When It's Perfect (3 page)

Renn.

At that moment, the mood in the room shifted violently and George and Gwyneth abruptly stopped bickering as they looked toward the door.

With a rustling of her skirts, Gwyneth made the first move toward her son.

“Renn, darling, we were wondering what took you.”

The earl cocked his head minutely, gazing now at his mother. “Were you?”

It was exactly the reply Gwyneth would have made. But what struck Mary was the deep vibrancy of his voice.

“Of course,” Gwyneth asserted with only a tinge of hurt coloring her words. “You’ve come home at last. You’re the earl.”

The man’s brow raised as he folded his hands behind his back.

“Thank you for that. Mother.”

Mary stared, amazed, not sure if she should laugh or join in or stand in the corner and watch the family bantering unobserved. Not surprisingly, Marcus Longfellow was every bit his mother in verbal witticism and disguised meanings, but he most certainly took after his father, the late earl, in every other way.

Recovering herself, she straightened when she felt George place his fingers gently on her elbow, urging her forward for formal introductions.

As gracefully as possible she moved in the earl’s direction, noting how the man had yet to wander from the doorway.

He looked nothing like she’d imagined him, and very, very much as Christine had described. He wore black dinner attire in expensive fabric, cut to fit his large stature perfectly. The man stood approximately six feet in height, she decided, with strong shoulders, a wide chest leading to a solid stomach, and long legs, from what she could decently see of them. His hair reminded her of shiny, dark mahogany, cut short and tapered around his ears. But his face completely arrested her.

He had a low forehead, with a narrow but obvious scar that sloped from his left brow to his hairline. His eyes were an uncanny shade of brilliant blue—like the Mediterranean in summer—and surrounded by long, dark lashes. His bone structure curved at hard angles, highlighting prominent cheekbones, a long, straight nose, and a rather defined, deeply clefted chin. His mouth, however, drew her attention from everything else as she at last stood before him. Surrounded by the day’s

dark stubble, it curved gently with the most amazing hardness—a complete contradiction in itself. Mary imagined how those lips would move in a manner that graphically expressed his shifting moods.

George lifted her hand, snapping her out of a most embarrassing stare.

“This is Miss Mary Marsh of London, dear brother.”

That sounded more like a pronouncement than an introduction, and Mary felt her cheeks flush with heat when those strong blue eyes glanced down and took particular note of her for the first time.

She attempted a smile, though it was likely a poor one. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Renn,” she said modestly, holding his gaze.

He stood silently for a second or two, then reached for her outstretched hand. “Indeed, Miss Marsh. I’ve heard all about you.”

Mary blinked, flustered and unnerved that he’d say such a thing in front of everyone, feeling the warmth and strength in his large fingers as they encircled hers. Then suddenly, disregarding any response she might make, Gwyneth wrapped her arm around her eldest son.

“Let’s eat. I want to hear all about your return, of course.”

For several uncomfortable seconds, Marcus held onto her hand.

Then, with a fast glance down her person, he dropped it and turned to his mother. “And my work?”

Mary shifted from one foot to the other; George coughed then took a long swallow of his sherry.

“Of course, my dear.” Gwyneth smiled flatly. “I know your work is very important to you.”

An awkward moment followed, until George blurted, “This way, Miss Marsh, if you please.”

The tension remained acute as they all took their places at the table.

Marcus sat at the head of it; Gwyneth at the opposite end. She and George were seated across from each other at the center.

Silence ensued for a moment or two as ready footmen prepared the first course of mock turtle soup. Mary gazed down at the lovely, shining Renn porcelain china, this year’s best, feeling the intensity in the air prick her skin like a physical force. She could positively feel the earl’s presence, as if his mere personality swept over them all, his eyes boring into the side of her face, though she wouldn’t look to him, not if she could help it. She’d certainly disgrace herself by staring if she even managed a glance in his direction. Instead she sat stiffly erect and focused on her food.

“Well, then,” Gwyneth began with an exaggerated exhale, “let’s hear all about your trip home.”

Mary didn’t look directly at the earl, but she could see from the corner of her eye that he stopped eating to sit back and assess his mother.

“It was long and tiresome,” he replied. “The journey always feels longer coming from Egypt to England than the other way around.”

“I wonder why that is?” Gwyneth returned lightly.

Marcus fairly grunted. “I don’t know, Mother. Maybe it’s because when one leaves Cairo, one is leaving warm, sunny, dry air for the dreary comforts of rain and fog and mud as the best of English weather.” He paused, then added brusquely, “My bones hurt.”

Gwyneth shifted her bottom in her chair, and Mary noticed how George devoured his soup with incredible speed. She sipped hers, hardly tasting it.

“No doubt from sitting in coaches for days,” the countess stated, ignoring entirely the fact that her eldest son didn’t appear to be in a fine mood to be home. “You certainly made it back to England quickly.”

And he had, Mary considered suddenly. Nobody had mentioned it, and since it wasn’t her place to do so, she had no idea whether he came home now because of his sister’s death, or because he had been planning to attend her wedding next month. She didn’t think it was possible for him to get news of Christine’s demise and then be home from Africa in just two short weeks. Then again, she really knew nothing about how quickly a single nobleman traveled from one continent to the other when in a hurry.

Another uncomfortable moment passed in silence, save for the clinking of dishes and the movement of servants as they removed the soup bowls and prepared for the fish course. In Mary’s opinion, it was altogether telling that the earl didn’t attempt to conceal his aggravation at his return, nor his animosity toward his mother, from a complete stranger. She didn’t know if she liked that honesty about him or not.

Then again, she had no business liking anything about him, she reminded herself. As much as Christine had boasted of her brother, it hardly mattered what she thought of him.

“Tell me, Renn,” George piped in at last as he reached for his wine glass, then sat back to observe them all, “what exciting things have you been doing lately? Any new,
profound
discoveries?”

Mary lifted her wine glass as well, chancing a glance at George to see the humor in his eyes that had been lacking of late. At least someone at the table attempted to lighten the somber mood.

Marcus turned his attention back to his food. “Profound? No.

Interesting, yes. The Egyptian government has been relatively helpful to our cause, and of course the history and people are fascinating—”

“For what they are,” Gwyneth cut in, delicately slicing her fish.

Marcus swallowed a bite and looked at her. “What they are?”

“Heathens, dear,” she finished with a satisfied smile.

“You’ll be relieved to know that many are law abiding Christians, Mother, and I have yet to be seduced by the evil side.”

Mary felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it. In all the months she’d been in Cornwall, she’d never heard anyone speak to the Countess of Renn so bluntly and without fear as the lady’s oldest son did.

Gwyneth sighed loudly. “Honestly, darling, I still have to wonder what you find so engaging about Africa. You’ve been traipsing around the desert for four years now, at risk of encountering some nasty disease or worse.”

“Worse?” he asked in exaggerated shock, leaning forward. “You mean like barbarians and robbers and despoilers of women?”

His mother eyed him sharply. “I’m certain you’ve avoided that… set thus far—”

“You’re right, Mother. The only robbers and barbarians I’ve encountered have been those who’ve looted the lovely treasures of the ancients.” He took a swallow of his wine. “I’ve done what I can to stop that, along with Professor Simpson and our team of scholars and researchers, who are as concerned about preservation as I am. I should also mention that we’ve enjoyed relative success. Since you failed to ask.”

Gwyneth ignored that and concentrated on her fish again. “Your life, your duties, are here.”

“But my
work
and
interests
are there.”

“And you’ve avoided even discussing the war in the Crimea,” she carried on as if she hadn’t heard him. “The estate, specifically the mines, could use your attention, now that many of the men are gone to serve.”

Marcus closed his eyes briefly. “I’ve not avoided the issue, Mother. I saw the grisly results aboard ship on my return.” He looked up again.

“War is nasty and I suppose sometimes necessary, but aside from funding, I can’t do anything for the effort right now. George takes care of the property perfectly well, and of course he would remain here regardless of whether I stayed.” He turned his attention back to his food. “I am neither a diplomat nor a combatant. You know that. My

responsibilities lie elsewhere.”

Gwyneth exhaled fast and loudly through her nose. “You’ve always been too much of an idealist.”

“I’m a realist, Mother, and practical. I must continue the work we’ve started in Egypt.”

The ensuing silence weighted the air in the room, though Mary realized this was a family argument minced many times through.

“When are you planning to return?”

It was the first thing Mary had said since sitting at the table, and immediately she realized she shouldn’t have tried to intervene pleasantly like that. Suddenly she became the dreaded center of attention. They all stopped eating to stare at her as if she’d made an incredibly gauche comment. Her mouth went dry and she clutched her napkin in her lap, fully facing the earl for the first time, refusing, if nothing else, to cower under such keen discomfiture of her own making.

Gwyneth scoffed. “We’ll not discuss it—”

“As soon as I find out the truth behind my sister’s death,” he said very slowly, looking directly into her eyes.

Someone dropped a fork on the delicate Renn china; Mary’s breath caught in her chest as her body went still. For seconds nobody moved, or did or said anything. And then she blinked quickly and turned to Gwyneth, noticing at once how the lady had gone pale, the bones of her face sticking out to create hollow spaces under her cheeks and eyes where the candlelight shone down in its obtrusive brilliance.

George rubbed his palm along his perspiring neck and sat back in his chair. Mary straightened and turned her attention once more to the earl. She had encouraged the mention of Christine, regardless of her intention, and as uncomfortable as she felt right now, she would offer her support.

“I’m very sorry, Lord Renn, for the loss of your sister,” she said softly. “She was a lovely lady, and we had grown quite close these last few months. Please accept my condolences.”

For a moment nothing happened. And then Marcus nodded once to her, gazing at her with shrewd eyes and wide, hard lips.

George cleared his throat. “Well, I, for one, am glad to have you home, dear brother. You’ll have to find time to tell us of some of the treasures you found during your recent adventures.”

Gwyneth didn’t offer a word, which seemed to surprise them all as they waited for a comment. Then Marcus tapped his mouth with his napkin and stood.

“I’m exhausted, and not particularly hungry.”

“Goodness, Renn, you must eat after such a journey,” his mother insisted with a true hint of concern. “You need your strength.”

For the first time since his arrival, Mary thought she saw a hint of a smile in those deep blue eyes. Then he drew in a long breath, which brought her attention to his wide chest.

“I’ll feel more like eating after a good sleep, Mother.”

Mary felt his
eyes
on her, and cheeks hot again, she pulled her gaze up to his face.

“Miss Marsh, I would like a word with you tomorrow morning. Say, around ten?”

She blinked, then said stupidly, “Ten?”

He pursed his lips. “If you’re awake.”

She couldn’t tell if he was scolding or teasing her. She sat up straighter and raised her chin a fraction. “Of course, my lord.”

“In my study.”

She nodded. Nobody said a word in response, or asked the good question of why he wanted to speak with the hired seamstress, of all people. In that instant it occurred to her that Marcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn, had returned to his home as lord. He was once again, even after an extended absence of his choosing, in complete charge.

He turned back to George. “I could do for a brandy, but that will have to wait until tomorrow night, brother. I’m frankly just too tired. Until then, enjoy the rest of your meal, and I shall see you all in the morning.”

Before anyone could reply, the man marched from the dining room, his heavy boots leaving an eerie echo behind long after he’d gone.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

12 July 1854

…Mother has begun planning for my wedding to Viscount
Exeter. She’s very excited about the prospect. I am resigned to it.

She has hired outside help, including an old family acquaintance,
Miss Mary Marsh of London, to assemble my trousseau. Oh,
Marcus, I do hope you’ll be able to return to see me wed! I should
adore walking down the aisle on your arm…

M
arcus stood at the glass windows in his study, gazing out to the open sea that reached far beyond the cliffs below. The day was gray, cold for May, and the ocean churned and foamed in time to the roaring wind that beat against the house, reminding him constantly of the bitterness outside and the turmoil within.