When It's Perfect (12 page)

He supposed this would be part of the typical trousseau, and under different circumstances, he would have left well enough alone. But with Mary Marsh looming over him with a tightly reigned nervousness, he knew there had to be something more.

Without looking at her, he dug deeply into the first pile of linens and lifted it. And there it was. Red silk. He pulled it to the side to see bright pink, bold burgundy, and luscious sea green satin, royal purple lace…

Trying unsuccessfully to hide his wolfish grin, he instead kept his face turned from the women and sat back on his heel. “Where are the nightgowns?”

Mary let out a little squeak of a noise, and he could feel himself chuckling on the inside. God, for the last two days he had only hoped…

“I don’t know where she kept them, Lord Renn,” she admitted after a moment or two of discomfiting silence.

A non-answer. Marcus pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. This was the first enjoyment he’d had in a long, long time.

Mary Marsh made erotic underclothes, just as Christine had said she

was rumored to do. He had yet to lift one from the trunk, though he recognized a lace corset when he saw one. And even though it was none of his business, and God knew it went far beyond his grasp to imagine his sister wearing such things, he now knew what lay hidden beneath a perfectly well-sewn pair of cotton sheets that Mary had wanted to keep from him.

Still, what to do with this knowledge? Did all brides wear such marvelous items? He’d never thought about it, but for the first time in ages, he truly wondered if he’d been utterly stupid not to have married long ago.

“Did you see what you expected, Lord Renn?” Mary challenged in a cool whisper from behind him.

Marcus stilled, his fingers clasping midnight blue stockings. “Yes and no, Miss Marsh,” he replied after a moment’s thought. Slowly, he replaced the stockings, followed by the short pile of folded, respectable tablecloths, then closed the lid of the trunk and sat back on his heels. “I do, however, find it fascinating,” he added, pushing himself up with his palms on his thighs to face her again. “And I wonder… do all brides wear such things on their wedding nights?”

After only the slightest pause, without flinching, she cocked her head minutely and murmured, “I wouldn’t know, Lord Renn.”

Marcus didn’t know whether to be irritated at her evasiveness, or applaud her courage at what had to be a tremendously embarrassing moment.

She stood before him, her cheeks bright, the sun from the window shining off her two golden braid loops, with her hands behind her back, ever the angelic face, eyes flashing resolve—and exposing a very clever mind.

He felt the instantaneous urge to smile, and this time he couldn’t help it. His mouth lifted into a full-fledged grin of satisfaction.

She gritted her teeth. “I fail to see what’s so amusing.”

Very gradually, his gaze dropped down her curvy form, then back to her face, where it lingered for a moment before he answered. At last, he leaned over so that only she could hear, to whisper, “I was just thinking that you really bear no resemblance on the outside to a clandestine lingerie maker.”

He heard a slight intake of breath before he’d even finished saying the words, and then he pulled back again.

She was truly blushing now, but she didn’t say anything. Aside from a quick glance to his servant, who stood oblivious at the doorway, she didn’t budge. For several seconds, Marcus let his imagination flow,

speculating on what her tall, lovely body might look like in sea green satin or a corset of bright magenta, showcasing a curving waist and magnificent breasts. As his thoughts took wing, he felt the urging of an erection that startled him as much as it piqued his anger. His desire could not be any more inappropriate.

Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I think we’ve seen all we need to here.”

One blond brow rose in question. “I thought perhaps you’d like a viewing of my work.”

Marcus’s heart began to race, more at the mere thought of watching her sashay around him in provocative corsets and stockings than at her sarcastic innuendoes of solid indignation, which was surely what she meant. Then again, in a manner of speaking, he felt as if he’d invaded
her
personal belongings, which he was certain she wanted him to feel.

In a tone harsher than was intended, he said, “I’ll see you at dinner, Miss Marsh.”

With rigid shoulders, he strode past her and out into the hallway, knowing she burned a hole in his back with her gaze.

Mary needed to think, and the best place she’d discovered on the Renn estate for private thinking was the cliff overlooking the bay. It remained peaceful there day by day, fairly secluded as it allowed few intruders, even George and the countess, who seldom walked the cliffs.

The afternoon had grown cool and windy, and she’d donned a light cloak as the darkened clouds in the distance signaled a coming rain. No matter. She adored the freshness of the coast, the smell of the sea, and the crisper air.

Marcus Longfellow troubled her. Truthfully, she wasn’t so much troubled by
him
as she was by her reaction to him and all he said and did in her presence. As if he liked her more than should be appropriate for someone of her station, as if he actually enjoyed her company.

She shivered. That was impossible, especially now that he suspected she created and sewed salacious underclothes for respectable ladies.

Damn it all, why had she not foreseen his reaction? Why hadn’t she thought of moving the garments? Because they were Christine’s, and she had no business removing any of Christine’s personal belongings from the lady’s room. It hadn’t even occurred to her to do so.

Mary fisted her hands at her sides, confused, annoyed at herself, and wishing she could forsake her duties in Cornwall and return home. But the underlying fact was that she simply wasn’t ready to face her family again. At this point, she decided with some amusement as she blindly

followed the winding trail through the brush, she’d rather face the arguments between George and Gwyneth, and the entanglements at Baybridge House.

At last she spotted the open sea as the cliff line came into view—and stopped dead in her tracks.

Twenty feet away, on the stone bench that she’d shared with him only a few hours ago, sat the Earl of Renn, a single figure in black from hair to foot, outlined by the icy dark ocean as a backdrop.

Immediately, Mary took one step back, as quietly as she could, sensing a certain drama in the moment, a cold foreboding, and wanting sensibly—desperately—to avoid it.

He had most of his back to her, his head down, and in his partially outstretched hand, he held a letter he appeared to be reading.

The wind blew the corner of the yellow colored paper toward his fist, but he didn’t set it right, or move at all, for that matter. He sat immobile, staring. And then he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, and Mary liquefied with the knowledge that he was crying.

Christine’s letter. Christine’s things. The shock of it all had started to sink in, how all their lives had changed forevermore from this one inexplicable event.

Mary had no idea what to do, or if she should do anything. She’d never in her life seen a grown man cry. Not from pent up grief and a loneliness she all but felt herself.

The urge to walk to his side and put her arms around his shoulders in comfort was overwhelming. For nearly a minute, she remained standing behind him in the shadow of the brush, listening to the wind off the cliff, watching him.

Moments later, she turned and silently made her way back to Baybridge House.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

20 October 1854

…Exeter will be here for our dinner party tomorrow. I am
looking forward to his company although it must be said that
he’s been acting different of late. He’s been a bit more moody and
thoughtful. Mother thinks he’s merely nervous about our
upcoming wedding and the responsibilities of marriage. I love
him, of course, and am simply trying to do what is expected of
me as his betrothed…

T
hey were to gather for dinner at eight. The Viscount Exeter was expected to be early, which Mary knew was typical of him. The man, with all his oddities, despised lateness, as she’d heard numerous times from Christine. She had to wonder, however, if he still grieved for his betrothed; this dinner, insisted on by the countess, could prove enlightening for all of them, and in a manner, Mary very definitely looked forward to it.

She’d decided on her burgundy evening gown with the cropped sleeves and squared neckline, made entirely of satin. As her favorite evening dress, she’d saved it only for the best occasions, and tonight’s gathering would be as formal as any. She’d piled her hair high on top of her head, allowing ringlets to tumble down along her temples in front of her ears where she’d hung teardrop pearl earrings to match the single strand at her neck. She supposed it was vanity that made her want to be noticed as a woman rather than as hired help, and with a last glance in her mirror followed by a pinch to her cheeks for color, she decided she’d accomplished that.

They’d taken sherry in the drawing room at seven, though for the first fifteen minutes it had been only her and George. Gwyneth had been under the weather for the afternoon, so she took her time, and as for the earl, Mary hadn’t heard a peep. Perhaps he always appeared late on principle. For some reason she wouldn’t doubt it; such behavior would fit what she knew of his character.

But regardless of his reticence and disregard for social gatherings, she very much looked forward to seeing him tonight, or perhaps just addressing him while looking her best. She’d never been a conceited woman; indeed, while an attractive appearance was important to her, it had never been because she desired the attention of a man. Until Marcus Longfellow had arrived at Baybridge House, she’d not given her physical looks much thought beyond basic grooming. But as incensed as she became with herself, she wanted to look appealing for him at dinner

this evening.

She sat primly next to George in matching midnight blue velveteen chairs, to the side of the now cold fireplace, sipping the expensive ruby red sherry, keenly aware of the empty doorway and who might be the next to step through it. As always, George remained in good humor under the circumstances, charming even as he spoke in great detail of trouble at the mines—lack of good help because of the war effort, the constant grumbling of the workers regarding low wages and the continuous unseasonable rain. Of course, complaint of pay was a regular irritant, but the countess’s second son handled it all well. In many ways, Mary admired George and liked him as a person.

“I see my brother has taken quite a fancy to you, Miss Marsh.”

Mary nearly choked on her sherry. Swallowing hard to fight a cough, she shifted her gaze to face the comment—not from George, but from the earl, who now stood in the doorway that had been vacant only seconds ago, his large frame filling out the dimensions in marvelous proportion.

He wore black evening attire in light wool, a striped gray and white silk waistcoat, and a solid white cravat, his hair combed back to allow a lovely view of his intense eyes and tanned, cleanshaven skin. He looked positively stunning, and she could actually feel her heartbeat increase with every breath.

“God, Renn, every time I see you, I’m in shock,” George said with a cheerful grin.

“It’s as if I never left?”

“More like seeing a ghost, brother,” George replied, as he stood, drink in hand. “I’ve been stealing Miss Marsh’s good time by offering tales of horror at the mine, though I’m probably boring her.”

Marcus glanced at both of them, then began to saunter into the drawing room, hands behind his back. “You could never be boring, George.” He looked directly into Mary’s eyes. “Miss Marsh seemed captivated, as ladies always are in your company.”

She felt that peculiar flutter in her belly as he approached. “I was, Lord Renn,” she managed to respond lightheartedly. “Your brother is a delight, and has entertained me on occasion with his fascinating stories of mining and the process of making fine china. Tonight was no exception.”

One corner of his hard mouth lifted in a smirk. “He’s always been the charming one.”

And you the mystery.

Mary pushed back that intriguing thought and raised her hand for him to take as he stood beside her at last.

The simple touch of his large palm to her fingers seemed to melt her, warm her through and through, and she felt a certain heat climb her neck when he raised her fingers to his lips. They lingered there for two or three long seconds, his bold gaze locked with hers, through every staggered breath. Odd that George had done this simple gesture a hundred times in the last few months and she’d never become breathless, or hot within.

“Exeter’s not here yet,” George cut in after taking a sip of his sherry.

To Mary, his ill-timed pronouncement felt like an intimate intrusion.

She blinked, reality settling in once more, then gently tried to pull her hand back from the earl’s grasp, which he had yet to drop.

“Unlike him,” Marcus commented without adding anything by way of explanation, still looking at her.

Then he swiftly released her fingers, turning away and moving to the sideboard, where he could help himself to a drink already dutifully poured by one of the two waiting footmen. Instead of sherry, he took whiskey.

Mary felt hot all over, uncomfortable in her stays, and she decided the sherry would not do. She needed to remain focused tonight lest she embarrass herself at a formal dinner in front of the most important people in Cornwall. She placed her half-empty glass on the tea table beside her, and sat primly, her hands in her lap, noting again how even after the slight shift of her body in her chair her best corset pinched at the waist and the lace of her gown rubbed raw against her skin. How foolish she was to choose style and attractiveness over comfort. Her plain purple gown would have been a far better, not to mention a more conservative, choice.