a third time, Blanche thought about that. While she wasn’t all that cold, Meg was chilled to the bone. If no one was home, they would go inside and wait while Clarence watered the team. Sir Rex couldn’t possibly mind.
She knocked very firmly and gave up when no one responded. Her maid was right—no one was home. And Meg was shivering so much her teeth were chattering. It was several hours back to the village and it was growing late. Surely, Sir Rex would not mind if they waited inside, or even if they made a fire. But she was unsure now. Why hadn’t a servant answered the door?
Blanche tested the door and it opened, allowing her to step inside a modestly sized front hall. She looked around. Much to her relief, a fire roared in the gray stone hearth, which looked to be as original as the castle. And that fire indicated that someone was certainly home.
She called out firmly. “Hello? Is anyone home?” But there was no answer.
She glanced around. The walls were freshly whitewashed, the furnishings modest but perfectly suitable and recently upholstered. There were only two seating arrangements, one in front of the hearth, making the hall seem far larger than it was. Only two rugs were present, but they were Oriental and of fine quality. She found the room pleasant. And then Blanche saw the display of sabers and firearms on one wall.
She intended to go outside and tell Meg to go to the laborers and ask after Sir Rex. Instead, very curious, she walked over to the display. She was certain that the weapons belonged to Rex and had been used by him in the late war.
She stared, unable to admire the collection. Two of the swords were ceremonial, their hilts filigreed gold, their sheaths gold and silver. She gazed at a long saber, with its dark, leather-wrapped, utilitarian hilt; and a shorter sword, its appearance equally as utilitarian and menacing. He had wielded these weapons in the war. She disliked the notion. She looked at the long carbine rifle, the butt dulled from use, and the shorter pistol. She was acutely aware that his hands had grasped the butts of those guns, just as he had wielded those swords. She didn’t care for the display. It gave her an uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. But then, the war had been tragic not just for Sir Rex, but for so many.
A noise sounded.
It was quite the thud.
And then more thudding began.
Blanche was surprised. The rather rhythmic noise was coming from behind an adjacent door, which she assumed belonged to the tower room. Was someone home after all? And if so, what on earth was going on?
She hesitated, staring at the closed door. “Sir Rex?” She tried from across the room.
She cleared her voice and raised it, approaching. “Sir Rex? Hello! Is anybody home?”
The banging rhythm had increased. And Blanche thought she heard a man’s voice, but without words—a sound of pain, perhaps.
Instantly alarmed, she hurried toward the door. But just as she reached it, she heard the same male sound again. And she realized what it was.
It was a growl of pleasure.
Blanche went still.
The banging continued, fast and fierce now.
Oh, God, she thought, stunned. For she had just realized someone in that room was making love.
She had been to countless balls and even more country weekends. She was well aware of the trysts that occurred in the ton, both behind closed doors and in the corners of corridors and mazes. She had walked past embracing couples numerous times, pretending not to see. But she had never seen more than a passionate kiss.
Whoever was in that tower room, he was doing far more than kissing his lover. And her heart lurched unpleasantly—she had to leave now, immediately.
And surely, it wasn’t Sir Rex in that tower room?
She clasped her face in her hands, aware of her cheeks burning. Who else would it be?
He prefers housemaids…his reputation is one of stamina and skill.
She knew that she must leave, instantly. This was a very private affair. Yet her feet would not move. The banging was reaching a terrific crescendo. Vague images danced in her mind of shadowy lovers, prone and entwined.
Blanche realized she stood a finger’s length from the door and that she was listening acutely to the lovers. She was shocked with herself. Was Sir Rex in there? Was he really such a skilled lover? His image began to form, shadowy and naked, a woman in his embrace.
And then a woman sobbed in uninhibited pleasure.
Her mind froze. Her heart leaped as never before. She panicked. She meant to turn and leave, but she stumbled against the door instead—and it opened.
Blanche was confronted with so much masculinity that she froze. Sir Rex was making love in a frenzy to a dark-haired woman who lay on the sofa and she glimpsed his dark, slick gleaming back and shoulders, his hard profile and a tangle of skirts. She inhaled. He wore only his breeches and he had the physique of a medieval knight—huge shoulders, bulging arms, and his breeches revealed a high, hard, muscled posterior. His muscular thighs rippled, thick and full. She couldn’t see much of his right leg, the lower half having been amputated from the knee down during the war, but his left leg was planted on the floor, and she was shielded from seeing what she should not.
Yet she couldn’t turn away. Helplessly, her heart fluttering frighteningly in her chest, she stared. He was a dark angel—his hair almost black and wet, thick black lashes fanned out over terribly high cheekbones, his straight, not quite perfect nose flared. He was beautiful.
And she meant to go. This was shocking—she had seen too much! She ordered her feet to move, her legs to obey and carry her away. But she had never seen such a strained intense expression on anyone and he was driving hard and fast now, and as naive as she was, she understood. Rapture transformed his expression. He gasped.
She gasped.
And somehow, she knew he had heard her. Suddenly, slowly, he turned his head toward her.
She saw dark, unfocused eyes.
Blanche knew she had committed the worst faux pas possible. “I am sorry!” she cried, in a complete panic now.
She backed out, just as his eyes changed, becoming lucid, just as she saw recognition flare there, just as their gazes met.
His eyes widened.
She whirled and fled.
CHAPTER THREE
REX SAT ON THE SOFA, stunned. Lady Blanche Harrington, a woman he admired as no other, had walked in on him and Anne!
He breathed hard, praying he was in some terrible nightmare and that when he awoke, he would realize Blanche Harrington had not just caught him with his lover.
Anne whispered, “Who was that, my lord?”
Oh, God, he wasn’t in a terrible dream—Blanche Harrington had caught him in bed with his maid! He covered his face with his hands and was overwhelmed with mortification and shame.
For one long moment, he succumbed to absolute
