When It's Perfect (15 page)

“And I’d rather be in Egypt.”

Mary remained silent for a moment, letting this new information sink in. It all made sense, and of course, couples married for land and property all the time. It was nothing new, and in the course of history there were undoubtedly more difficult situations than this for families to address.

“But that still doesn’t explain why you allowed him to speak as he did at table,” she insisted, sitting as tensely as she felt inside. “Pardon me, Lord Renn, but he insulted you, your family, and even your sister.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then glanced sideways at her again. “I was far more angry that he’d insulted you, Miss Marsh. You are my guest, a lady, and among the living.”

Mary didn’t move, could hardly breathe. Her mouth fell open so that she fairly gaped at him. She couldn’t see his expression, but she had the idea that he smiled.

The breeze stirred around them, rustling the hedges. Still, Mary didn’t look away from his shadowed face so close to her own. No, she didn’t fear him like this, all alone in the garden, didn’t feel anything but his inner strength, his power, his heat. It overwhelmed her. But for the first time she relished it as well.

“Tell me about your work, Lord Renn.”

That startled him. He looked down at her sharply, his brows drawn together to form a solid line in the moonlight. For seconds he hesitated, as if to question whether she actually desired specific details or if she simply wanted to find another less personal topic to discuss.

“What would you like to know?” he asked quietly.

She lifted her right shoulder in a shrug. “What you enjoy about it, what you do, exactly.” She glanced to her feet. “Why you left England to

pursue it when you have so many obligations here.”

He breathed low and evenly as he sat beside her. Mary knew he pondered her rather intimate questioning, and that he’d respond. She simply waited.

Finally, he said, “I suppose in simple terms, I’m a translator of Egyptian hieroglyphic script.”

He’d told her this once before, but now it utterly fascinated her.

Mary shifted her body on the fountain wall to face him squarely. “What does that mean exactly?”

“That means, Miss Marsh, that I’m well versed in the ancient form of Egyptian writing called hieroglyphics. It’s an art and a science, really, and not many people in the world do what I do. The language has only been understood for thirty years or so, and of course that’s relative.

We’re learning new concepts all the time. But for the last four years, I’ve been traveling with several distinguished professors of archaeology.

Together, we put into context their findings, that are uncovered on sculpture, papyrus, and tombs.” He pursed his lips, then added, “It’s mostly tedious work, of course, a great deal of cataloging, but work I’ve wanted to do since I was a child.”

“That’s absolutely remarkable,” Mary whispered wistfully after a long moment of silence, her honesty expressed without question.

He cocked his lips in a half-smile. “I enjoy it.”

“More than tending to land and china clay mines?”

He breathed in very deeply. “I’ve never been good with practical matters on the home front, aside from getting them done with minimal effort. Too anxious to explore other lands, cultures, languages, I suppose. At my father’s death, George took control of the mining and lands. I was merely in the way, with nothing keeping me in charge aside from the little circumstance of having been born first.”

An extremely difficult situation for the whole family, she imagined, and not one with which Gwyneth would likely ever come to terms. She knew that as well as she knew the lady herself. It made the earl’s determination all the more understandable and Mary’s sympathy of the man’s predicament all the more abundant.

“Did you attend school to learn what you do?” she asked, oddly treasuring the intimacy of the moment.

He nodded once. “I studied six years of language at Oxford. I speak and write Greek, Latin, and French proficiently. Later, I studied with students of Champollion, the man who first deciphered hieroglyphs correctly in eighteen twenty-two.”

Mary grinned broadly, which he evidently noticed.

“How is that amusing, Miss Marsh?” he asked, with only a trace of defensiveness in his tone.

She pressed her lips together before admitting, “I think it’s funny that Christine never mentioned your achievements or what exactly you
did
in Egypt. Her comments generally boasted of your personal presence, your… bearing as a man and an earl. She was quite proud of you and your achievements, and she spoke of you frequently, but it wasn’t about language or study, it was about digging, discovering, charging into battle, as it were, the brave leader of a group of rugged scholars who found treasures of incredible worth in various tombs and pyramids.” She brought her palm to her mouth to hide her grin for a moment, then lowered it again, her expression more prosaic. “Nobody ever mentioned that you were a quiet intellectual and scholar, though I find such a description much more true to what I know of your personality, Lord Renn.”

His eyes roved over her face. “Christine simply found a way that she could personally accept my absence,” he revealed quietly. “In her mind, as with all my family, unless I’m doing something of profound importance abroad, I should be here, at Baybridge House, doing my duty as the Earl of Renn. To my very young and impressionable sister, charging in and making discoveries of lasting human significance seemed more acceptable than my sitting in the desert, at a dry wooden table, wearing old, faded clothing, and logging words and picture-writing onto a paper tablet later to be reviewed and analyzed by various scholars.” He paused then added, “There is simply no way to explain to those who care about me that doing precisely that is what makes me the man I am.”

Before she thought of her words, Mary replied, “I understand.”

He sat staring at her for so long, Mary began to fear she’d said too much. The fountain bubbled behind them as the only sound for miles, it seemed; nothing distracted his focus from her at that moment.

Then, thickly, he murmured, “Your interest in my work, and my desires, means more to me than you know.”

She shivered, rubbing her arms with her palms as he continued to stare at her in near darkness. “I’m afraid to ask why,” she whispered.

“Maybe because nobody ever seemed to listen to my wishes if they didn’t correlate with their perception of what I
should
be doing.”

“Like your mother?”

He nodded. “Specifically. But George, too. He’s never fully understood my need to get away, to discover the unknown, as it were.

He respects my decisions, but I can tell he’s a bit envious that I have chosen to forsake my duties as a land manager.”

“Is he envious of your title?”

Marcus frowned, glancing to the ground. “I don’t think he’s given it much thought because it’s always been mine. I have always been the earl and he’s always been the second son. We fought constantly as children, but as adults we’re very much friends. He cares for me, as I do him, and worries about me when I’m gone, but he’s very different in personality, as you’ve probably witnessed.”

She smiled. “It’s been rather obvious, yes.”

He swiftly looked her way, then back to his shoes. “He has his own life, his own friends and ways of doing things. I sometimes get the impression from him that he’d like me either to stay and manage the land, or give him all responsibility.” He dropped his voice so that it was barely audible. “I wonder if he’s considered that he would have chosen a better match for Christine, but I’ve never asked, and he’s never said as much. Though I do wonder that now.”

His confessions stirred Mary to the heart. In a way, she felt privileged to be bestowed his trust, and highly flattered that he’d revealed so much of himself to her without assuming how she might respond. As if he wanted her to know the very deepest part of his inner turmoil and longings.

“Now, I want to ask you something, Miss Marsh,” he said contemplatively, changing his tone as he tapped his fingertips together in front of him.

“Of course, Lord Renn,” she replied politely.

He stared at his hands. “Where do you buy the material for the items you make and sell?”

That subject completely stumped her. When she didn’t instantly come back with an answer, he looked into her eyes again, and Mary felt certain that he noticed her surprise since she faced the light of the distant house.

To clarify, she returned, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a simple business question, that’s all,” he stated with a small lift of one wide shoulder.

Brows furrowed, she lowered her lashes as she turned to gaze out across the flowers. “Normally I purchase my materials from a Mr.

Oliver Billingsly, a distributor in London; I’ve done business with him for several years.”

“I see.”

She had no idea why he should.

He twisted toward her a little more, a little closer. “So this Mr.

Billingsly sells you colored satins and silks at your request?”

Her stomach began to knot and she rubbed her nose for something to do. “Lord Renn—”

“Humor me, Miss Marsh.” It was a very definite insistence.

She held her ground. “Yes. He imports them and sells to a number of dressmakers.”

“And trousseau… planners?”

Her insides truly clenched now and her palms began to perspire.

“Yes.” She raised her chin a little, straightened her shoulders, probably to keep herself from cowering. “He also sells me cotton and wool.”

He nodded, thinking. “I’m certain he does.” Suddenly he lowered his hand and rested it, palm down, on the fountain wall between their bodies, leaning on it, toward her.

“And when you get these silks and satins—”

“And cotton and wool,” she added, her tone husky.

“And cotton and wool,” he repeated, “what do you generally do with it?”

She didn’t for a minute think he was that stupid, but she played along, wondering how they’d gone from ancient Egypt and scholars to intimate apparel. Leave it to a man to do so. “You’re aware, Lord Renn, that I make nightgowns and sheets and practical accessories for the bride.”

“Ah. Yes, I see. Practical accessories.” He waited for a moment, then glanced into her eyes. “What do you do with the satin and silk? Can one actually
wear
a satin nightgown?”

Mary felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “I’m sure this is not a discussion we should be having, my lord.”

“I’m just curious, Miss Marsh. You asked about my business, my work, now I’m asking about yours.”

Oh, it was much, much more, and she was certain he knew it, too.

She inhaled deeply and looked at her skirt, rubbing her thumbs together nervously in her lap. “Very well,” she said a bit too sharply.

“With my business, I do occasionally make satin and silk nightclothes for ladies who request them.”

“And corsets?”

She could swear her heart stopped. Her eyes no doubt appeared as round as saucers, but thank God the man couldn’t see the scarlet color

of her skin. Or feel it burning.

“I’m sorry, Lord Renn,” she murmured hoarsely, “but I’m not sure why this is something you need to concern yourself with. A gentleman like yourself has no business—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Marsh,” he cut in with determination. “This isn’t personal, it’s your business. If I choose to marry someday, I think I would like my wife to wear colorful satin corsets and silk nightgowns.” He paused, leaning ever closer so that he nearly touched her, his voice a deep whisper. “Until I saw your workmanship for myself, it hadn’t occurred to me that such items were for sale. You’re very good. Could I call upon you for the task?”

He wanted her to make nightgowns and corsets for his future
wife
?

Would he have her model them for him as well?

“My Lord Renn,” she admonished in rigid form.

“Miss Marsh?” he replied innocently.

She ignored the light humor in his tone. “This type of request of my services is usually… is most often chosen by the bride-to-be, or her mother. Not the bridegroom. There are factors involved, a trying on and experimenting with fabrics and sizes, of showing the lady the various styles and colors. The bridegroom is the one to benefit from the surprise.”

The earl sat back a little. “Ah. Benefit.” He nodded. “I see your point.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled and quickly stood. “It’s getting late. I think I shall say good night.”

Immediately he stood at her side, inches away, his face looming over her shadowed form. Just as quickly, he brought his lips down to lay them softly against hers—touching, melting, burning into them.

Shock overtook her good senses, and numbly she allowed the intimate caress of his mouth as it lingered against hers. Somewhere deep inside, Mary wanted to succumb, to give in and enjoy as she hadn’t in years—or to shove him away and run. Yet even as he refrained from embracing her, she couldn’t bring herself to move. The feel of him was heaven. Gloriously divine. As perfect as she’d ever imagined.

He moved his lips in gentle rhythm, softly coaxing her to respond without invasion. She heard the trickle of the fountain, smelled the sea air and flowers, felt a moan well up from deep in her throat, and suddenly yearned for his total embrace.

And then, abruptly, it ended.

Slowly, he shifted his head to the side of her face, his breathing

labored and warm against her cheek. She had yet to open her eyes, afraid of what she might see—or of what he might witness in hers.

“I think,” he whispered, brushing his lips along her temple, “that I will call you Mary anyway, when we are alone like this.”

She leaned her head back, unable to find her voice, to utter a word.

“Mary… the perfect name for a lady,” he finished in a husky timbre.

“I just wonder what fire there will be to discover beneath this outer layer of perfection.”

With one last breath, he drew his thumb across her lips. “Good night, Mary Marsh.”

He left her then, alone in the garden, shivering by moonlight.