recall your ever being an inadequate conversationalist.”
He decided not to point out that their conversations over the years had been extremely limited in duration. “Would you care for sherry or wine?” he asked politely.
“No, thank you,” she said.
He swung on his crutch to the bar cart, aware of her gaze wandering the room. He poured a glass of red wine and faced her. He was startled to find her gaze locked upon him. She smiled and glanced aside; he wondered if his clothing was wrinkled, or in some other manner lacking. The silence became awkward and he worried about the supper that was to come. “Has everything been to your liking? Is there anything else that you need to make your stay a pleasant one?”
She quickly smiled. “There is nothing to complain about. Everything is perfect. Your mother made the chamber most accommodating.”
There had been plenty to complain about, he thought wryly.
“I have noticed your collection of arms,” she said.
He started. “They were my arms in the war.”
“Yes, I realized that. It is an interesting display.”
He stared. “You don’t like it.” And the words tumbled forth without his anticipating them. They were not a question. He somehow knew she disliked the collection.
“Oh, I did not mean to critique your decor.”
“Lady Harrington, I am certain you would never criticize the most slovenly servant, much less your host. But I am curious. Why do you dislike my display?” He wanted to know. He wanted her opinion.
She hesitated. “I am hardly ignorant,” she finally said. “I have heard many accounts of the war, and one of the charities my estate funds provides housing and many other services for veterans who, unlike yourself, can no longer make a go of it.”
His brows lifted. “Are you referring to the Society of Patriots?”
“Yes, I am.”
The society was a tremendous boon to those crippled and maimed by the war. He was impressed, and although it was impossible, his admiration for her grew. “I take it your father became fond of the cause?”
She shook her head. “Father allowed me to manage our charitable contributions. In a way, we had a partnership. I ran Harrington Hall and made the decisions for the allocation of all donations, while he managed all the Harrington properties and the Harrington fortune.”
He hadn’t realized she was more than a lady and a hostess. “Is that why you dislike my display of arms? Because it is a reminder of the war—and how it ruined so many lives?”
She inhaled. “That is one reason, yes. Unlike most ladies, I find nothing romantic about the war.”
He stared. “You are right,” he finally said. “There is nothing romantic or pleasant about war.”
Their gazes met and held.
“And the other reason you dislike my display?”
Blanche hesitated. “I am not certain, but I do not feel pleasant when I look at that display. In fact, I feel saddened by it. Why do you wish to see those arms each and every day? Isn’t the reminder painful for you?”
He flinched. Another man would have brushed her terribly direct comment off. He did not. “Men died under my command,” he said. “Of course the reminder is painful.”
Her eyes widened.
And Rex smiled politely at her and turned the subject to the weather.
THE LAMB TASTED like cardboard. She had no appetite, but she forced herself to finish half of her plate just as she willed herself to remain calm. But every time she looked down, she felt Sir Rex staring at her. She was accustomed to his stares, but not like this. At a ball their gazes might meet once or twice, a dozen people between them. She might even send him a smile, or he might do the same to her. This was entirely different. It was awkward. An odd tension seemed to fill the room. His stare was oddly masculine and terribly searching. It even seemed bold. She wished he had invited others to dine with them. It was simply too difficult, two strangers dining tête-à-tête like this, especially after the crisis of that afternoon.
How could one small incident unbalance her so?
They had managed to keep a polite, if stilted, conversation going; it was a miracle, from her point of view. Still, finally, a long and awkward silence had fallen.
From the corner of her eyes, she watched his hands. They were darkly tanned, big and strong, the fingers long and blunt. Yet his hands moved with extraordinary grace—just as he did, in spite of the crutch he used. Watching his fingers touch fork and knife, she thought about his hands on Anne.
Her heart lurched and her body almost ached. She could not imagine what was wrong with her.
He said slowly, “I have been thinking about Penthwaithe.”
Blanche swallowed, relieved to be discussing a proper topic. She tore her gaze from his strong hands and looked up. She was scorched by his dark, intent gaze, yet she smiled firmly.
“What will you do if you find Penthwaithe in the condition I believe it to be in?”
“I hope you are wrong. But if you are correct, I will begin some repairs.” She noticed that he hadn’t eaten a thing—but he had finished most of the bottle of wine. She’d taken a single sip from her glass.
The gossips also said he drank too much, sometimes before noon. She had always thought it an unfair accusation, and she suspected it was untrue. He was too industrious to imbibe without control and discipline.
“Would you allow me to join you on the morrow, Lady Harrington?”
She was stunned and their gazes met. She could not imagine sharing a coach with him. Before she could respond, he said, “I am concerned with the condition the manor may be in. I have a strong sense that you may need my assistance—assuming there has not been a bungled mess made of the titles.”
The request was perfectly proper—and she might need his assistance. But could she manage an entire day alone with him when she was barely able to navigate her way through a simple supper? It would help if he did not watch her so closely. It would help if she could really forget seeing him with the maid. Unfortunately, that scene would remain etched on her mind for a very long time. And in the confines of her coach, they would be seated far too closely together, making the memory very hard to avoid. Besides, his presence was too masculine. It would be so much better to avoid it—him—at least until she felt more firmly in control of herself.
She glanced at his strong hands, willing herself not to open up her mind to any memory of that afternoon. “I hate to put you out,” she somehow said. “You surely have many affairs to attend here.”
“You cannot put me out,” he insisted. “My own affairs can wait. I am very concerned, and as a family friend, I think I must accompany you.”
She tensed. He was insisting. “Penthwaithe may be in a fine condition. I am assuming all is well and I will be moving my belongings there.”
His
