When It's Perfect (23 page)

Mary stood perfectly still. “Very well, thank you.”

He nodded as if digesting grave information. “Will you be leaving soon?”

That took her aback, and she frowned before replying, “I’m not certain. Why?”

“Why do you remain here, Miss Marsh?”

That was certainly direct. She pulled her shoulders back, both gloved hands clutching her parasol. “There are many reasons, my lord. Why do you ask?”

He smiled again, this time with charm, forced though it might be, and scratched his neck.

“I ask, Miss Marsh, because there is nothing left for you to do.” He leaned forward a little, cocking his head to the right. “Is there?”

Expose you for what you are, if that’s at all possible.

“No, not really,” she said pleasantly, keeping the tension she felt tightly coiled within.

He didn’t at all appreciate her evasiveness. His eyes flashed with controlled anger, even as he continued to offer her a congenial expression. For a moment he said nothing, then he gazed to the sidewalk and shuffled one polished shoe along loose gravel.

“The earl seems quite taken with you.”

That got her heart beating, and she did her best not to look surprised, or elated. “I’m not sure what you mean, Viscount.”

He folded his hands behind his back to counter softly, “Yes you are.

You’re quite sure.”

She felt her irritation mounting. Several yards to the left of them, Claudette stood chatting with three ladies Mary didn’t know, and she wished the vicar’s wife would wander in her direction. It would be a distraction well appreciated.

“Miss Marsh?”

She blinked quickly and gazed back into his probing eyes. “The earl has asked me to stay on at Baybridge House to help him in answering a

few questions regarding Miss Christine’s untimely death. That’s all.”

Exeter snickered. “That’s all?”

Her body began to burn. “Yes, Viscount Exeter. That’s all.” She raised her chin a fraction. “And I intend on doing as he asks.”

The man took a step closer and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Really. How fortunate for the earl.”

“Yes, I was just thinking the same thing.”

His eyes widened. “You do have a rather brash tongue, don’t you?

Christine had mentioned that.”

Mary reigned in her irritation, tossing a hurried glance to her coach.

“Is there a point you’re trying to make, my lord?” she asked succinctly.

“My driver is waiting.”

His lips turned up crookedly again. “I won’t keep you, of course. I merely wanted to warn you about Earl Renn.”

She noticed how the lace at her sleeves and neck of her day gown began to itch from the heat and moisture in the air. It had been a long time since she’d been so physically discomfited, and she wished she possessed the careless resolve to tell him to go away, or better, to go to hell. But in all things, propriety forbade such action.

“Warn me about what, exactly?” she asked instead, a measure of irritation, purposely placed, seeping into her tone.

“That you would do well to leave him alone. He’ll be returning to Egypt soon, and will quickly forget about you. He is far above you in class, Miss Marsh, and he, like everyone else, is more than aware of that fact.”

That hit her in the gut, at the center of all her fears and everything she stood for. She suddenly had trouble standing on legs of jelly. He would never know how much that hurt her. “I’m well aware of my station, Viscount Exeter.”

His brows rose. “Are you? You’ve never, in my presence, acted with much restraint.”

He took one more step toward her, close enough now to back her into a lilac bush should she move. The combination of sweet lilacs mixed with the essence of strong male cologne made her queasy.

Her displeasure quickened. “Neither have you, my lord.”

His face began to redden. “You are not family, and you don’t belong in Cornwall, Miss Marsh.”

She pinched her parasol tightly, mostly to keep from hitting him with it. “Forgive me, Viscount,” she said very smoothly, “but where I live is not for you to decide. And frankly, I wonder if you’re not now relieved

that you’re not a member of the earl’s family as well. Especially since you expect to rule your corner of the world with no encumbrances, yet more wealthy than before, once he leaves again for Africa.”

The man blinked; his head shot back. “Bravo, madam.” He paused for a minute, assessing her with creased brows, probably knowing full well how nervous he made her. “Christine spoke highly of your intelligence.”

The change in his approach confused her a bit, though it took her only a minute to decide to use it to her advantage. “I’m very flattered,”

she replied easily. “Did you know Christine was with child when she died?”

That absolutely alarmed him. Very, very slowly, his mouth dropped open so that in seconds he gaped at her. She stood smugly, waiting, while she tried to decide if he were more shocked because he
didn’t
know, or because she’d had the audacity to mention it to him in public.

Suddenly his features changed to express a tense repressed rage. His eyes flashed hotly, his lips thinned as his face became red from nose to ears, his fists clenched at his sides. But Mary, strangely enough, wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t touch her here, where others would see, so she merely clung desperately to her parasol and waited for him to respond.

At last, he leaned very close and spat in whisper, “Are you accusing me of forcing my betrothed?”

Mary’s stomach clenched; her own sense of rage swelled, despite the fact that such an argument had never occurred to her. She’d assumed a liaison, with perhaps a bit of gentle persuasion on his part, but never force. The notion that Christine might have suffered such violence in the arms of her intended made her pause in growing concern, largely because he had been the one to mention it.

“You never heard me say such a thing, my lord,” she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly even as her mind churned with intruding questions.

His nostrils flared; his hard mouth curved down into a sour frown.

And then he pulled himself up to an erect position, yanking down on the bottom of his cutaway coat with both hands to straighten it. But he never took his eyes off her face.

“And you never will, Miss Marsh. I hope I’m being clear.”

Mary hesitated, her pulse beating rapidly. But in the end she refused to offer a word of agreement to what he wanted from her—an admission that she would, in future, keep her mouth shut. She simply stared into his hard eyes, betraying nothing, until he grew tired of waiting for a response.

Quickly, and without a formal farewell, the viscount pivoted on his heel and walked stiffly away from her along the sidewalk, ignoring Mrs.

Coswell who waved her lace handkerchief as she tried to attract his attention.

It took Mary a minute or two to breathe easily again. Finally she turned in the opposite direction and picked up her pace once more, hoping nobody would stop her to engage in insignificant chatter when she had so many thoughts reeling inside her head.

It wasn’t until she reached the coach that she realized the isolated rain shower had ceased and her hand had grown numb from squeezing the end of her parasol so tightly.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

2 March 1855

…So sorry to hear of your recent troubles. Did you ever find
the person who looted the dig? It’s appalling, really, that
someone would purposely steal ancient treasures. Honestly,
brother, I worry about you so…

…Now, to answer your questions. Miss Marsh is tall for a
lady, with a rather angelic-looking face. She has blond hair and
blue eyes. She’s very beautiful, Marcus, though somewhat shy.

No, not shy, exactly. It’s almost as if she has many secrets she
refuses to reveal about herself. She won’t tell me why she didn’t
marry, but I think it has something to do with the man she once
loved
…

M
ary sat uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair at the dining room table, staring down at her breakfast of fried eggs and toast laid out conspicuously on gorgeous Renn china plates of a blue and white floral design. Though she hardly tasted a bit of the fare, she managed to

swallow as much as she could, listening with only half an ear as Gwyneth and George bickered about taxes on their property for the war effort, trying not to steal glances toward the head of the table, where the man of her interest ignored them all as he fairly guzzled his food in record time.

The earl’s lack of concern made her want to laugh. She’d met many of the aristocracy in her day, but never had she known a man so focused on assuming a responsibility and lifestyle into which he had not been born. And yet as she considered it now between sips of cooling tea, it came to her attention that Marcus Longfellow’s personality fit the style of life he preferred. He had the intelligence and depth of concentration to care for an estate of Renn’s magnitude, but not the desire. As he’d told her before, he cared for history, people, cultures, preferred the stimulating company of intellectuals and worldly scholars. In many regards, he was one of the most unusual, interesting people Mary had ever met. She understood him, and it had been a long, long time since she’d been able to say that about a man of her acquaintance.

He hadn’t spoken this morning except for a curt nod and formal bidding to the three of them upon his entrance into the dining room less than ten minutes ago, but he had looked long and hard at her. She had to wonder what he’d been doing with his time these last three days since she’d exposed her secret works to him in his cottage—where he’d gone, who he’d seen, what he thought even now about her in the deepest corners of his very keen mind. It was entirely true that just the sight of the man made her heart race and her stomach turn, and for the first time she wondered if any man could feel these same things in the presence of a woman he desired. Maybe the bold part of her personality would encourage her one day to ask him if she affected him as strangely as he did her.

He also hadn’t said much of anything to her these last three days, aside from banal discussion that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with his suggestion that she model her intimate apparel for him. And it was starting to drive her mad, not knowing what he thought. Still, with every thought of him, she kept coming back to an image of herself outrageously exposing her legs in silk stockings, her waist, bust, and hips barely hidden by a matching black lace corset, all for his hedonistic view in a small, dark cottage away from everything but the smell of countryside grass and the sound of crashing waves on the rocks below.

The remarkable thing would be that if she went forward with the temptation he proposed, it would be the most sinfully decadent thing she had ever done. Sinful, because as wrong as she knew it would be, as disastrous as it might turn out, she wanted to do as he asked more than she’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

Mary glanced up at George, his thick auburn brows creased in frown as he nodded at something his mother said. Gwyneth, in black crepe, her hair pulled up into a tight chignon, her complexion pink and shiny, tried passionately to persuade him of her concerns. The great Earl of Renn concentrated heavily on his food while a footman scooped a second helping of eggs onto his plate.

All in all, an ordinary morning. The same as yesterday and tomorrow for the three of them. But for her, after the uneasy conflict with Viscount Exeter yesterday morning, she knew she wanted more.

Nobody would tell her what to do, especially a man who held so little caring for others and so much for himself. To stay at Baybridge House was her choice, and although it was likely to be the biggest mistake of her life, she wanted to be with Marcus Longfellow during the time she remained in Cornwall. She realized all too well that the outcome would probably be messy, and painful.

She wanted him anyway.

Marcus heard the faint rustling of the wind outside slamming a shutter against the glass. Naturally, the particular annoying slamming came from the farthest window from where he slept, all the way across the blessed room. He didn’t at all relish standing on the cold parquet floor and walking in bare feet and arse only to open the window to the wet, chilly air simply to fix the noise. Then again, he could hardly sleep.

Perhaps it had more to do with visions of her. Mary Marsh. A woman he dreamed about—when he actually slept. Images of her lovely shape and face kept him awake most nights, especially as he knew her bed chamber remained just down the hallway from his. That she slept even now only four doors away.

Marcus turned on his stomach and jammed his fists under his pillows.

He often wondered how she slept, in what position, what she wore.

He could envision black silk, barely covering her limbs and breasts, or, more likely, simple, practical white cotton that covered just about everything. Cotton, in the right circumstances, had its appeal as well, especially when one considered the person wearing it.

Mary, Mary, Mary…

God, she was a beauty. Christine had certainly understated that in her letters to him. But then, women didn’t look at each other in appraisal in quite the same way men did. She’d be even lovelier, he imagined, if she’d only let her guard down around him, laugh some, be herself. He wanted to know her secrets, feel her happiness, understand

her sorrows, and more than anything he’d wanted in recent memory, to feel her warm body underneath his for a long, long time.

He groaned in the darkness. It had to be well after midnight, and that damn slamming of the shutter was near to driving him mad—that, and the continuous rigid state of his body.

He flipped over onto his back, staring at the ornate wooden ceiling he couldn’t see at all.

“God, what you’ve done to me,” he whispered into the darkness, envisioning her long hair loosely intertwined through his fingers, her blue eyes begging silently for love, her breasts flattening against his chest as he made her ready for intimacy. “Mary…”