When It's Perfect (21 page)

She swallowed. “No.”

He almost smiled. “I want to play a game,” he returned softly.

She was having a terrible time understanding his words, so she just looked at him.

He did smile now, a pulling up of his full lips to a harsh line of pure, masculine sureness. “I’m very interested in your business, Miss Marsh.

I want a viewing of your best items.” He paused for reaction, then added, “Can you provide it?”

She nearly fainted. Her face paled and her body now felt like lead. “I will never do anything indecent, Lord Renn.” She cringed as soon as she spoke the words. She’d been nothing but indecent since she’d allowed herself to take his hand. He didn’t appear to notice, however.

“Of course not,” he returned without pause. “I’m merely the buyer. I want to view purchases I might make in future. For a future wife, perhaps.”

Mary had no idea what he meant, or at least not much of an idea of where his mind was leading. He was a man after all. Still, that was the point, and she was fairly certain of what he wanted. That’s what
she
found numbing.

He leaned in and brushed her lips with his again, and she almost melted into the carpet at her feet.

“Please…” he whispered against her mouth. “I could be your best buyer yet, Miss Marsh.”

For one very odd second, Mary wondered why he called her Miss Marsh when his lips were ravaging hers. And then it didn’t matter, for her eyes closed once more of their own accord and she embraced him again without clear thought, kissing him back while his hands rested at her hips, allowing her to enjoy him.

Seconds later, he pulled back for a final time, farther than he had before.

“I can’t take any more,” he said roughly.

She remained where she was, standing dreamily, eyes closed, her

face and body hot and detached. “Thank you, Lord Renn,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome, Miss Marsh,” he answered, his voice under better control and slightly tinged with humor.

For seconds they stood next to each other, then at last she lifted her lashes and focused on his marvelous eyes.

The clarity she beheld in his pointed gaze told her much. His face was as flushed as hers, his breathing as uneven. The trust she felt emanating from his entire being overwhelmed her, surrounded her in a marked contentment, though it was also true that he would never know how much.

“I—I must leave,” she said, attempting to take control of her emotions, her body, at last. She licked her lips, looking around her as if to gather untold belongings.

Formally, he replied, “I understand.”

With a sense of confusion, she lifted her skirts and stepped past him, toward the study door, her feet deadened as if she’d been walking uphill for days.

“Miss Marsh.”

She stopped when her hand grasped the knob. “Yes.”

In a gentle tone, he said, “Mary.”

God, he made her name sound like a caress. She drew a deep breath and turned around to face him one last time.

His serious countenance had returned in full form. He stood erect, hands clasped behind his back, all evidence of his desire—if he shared it to the depth of hers—well hidden, though she refused to drop her gaze blatantly to check.

“Perhaps you’ll join me tomorrow afternoon at my cottage, for that first business appointment. A showing of your work.”

Time stopped for her. And yet he waited for her compliance, for her acceptance of a most inappropriate rendezvous. In essence he’d left it up to her. Very deep in her mind, Mary knew he wouldn’t push her, at least not physically. He made it her choice.

He waited.

After a moment of watching him, hoping to grasp a sense of his nervousness, she swallowed and shakily asked, “What time?”

He blinked, and for the briefest second, she could have sworn he was utterly shocked. Then his eyes narrowed. “Two o’clock.”

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But she didn’t. Instead,

she glanced away, to the door again. “I shall consider it, my Lord Renn.”

Then without waiting for reply or dismissal, she stepped into the darkened, empty hallway, closing the door behind her.

As she made her way back to her room, her body still aroused, feeling astonished and confused and frustrated, it occurred to her that she never did address her desire to leave Cornwall.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

16 February 1855

…Miss Marsh is so interesting. She’s finally alluded to a
romance she had years ago. I think she loved the man and he did
something to hurt her deeply. She won’t tell me his name or what
exactly happened, and I haven’t asked. As you know, however, I
seldom give up when I want information, and no, it’s not gossip.

It’s talk between ladies. I know, I know. I can hear you laughing
all the way from Egypt. I do miss you so, Marcus…

F
or the first time in his life, Marcus couldn’t believe he’d acted so appallingly as to proposition a lady. And equally appalling was the fact that it had nearly killed him to glance at the clock on the mantel only to see that it was ten minutes after two and she hadn’t yet arrived.

Christ, what next? His erotic thoughts of her and him together shocked even
his
sensibilities.

Marcus shoved his fingers through his hair then turned his attention to the field of wild flowers that swayed gently in the breeze between his cottage and the cliff overlooking the Bay of Austell. Rain showers threatened the landscape once again as the afternoon darkened from a low-lying cloud cover. The perfect summer day for secluding oneself from servants and prying eyes to partake in the luscious art of

lovemaking.

Marcus felt himself getting hard again. He’d been so erect after she’d left him last night, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He could only hope she hadn’t noticed when they stood so close together for so many incredible minutes. Then again, maybe she had and hadn’t been frightened, but aroused. He could only hope. She was such a great, beautiful mystery to him. Mary Marsh… such a simple name disguising the true identity of a complex woman. He had to chuckle as he realized his palms were sweating and his heart racing at the prospect of seeing her again. It had grown to an absurd nervousness he hadn’t felt in years, yet very, very real.

Suddenly his eyes caught the movement of lavender skirts and blond, simply braided hair moving through the hedges. He watched her with interest and appreciation, noting her fine facial features, her graceful walk, her poise as she kept her head raised. In one hand she carried a calfskin bag of considerable size, supposedly where she kept her salable items.

Then it struck him soundly that she was here at his bidding, and his heart began to pound in his chest, his shoulders tightening with a tension he couldn’t describe. Marcus wiped a palm down his face and drew a deep breath that didn’t in any way actually calm him.

Mary had never been so nervous in her life. It took every ounce of strength and energy she possessed to lift her free hand and knock on the cottage door.

Seconds later, he opened it. She took one look at the earl’s face and immediately wanted to run. He must have noticed her hesitation, for at that moment, without a word between them, he reached for her elbow and gently pulled her inside.

Mary swallowed hard but couldn’t immediately find her voice; no matter, she had no idea what to say. The cottage was small, as English cottages were, consisting of a little round table in one corner shrouded with a red muslin tablecloth; a short, walnut writing desk; two chairs covered in faded red velvet; a small water closet in the southwest corner; and against the far wall, a bed made for one, draped loosely with a velveteen coverlet in plush burgundy.

All in all, quite functional—for an intimate rendezvous.

“Miss Marsh,” he said soberly, jerking her out of needless speculation.

She whirled around to face him, her heart leaping at the sound of his richly baritone voice.

“Lord Renn,” she managed to squeak out.

He smiled softly, likely certain of her discomfiture, then closed the door behind her to enclose them intimately inside.

She shouldn’t be here. If anyone found out—

“Nobody knows you’re here, Mary,” he soothed as if reading her mind. “My mother took luncheon with the vicar, and George is at the mine.”

She knew that already, of course, which made her wonder for a second or two if he were just trying to reassure her, or if he were speaking from his own anxiety. She shivered internally at the thought.

“The breeze off the bay is chilly today,” he continued. “I’ll pour you some sherry.”

She nodded, though he’d already moved toward the writing desk without consent on her part. With concentration, he poured two crystal glasses full of the dark red liquid from a matching crystal decanter. For an absurd moment, Mary tried to decide whether he actually kept that here in the cottage or if he’d brought it here with him today. Hardly a matter worthy of her consideration, though, when she could very well fall prey to his charm this afternoon. She briefly closed her eyes. She should not be here.

“I’m so glad you came,” he murmured, walking toward her, the two sherry glasses in hand. “I’m looking forward to a viewing of excellence.”

She took one more deep breath, before amending, “A viewing of excellent work, I hope.”

He grinned—a marvelously handsome grin—and her knees nearly buckled again. She grasped the glass he lifted to her, her hands visibly trembling which she immediately tried to hide by gripping the stem with tight fingers.

“So. What can I show you first, my lord?”

He was quiet for a moment, his smile fading fractionally. Then he cocked his head to one side and reached up with his free hand to gently stroke her cheek with one fingertip.

She jerked back instinctively, but he remained unfazed. Seconds later, he took a first sip of his sherry, then turned away from her, striding purposely toward one of the velvet chairs.

“Let’s have a look, Mary.”

She took a generous sip of her drink, noting how smoothly it slid down her throat, how it warmed her mouth. She needed it now.

Bravely, she walked to the round table, barely large enough for her calf-skin bag. Her nerves were fired and unsteady, her fingers shaking

as she unfastened the two large buckles on top. She knew he eyed her from only three feet away, but at least he wasn’t sitting on the bed.

“I could carry only a few things, Lord Renn—”

“Mary,” he cut in slowly, “have you ever shown these things to a man before?”

She could positively feel her cheeks burning, but she refused to turn around and give him the satisfaction of noticing it, too. “Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so,” he acknowledged, “in which case I fail to see why you should be so formal as you show them to me.”

She gritted her teeth, making a great showing of shifting through the lingerie in her bag. “I’m sure you realize that I’m not comfortable using your given name, sir.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she knew instinctively that he cogitated on that one. Then he posed, “What would make you more comfortable?”

At last she straightened and, with her hands behind her back, spun around to stare at him, her mouth tight. “I can’t think of a situation. I am your employee, Lord Renn.”

He rubbed his jaw and relaxed in the chair, which looked comfortable enough as it enveloped his large frame. It was obviously made for him.

“I see,” he said seconds later. Then, “Very well, Miss Marsh, let’s be formal, though I would like you to keep in mind that it was not I who employed you. I merely own the property on which you work.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tried not to smile at that play of words.

The man was clearly a rogue at heart. “Shall I show you the satin first?”

He nodded once and lowered his voice. “That will be fine.”

Mary turned once more to her bag of items. Although she’d chosen only those she felt were more conservative, save perhaps one, extreme embarrassment coursed through her now for what she was about to do.

At least, thank God, he hadn’t asked her to wear them.

Before she lifted the first item, she sipped her sherry once more, for confidence, which required a rather large mouthful of the calming concoction. Then, with fumbling fingers, she pulled up a plain corset of white satin, embedded with tiny pearls under the bustline and down the stays. With great determination and a tightening in her belly, she turned so he could see it.

She watched him, mesmerized as he took in her creation, studying it from afar.

“It’s excellent workmanship,” he said honestly after a moment or

two. “Bring it closer.”

She did so, ever so cautiously, doing her best to remain focused on the corset itself. “You’ll notice the bodice is short, so this is made for a small woman, probably, though one of lucrative means.”

“Could you wear this?” he asked softly.

Her face flushed hot again but she didn’t move. “No, the—” She stopped herself from saying,
the waist is short, thus my breasts would
be exposed
, as she might say to a woman. Instead, she added simply,

“I’m too tall.”

“I see.” He shot her a quick glance, then reached out and touched the fabric.

“Lovely collection of pearls.”

“Yes, isn’t it.” An absurd conversation and she forced herself not to roll her eyes.

“What else?”

That took her aback; she’d frankly expected more from him. But she didn’t question him, thankful to move on as she was.

Quickly she retreated, sipped more sherry, and reached for a short new corset in the palest pink satin, fringed with magenta lace, and closed with the highest-quality fasteners. Rather risqué, but the sherry helped to cover her obvious hesitation.

“This is another lovely example, my lord,” she said matter-of-factly as she held it up for his observation.

His eyes widened very slightly at the sight of it. Clearly he’d never seen a piece of clothing like it, and for a moment Mary wondered if she was glad for that or not.