When It's Perfect (10 page)

And she very well knew that she might.

Sighing, Mary turned her face upward to catch the sunlight, feeling it warm her cheeks and eyelids.

She
should
leave, but something beyond her personal desire to stay away from London stopped her.

It probably had more to do with the earl, she decided. In a sense he needed her, or at least he thought he did. And she
liked
the idea of staying in Cornwall to help him. God help her. Of course this posed some risks as well. She would need to be in close proximity to a man she didn’t know for an indefinite period of time. Under normal circumstances, this would mean little to her. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance for any of them at Baybridge House.

Yet in some strange, inexplicable way, she liked Marcus Longfellow, which she imagined had grown out of Christine’s love and trust in her brother. Mary didn’t care for men in general, didn’t much understand their minds, and with most of them she found little about which to converse comfortably. The Earl of Renn seemed different—different even from any man she knew. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, regarded her, as if he were trying to pry into her female thoughts, which naturally wouldn’t interest even the most common of men. She didn’t like that, and yet part of her wanted it to continue. The part of her that longed for… something undefined. That small something that made her nervous when he walked into a room or sat beside her. That something that intrigued her beyond explanation.

“Do you come here often?”

Mary opened her eyes, squinting as she turned around sharply to behold the vision of her thoughts.

The earl stood beside the bench, watching her keenly, only the slightest hint of a smile playing at his mouth. He looked quite casual in pose, one hand in the pocket of his dark, thigh-hugging pants. He’d disposed of his morning jacket, and with the breeze blowing his hair up and across his face, it also pressed his white shirt into his wide and very muscled chest. In essence, he towered over her in all his masculine glory, which irritated her.

She straightened, clasping her palms together in her lap. “You

startled me, Lord Renn.”

His brows rose, but he didn’t move any closer. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were so deep in thought.”

“I was.”

He did smile at that, which surprised her because her intended curtness didn’t seem to bother him.

“Really,” he replied, glancing up over the bay. “And may I ask what it was you were contemplating?”

“You may not,” she asserted at once, though her tone had lightened of its own accord.

He actually chuckled, then without asking, moved his long legs to her side and made a great effort of seating himself comfortably next to her.

She inhaled the scent of him from the gentle breeze: pure masculinity mixed with a whiff of nearby lavender and wild flowers. It had a calming effect on her, even as he nearly touched her person.

“I have a cottage not too far from this spot,” he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked in front of him as he stared out over the water. “It’s farther along the cliff path, to the right and just below that group of hedges.” He nodded in that direction but didn’t look at her.

She inhaled deeply and tried to relax. “I suppose it’s part of the estate, then.”

“Yes, though it’s seldom used except by me, and I’m not often here.”

He smirked. “It probably needs a good cleaning.”

Mary had no idea why he brought up the subject of the cottage, though it was true that in all the months she’d been at Baybridge House she hadn’t learned of its existence. But she had no intention of cleaning it, if that was the reason he mentioned it. And to make sure he didn’t have the opportunity to ask her, and since he seemed desirous of lingering in her presence, she instead chose to discuss something a bit less intimate.

“What do you do in Egypt, sir? ”

That question truly seemed to surprise him. He cocked his head to the side to regard her, his dark brows furrowed into one thick line across his handsome face.

“I work with several archaeologists and experts in Egyptian art for the preservation of Egyptian artifacts and culture.”

“How remarkable,” she said with genuine interest. “And what is it you do specifically?”

His mouth tilted up into a wry smile. “I’m in charge of the

operation.”

“Oh.” Mary hoped her own surprise and utter lack of knowledge about such things didn’t make her appear too idiotic. “You fund it, then?”

He nodded. “In part. But I’m also fairly well acquainted with Egyptian culture and antiquities, so my expertise comes in handy.” He sighed and leaned back a little, brushing her face with his gaze. “Mostly, I just enjoy the challenge, the climate, working with scholars.”

And being your own man.

Mary glanced away, knowing instinctively that to bring up his family, his mother and brother and responsibilities at home, would cool the moment. She fully understood the desire to live one’s life in one’s own way. It was how she’d chosen to live hers.

“Have you ever seen a real mummy?”

He laughed deeply, then admitted, “Yes, but it’s not as if they’re just lying around for us to find. And the few we’ve uncovered are not all that well preserved.”

Amazed, she looked back into his bold, shining eyes. “How extraordinary.”

He shrugged and leaned into her to add, “They’re not nearly as frightful as they sound.”

She grinned in return. “Just the same, I would abhor unwrapping one.”

“Well, that I’ve never done. Most of what I do is research, studying the culture, transcribing hieroglyphic script.”

Mary tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Is that something one can read?”

He shrugged again. “It’s a language, just like any other, though an entirely written one.”

“But what would be the purpose of deciphering such a language?”

she asked in a complete desire to know.

He cocked his head a little to regard her. “The purpose would be to learn something new and different and unique about this great world of ours and an ancient people.”

Mary watched him without moving, without adding comment. She did understand his desire to learn things that wouldn’t in any way help a cause other than one’s personal quest for knowledge. But she found it particularly interesting that an English earl seemed to give it more consideration than he did his own property and family.

“It all sounds very fascinating,” she replied after a moment. “I should

enjoy seeing Africa.”

He said nothing to that, though his eyes lingered on her, and to her shame, she didn’t find it all too uncomfortable, either.

“It’s beautiful here, though,” she stressed after a long moment of silence, breaking his gaze to peer out over the ocean again. “I suppose you miss Cornwall from time to time when you’re abroad.”

“Yes, sometimes. I do often miss the greenery, and sitting here by the seaside. I miss watching the fishing boats in the morning and the cool breezes off the bay that fill the air with the scent of the sea.” He paused, then added, “The solitude…”

In the intimate atmosphere they created, Mary felt the distinct heat of him as the wind died a little and the sun closed in around them. It was as if no one else existed for miles. How very odd that right this minute, in his powerful presence, she wasn’t concerned, only thoughtful.

“My mother says you’re the daughter of Sir Harold Marsh.”

The magic dissipated instantly as reality intruded bluntly.

“I am,” she replied without hesitation.

He waited. “The only daughter?”

“No.” She paused, then expounded, “My sister, Mimi, is six years younger than I. I have no brothers.”

“I see.” He tapped his fingers together in front of him. “And does your sister live at home with you?”

His personal questions bothered her a little, though she had to wonder if it was because of her own repressed guilt about her family that she had yet to face, or the fact that he was rather nosy where she was concerned. But she felt compelled to answer.

“My sister is now married to Professor Nathan Price, a scientist with an impeccable reputation. They reside in London, and I see them regularly.”

Mary could positively
hear
him cogitating that, as she felt warmth creep up her neck.

He glanced at her face again, studying her, though she tried not to look directly into his curious dark eyes.

“Why did you not marry? Is it because of your father?”

She had known he would ask her. It only followed his line of questioning, and for a second, Mary wondered if he’d done that on purpose. Then she inwardly scolded herself for thinking such nonsense.

“Yes, exactly, Lord Renn. His arthritis is quite pronounced and he

needs me for correspondence, household matters, and of course conversation,” she explained matter-of-factly.

He raised one large palm and rubbed his chin. “Then how is he managing to get along while you are in Cornwall?”

She squirmed a little on the bench, unusually self-conscious from the personal queries and the deep vibrations his low voice made as it mingled with the wind, noting inconsequentially how even this early in the day he had a shadow of a beard. She wondered how those whiskers would feel to her fingertips, and she clutched her palms together to keep from reaching for him.

“He is being provided for by the Widow Ester Thurston while I am gone, and she has written that all is well. Besides that, he has Mimi.”

“I see.”

He turned to study her again and didn’t say anything until she looked into his eyes.

“Then I’m so glad the widow and your sister were available.”

Mary caught her breath. He sat so close, and uttered words whose meanings seemed so completely foreign to her. Yet even with his proximity and marvelously staid responses, his comments
felt
intimate.

Then again, maybe it was her reaction entirely. He could mean nothing whatever by delving into her personal life. And truthfully, he hadn’t asked anything altogether inappropriate.

“You know,” he said softly, still gazing at her, “I find it very odd that a lady of your beauty and intelligence would choose not to marry. It seems to me you’d make a nearly perfect wife.”

Her insides tightened as her eyes opened wide. “I talk too much.”

Suddenly he grinned—a lovely, boyish grin that made him look years younger and undeniably devious.

“You do? When?”

She had nothing to say to that, which he likely knew. “And too forwardly for my own good,” she added instead.

He reached over and touched the sleeve of her gown—very quickly—

rubbing fine lace between his forefinger and thumb. “That sounds like it came from your father.”

“Oh,” she countered with a nod, brows raised in feigned innocence.

“Do you know him?”

He chuckled again, his eyes crinkled in smile. Then he dropped his hand. “Sorry, Miss Marsh. It’s not often I meet women like you.”

“Like what?” That was out of her mouth before she thought about it, and Mary could have kicked herself for stirring him into such frank

conversation.

He briefly lowered his gaze to her lips as his own features clouded with somber thoughts. “You’re outspoken yet reserved, intelligent yet restrained. You’re delightful.”

She wanted to squirm—or run. Instead, she scoffed as she made a great challenge of straightening her skirts over her lap. “You, my lord, do not even know me.”

“I know you better than you realize,” he said very softly.

She started, then rocked back to stare at him.

His entire expression had softened minutely; his fascinating eyes simply dared her to ask him how. Intuitively? Factually? Had he inquired about her professionally, or had Christine told him more than she should have? After several agonizing seconds, Mary decided that he toyed with her, and he did it very well indeed. For she, much to her disdain, completely enjoyed it.

“Well, then,” she disclosed, “I suppose we know each other equally.

And here I thought I would be the one to have the upper hand.”

He pulled a face. “The upper hand, Miss Marsh?”

“Of course.” She added nothing to explain that evasive answer, just watched him with a thoroughly engaged expression of false modesty.

“And yet,” he carried on, “your hands are so… different from mine.”

She tried not to smile. “Which
hands
are those, Lord Renn?”

He gazed to her lap. “The… delicate, feminine ones, with long, tapered fingers for caressing a brow softly or rubbing hard muscles after a day’s labor. For exploring.”

Mary just sat there, feeling the quickening pace of her heart, and having no idea at all how to reply to such a literal comment, so formally expressed even as it contained such utterly intimate meaning. They had been speaking in riddles. How quickly he had turned the conversation to one that felt improper. Suddenly, for just a very brief second, she knew he rested on the verge of taking her hand in his.

Without clear thought, she clasped her arms together protectively over her breasts.

The earl straightened, his features going slack, and he once again looked out over the bay, placing his palms on his thighs.

“Do you suppose,” he asked very slowly, “that Mrs. Coswell knows more of what Christine feared than she let on?”

Mary tried to clear her muddled mind, noticing how a cloud covered the sun at exactly the same moment, just as it did her mood. If this marvelously handsome man were only a little less distracting…

“I’m not sure,” she returned, immensely proud of how her voice remained flat as her nerves flared. “Why do you ask?”

She shouldn’t have pressed him.

He looked back into her eyes, so close and candid, his brows furrowed with a combination of pain, confusion, and anger.

“I ask because she gave you—only you—a certain look that had me sensing something more.” His lips thinned grimly, then he lowered his voice to add, “Did you sense it as well?”

Mary shivered from a rush of coldness, from a sense of loneliness and despair that she felt even now for Christine.