where the land vanished into the ocean, and while she knew cliffs were below the final precipice, they could not be seen. Today the Atlantic was as gray as steel, but shimmering with iridescence. Gold and orange sparkled on the water’s surface. “Oh,” she breathed.
“A school of fish has passed. They leave a metallic display in their wake,” he said softly.
And he stood so closely behind her that she felt his breath feather her neck. Blanche leaped away, putting a polite distance between them, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. His body hadn’t touched hers, but it might as well have, for she had felt his heat.
She was undone. She could hardly breathe and she didn’t understand such an intense reaction to his proximity—which had certainly been a mistake.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” he said, turning away. His tone was rough.
She refused to let her mind release her memory of him with Anne. She refused to even begin to consider what that rough tone meant. Instead, she quickly perused the gardens. Blanche saw rosebushes, wisteria and beds for daffodils and tulips. Meg was laying out a plaid blanket; Anne was opening the basket. Rex smiled casually at Blanche and swung over to the maid. “Bring a bottle of white wine and two glasses,” he said.
“This must be beautiful in the summer.”
“As I said, you must return.” He smiled at her.
Blanche felt her heart turn over now. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but he had a beautiful smile and it was a shame it was used so rarely. If he spent more time in London, he would not be single; some beautiful young lady would have snapped him up. She had not a doubt. His fortune was modest, but he had other attributes and not every debutante was a fool for charm. In fact, it was really odd that he had yet to marry.
Had Bess really thought to match them?
She stared at his strong profile as he watched her maid laying out their luncheons, and briefly an image flashed, one of bulging muscles and powerful shoulders, of the wet glistening skin of his back, his chest. Not entirely insistent, a tension began, accompanied by an odd ache. She deliberately looked across the dormant gardens, trying to imagine what she would plant if she lived at Land’s End. She might try lilacs, she thought firmly.
She felt his gaze. She glanced up and caught him staring boldly at her. The look was almost seductive and far too male. For one more heartbeat, as if unaware of her gaze, as if deeply in thought, he did not smile; he simply stared.
He preferred housemaids to ladies; he was industrious and resolute; Bess thought to match them.
He flushed, glancing away. She hurried to the blanket, sitting so swiftly she lost her balance, but then, she felt entirely off balance now. Fussing with her skirts, she felt her cheeks flame. A picnic now seemed to be the very worst idea, but how could she possibly escape?
And what had that direct and potent glance meant?
She had probably imagined it, she thought breathlessly. And damn Bess for her little conspiracy, anyway!
“Lady Harrington?” He sat beside her, laying his crutch carefully on the grass.
She summoned up a bright smile, aware that escape was impossible. She must find a stimulating subject! “Wine is a splendid idea!” And now, too late, she wished to recover her composure and wear it like armor.
He stared searchingly. “Sometimes when I look at you, I see worry written all over your face.”
Her eyes widened. He was not a gypsy and he could not read her mind.
“I would like to take that worry away. The Johnsons will get on nicely until the spring. If you wish, I will make their welfare my personal concern.”
He assumed she was worrying about the family, she thought, relieved. “Thank you. I am worried about their welfare. It would be very noble if you kept an eye cast their way.”
His stare skidded over her and she knew he thought her behavior odd. He handed her a plate of cold chicken and salad. She focused on her food. But it became impossible to eat, because he sat very closely by her. In fact, sharing a small blanket was far more intimate than being seated across from one another in his dining hall.
“I heard that the earl and the countess will be celebrating their anniversary in May,” she managed.
“Yes,” he said, pausing as Anne appeared with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. He thanked her and she left. After pouring, he handed Blanche a glass and lifted his plate. “It will be a family affair. I am looking forward to it.”
“They seem as fond of one another now as they ever were,” Blanche remarked, after taking a small bite of chicken. Her interest in food had waned.
His appetite seemed fierce, however. But he did look up. “They love one another deeply. They were both widowed when they met, so it was a love match—and it remains such.”
Blanche stared. It was impossible not to think about the fact that everyone in his family was happily wed, he being a glaring exception. She could never ask why he remained single. But now, she wished to do just that. “Marrying for love seems to run in your family.”
“Yes, it does.” He glanced oddly at her.
Blanche knew that she was prying and it was inexplicable. Surely, this wasn’t why Sir Rex had yet to marry? He did not seem at all romantic. “Perhaps you will be next.”
He glanced aside, reaching for his wineglass. “A romantic notion.” His gaze lifted. “Are you a romantic, Lady Harrington?”
“No.” She was hardly romantic. She added, “Not only have I never been in love, I will marry for economy and convenience.”
His stare intensified. “Marriage is usually convenient. I am afraid I do not comprehend how economics might affect your choice.”
She breathed. This was a perfectly suitable discussion. “Last month, I began to sit with my father’s agents and lawyers in an attempt to unravel my father’s financial affairs. It is all so terribly complicated! There are overseas ventures, shares in companies I have never heard of and odd partnerships, as well. My mind is not mathematical. I am suited to managing our charitable donations and that interests me. I cannot understand account ledgers, much less his various investments.”
“So you need a husband.” He finished his wine. “I happen to agree. Harrington’s reputation was that he was a brilliant entrepreneur. I have friends who schemed to learn of his latest ventures and investments, in the hopes of copying him. He kept his affairs secret, of course. Why should you have to cope with such a vast inheritance alone?”
He agreed that she needed a husband. That wasn’t odd, as everyone thought so. But now, she kept thinking about how industrious he was. How meticulously he kept his own affairs—and his estate was a shining example. She was uneasy but had to admit that she did need someone with some of Sir Rex’s more stellar attributes. However, Sir Rex was not the right choice for her, no matter what Bess seemed to think. For his mere presence was too disturbing.
“How will you choose?”
She tensed. “How will I choose?”
“How will
