming himself. Something was wrong, he could see that, but maybe she was just tired. And if that was not the problem, whatever was amiss, it could be fixed. They were lovers now. Not only were they engaged, but last night they had shared passion and love. He had not been mistaken, had he?

  “Good morning,” he said, his heart now thundering unpleasantly.

  She smiled. “Good morning, Sir Rex. Do you have a moment?”

  “I always have a moment for you.” He wasn’t trying to be gallant. He stared, but could not see a single emotion in her eyes. They had become cloudy and dull. She did not look like a woman who had been well pleased last night—who had cried out in passion several times, for the first time in her life. She did not glow like a woman in love.

  She was having regrets.

  Hadn’t he known there would be regrets if he made love to her? “You are unhappy,” he said bluntly, sickened.

  She smiled briefly. “I have realized I must return to town.”

  He felt his stare widen. And then he looked out the tower window, and saw her coach coming into the courtyard. He whirled. “You are leaving me.”

  She smiled again—a plastic smile, the kind of smile that was carefully placed upon the perfect face of a beautiful china doll. “Sir Rex, you have been the most gracious host. I never expected such generosity, but I have surely imposed long enough.”

  She was leaving him. He felt dizzy. He clutched his crutch, but felt himself reel anyway. “You are leaving me.”

  She did not smile again, and for that, he was grateful. “I do not want to cause a scene. But I have given this some thought and our engagement is a mistake. I am so sorry. But you can do better—you will certainly do better—”

  “Get out.” He couldn’t breathe. There was only the beautiful woman standing before him, discoursing so dispassionately, proof that she did not care, proof that here was one more treacherous society bitch.

  She started. “I beg your pardon.”

  He fought for control and lost. There was only pain, rage and hatred. “Get the hell out!” he shouted.

  She gasped. And something flickered in her wide eyes.

  He hefted his crutch and swung it at the closest object at hand—the desk lamp. “Get out!” he roared.

  Blanche fled.

  He crashed into his desk and managed to seize onto it, and he swept every other item from it, then he took his crutch and began beating the desktop. When the crutch broke in two, he gave up and sank to the floor with a single bestial roar.

  And he was still sitting there stunned, his face on his one knee, consumed with rage and pain, when he heard her coach departing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AS SHE WALKED through the vast, luxuriously appointed rooms and long corridors of Harrington Hall, Blanche knew she had been right to return home. Although she passed a servant in almost every chamber, the house was quiet and peaceful—and she had never needed such peace more. But it wasn’t what she had expected. She had somehow thought to return home and to the old life she’d had before venturing to Land’s End. Yet her old life was oddly elusive.

  For while she was no longer standing on the fatal edge of a dangerous cliff, she was acutely aware that a s
ingle misstep might send her back to a terrible brink of madness. She had to remain in a gray, cloudy space—floating, not feeling—cloaked in her composure. She was afraid to feel even the slightest frisson of pleasure—or regret. Yet in her heart, those emotions were screaming at her, demanding to be let loose. Blanche simply knew it. The effort was vast, but somehow, she had been able to remain unfeeling and there had not been a single episode since she’d left Cornwall three days ago. She wasn’t relieved—she was determined. She was not going to go mad.

  But ghosts lurked in every corner of her home. Every step she took, every gesture made and each uttered word, somehow seemed to conspire to bring forth the ghosts she wished to avoid. If she passed the library, she could see her father hunched over his desk, as he had been wont to do when he was alive. Her heart would tense but she held the grief at bay. Her mother’s portrait remained on the wall above the stairs, almost life-size. She would glance at it and see her mother as she had been in the coach, before being dragged out to her death. That image had to be savagely shoved aside, as well. And in the recesses of her mind, Sir Rex lurked, too.

  He threatened to split apart her composure, as well.

  Now, she glanced out of the windows in the marbled foyer. Eight carriages lined her drive, each containing suitors waiting for the clock to strike noon so they could call. Word had spread rapidly that she was back in town, she thought grimly, as she had arrived late last night. She was used to callers and it would be odd if no one came. But was she supposed to consider one of these men as a prospective husband? She knew she could not do such a thing, not now, not after the past two weeks. If she dared to reveal any truths, she’d admit to a broken heart. But she must not go there. She could not admit to such a thing sensibly and calmly, without feeling. One crack would lead to a dozen fissures. She had a terrible secret now and she did not want it ever exposed.

  She passed through one of the grandest rooms in the house, the gold salon, where she could entertain fifty or sixty guests. As she crossed the room, the floors covered with pale Aubusson rugs, three huge crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, every chair and sofa in shades of cream, beige, sand and gold, her butler appeared at the far threshold. “Yes, Jem?”

  “My lady, Lady Waverly and Lady Dagwood are here. I let them in, assuming you would wish to entertain them privately before your suitors.”

  Blanche was pleased. She smiled, aware it was her first genuine smile since leaving Cornwall, but she so dearly wanted to see her two best friends. And as she had that thought, Sir Rex’s image tried to come forth, but she quickly refused to allow it any space in her mind. In spite of her will, a small unpleasant frisson rippled through her. Once, she would have told Bess and Felicia everything. Now, they must know nothing. “You are right. In fact, I am very eager to see my two dearest friends.” Maybe Bess and Felicia would be able to help her retrieve her old life entirely—a pleasant, placid, serene existence with no cares.

  “They are in the Blue Room,” Jem said, bowing.

  Blanche thanked him. Bess stood by one arched window in the small blue salon, beautifully dressed in bronze and green. Felicia lounged on the slate-hued sofa, sipping tea. Bess whirled and Felicia stood when Blanche entered the room. “You are back!” Bess cried, rushing to her and hugging her, hard.

  “Yes, I am, and I am happy to see you, too,” Blanche said, smiling. She turned to embrace Felicia, who had a glow she instantly recognized—the glow of a woman in love. “How are you both?” she asked, her heart lurching in a strange manner. It was hard not to think about Sir Rex, but she was so happy that Felicia liked her new husband.

  “We have missed you,” Bess exclaimed, her green eyes bright. “Blanche, what happened at Land’s End! Did you ask Sir Rex to marry you? I almost died when I read your letter!”

  Blanche tensed, turning away. “I had forgotten that silly, impulsive letter.”

  Bess and Felicia exchanged looks. “You sounded besotted,” Felicia exclaimed. “Bess let me read it!”

  “I was not besotted,” Blanche said harshly. And Sir Rex’s image assailed her vividly, against her very will. His gaze smoldered with passion and heat as it had when he strained over her in his bed. Her heart lurched hurtfully as she had not allowed herself such a painful recollection for days. And then she saw him, enraged, roaring at her to get out.

  Her heart turned over hard and sped wildly. The room seemed to tilt. Grief stabbed through her breast. And it was all muddled up—Sir Rex, her father, her mother—they were all there, in her head, jumbled together!

  Blanche turned, clasping her cheeks and closing her eyes, fighting the grief. Not now, not when everything is perfect. Please, not now! She had found a way to navigate the darkest corners of her life, but such a simple moment had become threatening and dangerous instantly. Please stop, she cried silently.

  She simply must not feel. Not now, and not ever. Sir Rex was a part of the past, as was her father and the mother she could not—and did not want to—remember.

  She breathed hard.

  “Blanche, what is wrong?” Felicia asked with concern.

  Blanche knew the moment she had regained her calm and composure. She felt as if she were floating in a gray, empty space. Those faces in her head had receded and blurred. She turned and smiled. “I wrote that letter so precipitously. I am hardly marrying Sir Rex.”

  Bess seemed bewildered. “I received your letter a week ago, and suddenly you do not care for him, when you have never cared for any man before?”

  “I am not discussing Sir Rex,” Blanche said, far more sharply than she had intended. But the dismay began and it was potent. Her heart sped and thundered all over again, refusing to obey her mind. She felt ill now, heartbroken andill.

  Bess put her arm around her. “Well, I can see that something is wrong. We have never kept secrets—”

  “Nothing is wrong!” Blanche exclaimed vehemently.

  Bess flinched and Felicia gasped.

  Blanche realized she had become undone—and so easily. Somehow she sat on the seesaw once more, far too high up. “I need air,” she cried, rushing to the window. She fought to open it. Her temples were throbbing now—and she was terrified of that mild aching becoming the head pain that signaled recall.

  “Those windows don’t open,” Bess exclaimed. “Come, let’s go outside. Felicia, get some salts.”

  Blanche didn’t dare move, clasping her temples now.

  Get out!

  She had never dreamed Sir Rex would ever shout at her with such anger and hatred.

  Get out of the coach, lady, get out now.

  The monster was reaching inside for Mama. Blanche began to shake, Mama squeezing her hand so hard that it hurt.

  Get out of the coach now! he shouted.

  And suddenly Mama was being wrestled from the coach, and then hands were grabbing Blanche, too.

  Mama screamed. “Blanche, run!”

  She somehow broke free and fell to the stone street. Mama was screaming again, but in torment now.

  The cobbled street spun. “Mama!” she cried, trying to crawl to her. But the ground tilted terribly, spinning even faster, her mother’s screams now deafening.

  Blanche gave up, curling into a ball, frozen with fear. She held her ears, and began to focus on the blue-and-beige rugs on the floor and not the rough stones of the street. The rugs were spinning. She was spinning. And Bess was speaking to her.

  She inhaled, realizing that the episode was over. She was crouched on the floor in the Blue Room, the way she had crouched on the street after being seized and taken from the coach. There had been no memories since leaving Land’s End, and now, the moment Bess had begun discussing Sir Rex, she’d had a fit.

  Bess tipped a glass of water to Blanche’s mouth, her arm around her. “Take a sip.”

  Blanche nodded, aware that her cheeks were tearstained. She drank, realizing her friends must think her mad. She slowly looked up at Bess.

  Bess was wide-eyed. “Are you
better?” she asked quietly.

  Blanche wet her lips and nodded. “We must never discuss Sir Rex.”

  Her eyes widened impossibly. Then she held out her hand. “Come, let’s sit on the sofa. You will tell me what just happened.”

  Blanche stood, glancing around the small, charming parlor. She closed her eyes and tried to send the last of her fear and dread away. It wasn’t easy, especially as this latest memory was now engraved upon her mind. She looked at Bess. She had trusted her since childhood, and she desperately needed a confidante. “I am beginning to remember the riot.”

  Bess gasped, aware of Blanche’s memory loss. “The riot that took your mother’s life when you were a child?”

  Blanche nodded. “The memories seem determined to come back. They are terrible—I don’t want to remember—and I am determined to do anything to stop them.”

  Bess put her arm around her and went to the sofa, where they sat. “I didn’t think you’d ever remember—and I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “It matters! Did you see what the memories did to me?” Blanche cried.

  Bess nodded. “You were screaming and crying on the floor, curled up like a small child. Felicia had left for salts, and I’m the only one who saw.” She was pale. Bess was never pale. “Thank God no one else saw. What happened to you?”

  “It’s not just memories,” Blanche whispered. “I am reliving the riot, moment by moment.” She started to cry. There was no room for shame now, she was too afraid of what was happening to her.

  Bess gaped and then held her. “Surely you don’t mean it.”

  “I do. I become six years old again. This room became the London street. I wasn’t aware of you—I was lost in that mob!” Blanche cried.

  Bess was silent, and Blanche knew her well enough to know she was horrified but trying to be rational.