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?
