Free The Perfect Bride by Brenda Joyce Page B

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.”
    â€œYou 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 stare was unwavering.
    â€œOf course you may accompany me.” She inhaled. The last thing she wished to ever do was insult him and there was no graceful way to refuse.
    He nodded, his jaw flexing.
    Their plates were cleared by a manservant she had not seen previously. She took the opportunity to attempt to regain a calm demeanor. But she was convinced that she must seek out a physician the moment she returned to town, as something was wrong with her heart. It kept beating far too rapidly.
    Dessert was served. Blanche knew she could not manage a single bite and Sir Rex pushed his plate aside. He said, “Have you many suitors?”
    Briefly, the question surprised her. “I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”
    His surprise was comical. “You are in jest!”
    â€œUnfortunately, no, I am not.” She smiled. “A shocking number, don’t you think?”
    His stare intensified. “A very shocking number,” he said. And then he turned to his wine.
    Blanche wondered what he was really thinking.
    He lifted his long, dark lashes and pierced her with his stare. “Is there anyone you admire?”
    Her heart skipped. For one moment, it was hard to speak. “No, not really.”
    He smiled grimly. “I am sure the right prospect will appear.”
    She avoided his eyes, trying to hold at bay an image of gleaming, wet muscle, bulging arms and an expression of rapture. “Yes, that is what I am hoping.”
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    B LANCHE LEANED FORWARD as her coach turned onto the road marked Penthwaithe. It was the following morning, an hour before noon. She had left Sir Rex alone downstairs after supper, wondering if he intended to imbibe alone, and worrying if that was how he spent his evenings. And the moment she had climbed into bed, never mind that it was only nine o’clock, exhaustion had claimed her. She thought about her enigmatic host, recalled the tryst she had witnessed and fell promptly asleep. She slept deeply and peacefully and had awoken only with Meg’s encouragement.
    Sir Rex had not joined her for breakfast. She had learned he was busy with his grooms, apparently dealing with his horses. And he was not sharing her coach now. He was riding astride.
    Blanche hadn’t realized a man with half of a leg could ride astride, but she had hid her amazement and pretended his behavior was routine. She had quickly discovered that he rode with great skill, as if a part of his horse, carrying a cane where his right calf should have been. But of course, every cavalryman was required to attend the riding academy before ever gaining admission into the service.
    Now, she felt some trepidation. The highway had been rutted, but this road had severe holes and was strewn with rocks, some of such significance her coachman began to weave amongst them. Blanche wondered at the lack of upkeep, glancing now at the moors. She saw not a single grazing cow or sheep.
    She glanced toward Sir Rex, who rode abreast of the carriage. His crutch had been folded in on hinges, and hung from a hook on his saddle. He rode with extreme ease, his mount a huge, magnificent beast. It was obvious he was a master horseman; she remained very