Free The Perfect Bride by Brenda Joyce

Anne—and if she thought it irrelevant to his character.
    â€œGood evening. You look as if you have rested.” He bowed very slightly.
    Her cheeks were slightly pink, as if rouged, but he knew she used no artifice. “I did nap a bit. Am I early? I see your other guests have not arrived.”
    He hesitated. “There are no other guests, I’m afraid.” Had she expected polite company?
    She started. “Oh, I had assumed there might be company…I am sorry. It doesn’t matter.” Although her tone was even, her flush increased.
    He smiled grimly, wondering if she was dismayed that it would be but the two of them. “I am afraid I am not well acquainted with my neighbors.”
    â€œBut you have been here for many years.”
    â€œYes, I have.”
    Her eyes widened in surprise. Now she understood the extent of his reclusive nature, he thought even more grimly. He wished to somehow explain. “Having no hostess, I do not entertain.” And that was not the truth—he despised polite, inane conversation, and hated being pursed by other men’s wives.
    Her smile returned. “I am sorry, Sir Rex, I simply assumed you would invite your neighbors. But this is better, is it not? You are the only de Warenne I am poorly acquainted with.”
    His heart accelerated. She wished to know him better? He was amazed…he was thrilled. But of course, she was simply making conversation, wasn’t she? Or did she mean her words? “I can only hope I do not bore you with inept conversation.”
    She smiled. “I do not 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œI have noticed your collection of arms,” she said.
    He started. “They were my arms in the war.”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œOh, I did not mean to critique your decor.”
    â€œLady 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?”
    â€œYes, 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