When It's Perfect (7 page)

“Except three days before she died,” Claudette interrupted, voice shaky and low. “The last time she came here to visit with me.”

The house creaked from rain-soaked timbers; breathing seemed to stop.

“She was… upset,” the vicar’s wife continued, “extremely disturbed about something.” Claudette closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to gaze directly at him. “But all she said, Lord Renn, was that she was frightened of her future. Those were her exact words. I asked, but she did not elaborate on what it was that troubled her so. If she had, I would tell you.”

Marcus could feel his frustration mount as his fists clenched of their

own accord, his blood pounded in his temples. This was more of the same, not new information that would help him determine what had frightened his sister. She had said as much of nothing to him in her last letters. She’d said nothing
substantial
to anyone, it appeared. God, they were getting nowhere.

Then suddenly he caught a very slight, guarded glimpse between Claudette and Mary—meant only for the two women to see. A spark of acknowledgment that spoke of… what? Shared fears? Silent secrets? He didn’t know.

Yet that slip of a glance told him much. They either assumed something he didn’t, or Christine
hadn’t
taken her secrets to her grave after all, but had revealed at least some part of her inner apprehension to one of them. Or both. But did Christine talk to them as confidantes?

As friends, or just as women? The crushing weight of uncertainty and futility threatened to unleash his deep-felt anger. And regret.

“Did you tell any of this to the magistrate?” he asked pointedly to both of the Coswells, his tone expressing only a tinge of exasperation.

“Yes, of course,” Claudette answered at once. “But again, we all thought her worries were related to her upcoming wedding. Nothing more.”

There was more. Much, much more. As determined as he felt to discover it today, however, Marcus knew he wouldn’t. But he would not let these unanswered questions rest. He would endeavor to learn the truth, and no matter how long it took, he would discover what had frightened his sister so terribly until the very day she died.

Drawing a deep breath, he yielded at last. “I thank you both, then, for speaking to us candidly.”

“You are welcome any time,” the vicar said, waiting for him to stand with his subtle hint of their impending departure. When he did, so did Coswell, adding, “As are you, Miss Marsh. It has been a pleasure to see you again.”

Mary, who had remained silently watching the last exchange, stood lastly with grace, nodded once, and held out her hand for the vicar to grasp. “Thank you for a lovely tea, Vicar. Mrs. Coswell.”

With another short discussion of the nasty weather, and murmurs of promised returns, the two of them stepped out into the damp, gloomy late afternoon.

She’d hoped to return to Baybridge House before darkness fell. That wasn’t possible, however, since the rumbling thunderstorm had already blackened the sky.

The earl sat across from her, watching her speculatively, though he tried to conceal his interest beneath half-closed lids as he relaxed in his seat, his hands clasped across his stomach. Mary had been intensely aware of him all day, from the first moment they stepped into the coach this afternoon, through tea, and even now, though she tried her very best to hide her uneasiness with his close proximity. Gentlemen of all natures and passions made her nervous, and this one did especially, however unclear she was of the reason. He had the most marvelous build, and carried himself so… flawlessly. Marcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn, demanded attention. Even now, as she tried her best to avoid him, and conversation, she felt her palms moisten and her stomach muscles tighten with apprehension, from repressed anxiety, she supposed. And secrets tucked deep within that she never intended to reveal.

“What did you make of all that?”

She fairly jumped in her seat from even that soft intrusion. “I beg your pardon?”

He gazed at her frankly, though she couldn’t be sure of his mood in the growing darkness.

“Were you satisfied?”

Her cheeks flushed hotly. “Satisfied?”

He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “Miss Marsh, do you so often repeat questions asked of you without offering explanation?”

Undaunted, she straightened on the cushioned seat. “Apparently so, Lord Renn.”

Silence reigned. Then he chuckled and rubbed his eyes. It was a soft, deep chuckle, and she likened it instantly to someone gradually and deliberately dragging a feather down her naked spine. It made her tingle in all the most improper places and she forced her thighs together beneath layers of binding petticoats and skirts. This should not be happening. Not now.

“Lord Renn,” she replied sternly, trying to gulp down her insecurities.

“You are quite a contradiction, aren’t you?” he said thoughtfully, cutting into her forthcoming admonition.

“Meaning what, may I ask?” Then she realized she shouldn’t have asked at all. She didn’t want to know what he thought of her. Not really.

The coach hit a rut in the road and they both jerked against the sidewall, though his gaze remained focused on her.

“For all your coolness,” he explained in a husky, speculative tone, “all

your aloofness, your serene loveliness and quiet charm that you exhibit on the outside, I know there must be a rather warm and scintillating personality within.”

Stunned, Mary sat tightly, fingers digging into her palms, wanting to look away, to escape the stuffy confines that secluded them from the outside world, but unable to do so. In a manner, he’d captivated her.

“I know this, you see,” he finished in near whisper, never moving his gaze from hers, “because Christine spoke so well of you, mentioned your humor, your cleverness and warm friendship.” He cocked his head to regard her even in the near blackness. “I’ll bet the two of you shared frivolous stories and enticing secrets about love and romance as ladies often do. Knowing Christine, she probably even revealed a few of my own in that regard.”

His voice hypnotized her, or maybe it was merely his masculine dominance so close to her feminine form. She felt like jumping out of her skin.

Your serene loveliness…

“I’m sure you know much about ladies and their topics of discussion in private conversation,” she stated crisply, sounding, even to her ears, utterly defensive.

He chuckled again and she visibly shivered.

“Did she say you’d like me?” he asked slyly.

Her stomach flipped over. “Like you? In what manner?”

She shouldn’t have asked that, for he laughed again, annoying her.

“As a person, a man,” he replied after a moment, watching her closely.

She looked out the window to the dark night sky. “I’m sure you’re a very intelligent, congenial gentleman, Lord Renn.”

He said nothing to that for a moment, then murmured, “So she did tell you about me.”

Mary swallowed, trying to breathe normally. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

“No, but you certainly implied it. And I knew my sister. She could talk about nothing whatsoever for thirty hours straight if she didn’t need to sleep.”

Mary shot him a quick glance, and although he remained in shadow, she could positively
hear
him grinning. He teased her with every word, and even in her nervousness, she had to admit she found it thoroughly enchanting. She hadn’t been teased by a man in years.

With an upward twist of her lips, she remarked in turn, “She seemed

to think you were nearly perfect in everything you do.” Sighing heavily for emphasis, she added, “Naturally, I find that difficult to believe.”

He tapped his palm on his cushioned seat as if contemplating her words.

Then he shrugged. “No, she was right. I’m very nearly perfect.”

Mary almost laughed, pressing her lips together to keep from doing so. How odd, that the sullen Earl of Renn should also be witty and amusing. It was a side of his personality, she believed, that very few people saw. Christine had, and she had described him that way. Mary decided she wouldn’t mention that to him, however. Let him wonder.

She enjoyed his quizzical mood.

“How modest you are, Lord Renn.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Another of my charming attributes.”

She huffed, but she noticed he still smiled.

For minutes they traveled in silence, until at last he shifted his head for a quick look out the window.

“We’re almost at the house. Better to sleep on what we learned from the Coswells and perhaps discuss it tomorrow.”

Indeed, she’d learned plenty at tea; plenty that she didn’t ever want to discuss with Christine’s brother. Still, she felt thankful at his suggestion of delay and refrained from arguing. She’d be better focused tomorrow, and not centered on her determination to get away from the alluring man who sat so close to her in a musty, dark coach that traveled slowly along a deserted cliff.

Suddenly the earl stretched out one of his long legs, and his shoe tapped against her ankle under her gown.

Mary flinched and drew back so forcefully that she bumped her knee on the coach door. Pain flared, but she held steady, unwilling to let him know the level of her distraction.

He opened his eyes once more. Surprise lingered as his mouth turned down in frown.

Mary looked away, desperately hoping he didn’t witness the uneasiness welling up inside of her.

A moment later, as they stopped in front of Baybridge House, Mary practically tore herself from his presence and escaped to the safety of her room without another word between them.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

17 August 1854

…I’ve been corresponding with Miss Marsh, the lady who will
be organizing my trousseau. Did I mention her in a previous
letter? I cannot now remember. She seems courteous enough,
and certainly experienced with her work. Yet I can’t help feeling
that she is being evasive about herself. I know you would tell me
not to be so inquisitive, as I am equally certain you are laughing
at the thought, Marcus. I just had hoped that she would reveal
more of her personality in her letters to me. I can’t help but
wonder if she’s being deliberately vague…

L
ike an adolescent youth, he couldn’t wait to get her alone again.

Perhaps that was irrational on his part, especially for a man his age. He just wished he’d said something more… profound in the coach.

Something more clever, to make their conversation linger. She’d left him fast enough when they’d arrived back at the manor.

But he had made her smile. Amazing how that had felt like a triumph. And a triumph it was. She smiled beautifully. It made her warmer in expression, made her appear quite young. When they’d met for dinner, Marcus felt certain he’d stared at her more than he should have, and only hoped his mother and George hadn’t noticed his preoccupation. He didn’t think Mary had, as she had notably avoided his gaze.

Now, Marcus stood next to the library door, pausing so his nerves could settle. He knew she’d gone there after finishing dessert only a few minutes ago, as she’d said she wanted a book to read before retiring this evening. He would take advantage of the private moment for a bit of conversation before heading to his own bed. What could it hurt to get to

know a unique member of his staff a little better?

After one deep breath and a long exhalation, he ran his palms along his jacket front, then reached out and pushed down on the brass latch.

The door clicked open and he stepped inside.

One small lamp on a side table dimly shone on row after row of filled bookcases, floor to ceiling, to his left and right. Directly in front of him, beyond a crushed velvet, tasseled settee and two matching chairs, stood the shadowed figure of Mary Marsh, her back to him as she gazed out a tall window.

Slowly she turned, when the light from the hallway cast a glow on the oak floor, and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Are you thinking about which book to read, Miss Marsh?” he asked, venturing into the library, hands clasped behind him.

She blinked as if unsure of the reason for his presence. Then she answered softly, “I was just admiring the room—the view, I mean. The garden is lovely from this window.” Her shapely brows creased in a frown. “What are you doing here, Lord Renn?”

He stopped just to the side of the settee, his chin tilting a fraction.

“Admiring the view.”

She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the movement. Lovely lips.

Full and pink.

“I beg your pardon?”

Marcus almost smiled. Clearly, she wasn’t used to flirtations. Or maybe he wasn’t as good at it as he used to be. He skipped over an explanation.

“The sky has cleared, I see,” he said, stepping toward her once more.

She turned back to the window. “Yes, but no moon, unfortunately. I can’t see the path and flowers. Or the sea in the distance.”

“Ah.” He stood beside her, gazing at her profile. “But the advantage of having no moon is that you can see more stars.”

For a moment she stared out to the infinite beyond, her arms to her sides, the hue of the lamp behind them reflecting off the sheen of her plum-colored gown.

“And they are beautiful tonight,” she offered, her voice sounding strangely detached.

“Lovely.” He leaned his hand on the sill and finally peered out at them as well. “I haven’t seen stars in the English sky in four long years.”

“Do they look different in Africa?”

He could swear he smelled roses and forced himself to keep from

leaning in closer to her. “A bit, I suppose. I’m no expert in astronomy, though, so I couldn’t tell you what the differences are.”

“As in where the constellations are located?”

“Precisely. But the whole universe seems to shine… brighter in the desert sky. Sometimes I’d stay awake for hours just staring at them, wondering at their source.”

“Me, too,” she returned, wistfully. “It’s all so vast.”

Roses mixed with fresh, clean bath water. “Mmm.”