LITMIR.BIZ

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am going to retire for the evening.”

      Bess hugged her. “Go and have a hot bath. I’ll leave instructions for supper to be sent to your room, and I will see you tomorrow.”

      “Thank you.” Blanche smiled at her friend, embraced Felicia and left the two of them alone together, and as they started whispering, she knew they were discussing her. It didn’t matter. They had her best interests at heart and she was truly exhausted. Besides, she had to escape the conversation about Sir Rex. It had been oddly disturbing.

      “I SEE YOU ARE SCHEMING,” Felicia declared.

      Bess seized her hand. “I think Blanche is finally interested in a man—even if she doesn’t know it. My God—and for how long? I believe she has known him for eight years!”

      Felicia gaped. “Surely you do not think she likes Rex de Warenne? He truly is a rude, boorish man with a highly defective character!”

      “I was eavesdropping when she spoke to the countess of Adare. I am not sure she even realizes her interest. Her expression changed completely when she began asking about Sir Rex and her color heightened. And Felicia, when is she ever distressed? Or embarrassed by our chats? And she is insulted by his failure to send condolences! No one can insult Blanche.”

      Felicia was aghast. “She can do better! How can she prefer him? He is so black.”

      “He is very dark—some women prefer brooding men. You are piqued because he turned you down. If Blanche has any interest in Sir Rex, we must do something about it.”

      Felicia sighed. “If you are right, if Blanche has any interest in him, then we should do something about it. But, God, I hope you are wrong.” Then, “What are you planning?”

      Bess hushed her. “Let me think.” She began to pace.

      “He will be in town in May,” Felicia offered.

      “May is too far away.”

      Silently, Felicia agreed with that.

      Bess turned. “You do know the saying—if one can’t lead the pony to the cart, one brings the cart to the pony.”

      “They also say one cannot force the horse to drink, even if he is led to the trough.”

      “We are going to Cornwall,” Bess said flatly.

      Felicia could think of nothing worse. Cornwall was the end of the world—and at this time of year, freezing cold. “Please, no. I have just remarried and I happen to like my new husband.”

      Bess waved at her dismissively. “Oh, we will plan a little ladies’ holiday—but when it is time to depart, you will be ill and my daughter will have suffered a riding accident.”

      Felicia’s eyes widened.

      Bess continued, smiling, “I do think in a week’s time, Blanche will need to escape this crush—in fact, I am certain she will wish to do nothing more. And we, her dearest friends, will convince her to take a holiday at Harrington’s estate in the south.”

      “I didn’t know Harrington had an estate in Cornwall.”

      “He doesn’t. At least, not that I know of. But I have been helping Blanche sort through the vast fortune she has been left, and I will make a few interesting adjustments to her papers. So you see, there really is a small estate in Cornwall—just kilometers from Land’s End. Imagine what she will have to do when she arrives and realizes there has been a mistake. Surely, surely, Sir Rex will not turn her away.”

      Felicia slowly smiled. “You are so bloody brilliant,” she said.

      “I am, aren’t I?”

      CHAPTER TWO

      HE SWUNG HIS HAMMER as hard as he could, driving the nail so deeply into the beam that the head became level with the wood. Sweat blinded his vision and poured down his naked torso. He swung again, and the head of the nail vanished. But Rex knew that the savage physical exertion would not change anything.

      Although almost ten years had passed, he saw the Spanish Peninsula as if he was there still. Canons fired from the ridge above, sabers rang, men screamed. Smoke filled the air, blocking out the midday sun. And he ran, horseless, to rescue his friend Tom Mowbray. Suddenly a burning pain exploded in his knee….

      Fury and frustration mingled. He didn’t want to recall the war now, or ever again. He flung the hammer aside and it skipped across the hard ground, hitting a supportive column. The men who were helping him build the barn carefully kept at their tasks, ignoring him.

      But the letter always rekindled his damned memories and with them, the bloody pain, which he was adept at burying. Rex leaned on his crutch, breathing hard. The worst part was, he desperately needed the letter, and in the light of day he couldn’t regret saving Tom Mowbray’s life, nor could he regret his brief liaison with the woman he had once, foolishly, loved.

      He wiped sweat from his brow, some of the fury receding. The past was just that, the past, and it needed to stay buried. But what he could not avoid was the letter about his son.

      For even as he dreaded its contents, he was as desperate to read it, too. There would be so much joy—and there would be even more torment.

      Rex gave in. The letter had arrived earlier that day and it had been sitting in his study ever since. As he only received one such missive every year, he could no longer delay. He rapidly traversed the structure that would be his breeding barn. Outside, a number of stone buildings faced him, the fourteenth-century chapel behind them. It was a typical Cornish day—the skies above were brilliantly blue and dotted with clouds that might have been spun with cotton, while the moors seemed to stretch away into an eternity, stark, treeless and mostly barren. But even from where he passed, he could glimpse his sheep and cattle in the distance. The sight gave him a moment of hard satisfaction. Closer to where he stood, stone hedges he had laid with his own hands bisected the nearby hills. A prize crop of yearlings raced in one of the pastures, broodmares grazed in another, fat and close to foaling. And always, he could hear the roar of the ocean crashing on the rocks behind him, a staccato reminder of where and who he was.

      Bodenick Castle was his home. It had been built in the late sixteenth century upon sheer black cliffs that fell into the ocean below, and was a stark, square structure, with only one tower remaining. He had spent four years renovating it upon first being awarded the manor for his valor in the war, but he had not tried to reconstruct the second tower, where only a few original stones had remained. Local legend held that pirates had taken it down, stone by stone, looking for their buried treasure. Some folk claimed a treasure remained buried there.

      A single oak tree graced the castle, while ancient ivy and wild rose bushes crept up its walls. Rex quickly entered the timbered hall.

      It was even colder within than outside. He shivered, having forgotten his shirt in the rising barn. Rex hurried into the tower, where his study took up the ground floor. Dread renewed itself.

      It was dark inside, for only two small windows illuminated the round room. Rex crossed over to the desk, where his papers were neatly piled in folders, his affairs legibly marked and purposefully categorized. The letter sat front and center on the leather inlaid desktop. He did not have to look at the postmark or the return address to know who it was from—her handwriting was despicably familiar.

      The torment exploded in his chest. Stephen was nine years old now. The letter was late—it should have arrived in January. But then, that was Julia, sending him her account of his son’s progress whenever she got to it. She had made it clear the task was one she felt below her.

      How was Stephen? Was he still solemn and correct, and determined to excel so he might please the man he believed to be his father?

      Did he still prefer mathematics to the classics?

      Had they finally hired the fencing master he had recommended?

      Rex choked, unable to breathe. He finally sat down on the edge of the desk, his crutch remaining loosely under his right

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