When It's Perfect (20 page)

“Did you mention this to the authorities when she died?” he asked.

She fidgeted. “No.”

“Why?” He slammed his fist on the sill. “And so help me, God, Mary, do
not
tell me it wasn’t your place to do so.”

His sudden burst of anger toward her startled her. But she understood it, and even, in a very odd way, relished it because it seemed such a personal interaction between them.

Drawing a long breath, she acknowledged, “I had no proof; this was only my conjecture, and as such, it seemed to have no bearing on her accidental death. But most significant, my lord, was the simple fact that Miss Christine was to be married to Viscount Exeter in one month. If she were carrying his child, who would care? Yes, a few eyebrows would be raised at an earlier than usual birth of a healthy child, perhaps even a few snickers—”

“At my sister’s expense,” he interjected.

“Yes,” she agreed without hesitation. “But she is hardly the first lady to conceive a child before her wedding day, and ultimately there would be no proof of an indiscretion. It should not have even much bothered the viscount or your sister, assuming they were aware of it. Nobody knew, and I imagine it would have stayed that way had she lived. I know I’ll never mention it to anyone, save you.”

Motionless, he stood where he was, gazing out the window into the solid blackness of a moonless, starless night, mulling over her words.

“Claudette Coswell knows,” he murmured. “That’s where that look she gave you came from. It was a look of verification.”

It took her a minute to decide how to answer him. Finally, she replied, “It’s possible, and I had thought of this at the time. But there isn’t a way for her to accurately ascertain how much of the situation I’m aware of. Christine may have spoken to Mrs. Coswell about it, even perhaps the vicar in a bit of confusion or panic, but they would never tell a soul.”

The earl nodded minutely, absorbing this information as she had weeks ago. The vicar and his wife would never betray the confidence of the richest landowner in this part of the country. Nor would they dare scandalize the names of the two most important mine-owning aristocratic families in Cornwall.

Mary knew she had explained herself well, that her intentional silence about her suspicions had come from sound reasoning. Still, she had a fair idea of how shocking this would be for him as it all gradually sank in, to know his sister would not have been a virgin on her wedding day, that she’d had intimate relations with such a brash man who didn’t care to wait a few more weeks for the vows to be exchanged.

Unfortunately, it spoke all too well of the little value the viscount placed

on Christine’s reputation, which, Mary supposed, was the truth behind the earl’s focused anger, whether he recognized it yet or not.

And yet, when one is in love
…

“Thank you, Mary.”

She started, confused for a moment from the softness of that simple statement. “I—I’m not sure—”

“Thank you,” he repeated.

He turned to face her again, eyeing her directly, his feelings masked.

“Thank you for telling me what I certainly didn’t want to know,” he continued, moving slowly toward her. “Thank you for being open, and honest, and sharing your private thoughts, even as you tried not to.”

Suddenly he was so close he towered over her, a vision of masculinity and grace, arms crossed over his chest in a stance of power that complemented his probing, dark eyes full of feeling he likely couldn’t express.

“What are you going to do?” she fairly whispered.

He drew in a long breath. “Tonight? Nothing. Maybe nothing at all.”

His gaze roved over her features outlined only by lamplight from the desk. “But this won’t end until I have every answer I want.”

“I know.” And she did know that, too. She sensed his determination, his desire for justice, his need for questions to be answered completely and without prevarication. Such was part of his personality—a hunger for fairness rarely seen.

Mary could feel herself clutching her skirt so tightly it wrinkled. With effort, she attempted to loosen her grip and smooth it.

Neither moved as seconds passed in highly discomfiting silence. At last he asked, “Did Christine ever discuss me in detail, Miss Marsh?”

His change in approach was so utterly unexpected, she jerked her head back and gaped at him. “My lord?”

He unfurled his arms and rested his hip against his desk. “In the months that you were by her side as her friend, did she mention me in depth at all?”

She had no idea why he wanted to know this. It certainly didn’t pertain to their very grave topic of discussion. “I suppose so.”

He spread his palms wide. “And?”

She could feel that particular heat radiating from him again. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

One side of his mouth tipped up in smile. “What did she say about me?”

She tried not to smile back. “I don’t believe this pertains to the topic at hand, Lord Renn.”

“It doesn’t, Miss Marsh.”

She pressed her lips together to stifle a grin. God, his eyes were so blue.

“She talked a little of your past, your quiet nature, your… care for your family. She adored you.”

His smile faded to softness. “I knew that.”

Mary felt her stomach tighten at his close proximity, but she didn’t give in to the feeling.

He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “What else?”

She shrugged minutely. “What else?”

“Did she say,” he clarified, his tone low and deeply soothing.

Mary tried to concentrate, her mind growing unnaturally fuzzy from the warmth spreading through her. “She said…” She took a fast breath for resolve. “She said the ladies generally adored you as well, but that you weren’t interested in the lot of English ladies at your… disposal.

That is—until you left for Africa. She worried about you, naturally.”

For the first time he appeared surprised as his eyes widened. Then his brows creased in a sort of amusement that Mary found altogether melting. She wished she’d never said that.

“Really, my lord—”

“Marcus,” he whispered huskily.

She ignored that. “I really must be going.”

“Oh. Where?”

That stumped her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have another pressing engagement at ten o’clock in the evening?”

Her face flushed of its own accord but she raised her brows in innocent defiance. “Only with my bed, Lord Renn.”

That didn’t seem to faze him. “Ah. Which room is yours, Mary?”

He didn’t need to ask her that. He owned the bloody place. “Third floor, northwest corner.”

He cocked his head a fraction, studying her again. “And mine is at the other end of the hallway. Northeast corner.”

Burning inside, which she hoped he’d never notice, she replied,

“Lovely room, I’m sure. All the private bed chambers at Baybridge House are, actually. My color scheme is a bit too pink for my taste—”

“I’d like you to be my friend, Mary,” he cut in smoothly, his gaze heated with shielded meaning. “My sister would have liked that.”

And wanted it.

Her heart pounded now, her cheeks reddened with embarrassment, she was sure. He stood far too close.

“Gentlemen and ladies are never friends in the conventional sense,”

she scolded, though refusing to look into his eyes as she turned her gaze to the wall plates, taking particular notice of them.

He chuckled and she couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

“Mary, look at me,” he said softly.

Quickly, she inhaled, then did as he asked, her back erect, shoulders stiff.

His eyes were telling as they melded with hers, full of inner hurt and vivid truths. Then, very slowly but with deliberate intention, he reached put with one hand, palm up.

Mary stared at it, unsure. Her breathing quickened; her blood pounded in her temples. But without coherent thought, she lifted her hand and gently placed it in his. In an odd sense of detachment and acknowledgment, she realized she wanted to touch him, too.

Lily white skin fused with leathered brown. He had the most unusual hands for a gentleman—worker’s hands exposed to years of wind and sun. Slowly he enfolded her knuckles in his large, warm fingers, and began to pull until she had no choice but to stand beside him.

Mary couldn’t move, couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He smelled deliciously of spice and something masculine that she couldn’t identify.

It emanated from him as the heat of his body did, as his goodness did.

Oh, she wanted so much to like him…

He rubbed her knuckle once with his thumb, and her knees went weak beneath her skirts.

“I’d like to kiss you again, Mary,” he asserted in whisper softness.

“No,” she breathed back, even as she closed her eyes.

Seconds passed in agonizing anticipation, and then she felt the brush of warm breath against her cheek.

He rubbed his lips along her jawline and she nearly squealed. Her balance shifted, and as quickly as he felt her lose her composure, his free arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. So much closer than the other time. Indecently close, and yet it felt so perfect. Scandalously perfect.

He still hadn’t kissed her in the definitive sense. His lips grazed her

earlobe, her neck, her jaw and chin, and Mary had the most difficult time keeping herself from embracing him and searching for his mouth with her own. She still clutched one of his hands, but the other simply had to grasp his broad shoulder where she could feel coarse wool against the heated skin of her palm.

He groaned almost inaudibly when he felt her reach for him, but she heard it most definitely, felt it in his chest that now pressed against her own, making her breasts flatten against him. Oh, he felt divine in her arms! It had been so long since she’d been held by a man—

His lips found hers, crushing down upon them as he swept her into an impassioned kiss that tore the breath from her at last. She faltered against his strength, reeling with what was surely a dream, being caressed by a man she hardly knew, feeling no remorse, not a doubt, just desire. Strong desire that she knew she shouldn’t properly feel, but noting the heavy weight between her legs, the aching of her nipples to feel the touch of his fingertips. She wondered in a fleeting moment if he were erect as men get when drawn into passion, and instead of feeling repulsed at the thought as she should, she instead suddenly longed for it, wished desperately that she could feel him through thick layers of skirts…

His kiss grew bolder; his tongue glided along her upper lip, and without thinking clearly, she molded herself against him, kissing him back, just this once. He tasted of wine, felt hard against her own body of womanly softness, demanded more of her with each press of pleasure.

She sighed in his arms, and with that she felt the very briefest gliding of his palm up the side of her gown, against her hard corset, then barely caressing the side of her breast before he reached for her back once more, splaying his fingers between her shoulder blades.

Mary shuddered in his arms, and at long last he released her lips, briefly pressing his forehead against hers before actually hugging her tightly.

“God, Mary,” he said, his warm breath caressing her hairline, his tone thick and raspy. “When I’m with you I want everything.” He moaned very quietly, deliberately, then added, “It’s numbing.”

She couldn’t say anything, wouldn’t be able to find her voice if she tried. It was all too impossible, lovely, and still, in every manner, perfect.

After endless moments of holding her, he finally let go of her hand, bringing both of his forward to grasp her shoulders.

She kept her eyes closed as reality began once more to intrude. She shouldn’t be here, and yet she wanted desperately to be. She shouldn’t

kiss him back because it would lead to nothing but heartache, yet she couldn’t stop herself. Passion ruled, even when she knew passion could be the center of personal ruin.

With firm hands, she pushed against him, though she still kept her eyes closed, lest she look at him and change her mind regarding her conviction.

“I apologize, my lord,” she murmured, her own voice sounding remarkably scratchy and bleak.

She expected him to laugh in light rebuke. Instead, he merely rubbed one thumb back and forth along her collarbone and whispered gravely,

“We’ll get through this, Mary.”

Her lashes fluttered open and she couldn’t help but look up at his face.

The dark, honest yearning she beheld in his eyes, on every incredible feature, told her more than words ever could. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe at all.

“Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said huskily, “under this lovely gown that marks your figure so beautifully.”

A tiny sound escaped her throat.

He pushed his fingers up into the hair at her nape. “Tell me…”

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“If you don’t tell me, Mary, my dreams this night will be full of speculation.”

She couldn’t believe he’d said that. She knew of the despair brought on by erotic dreams, and she nearly collapsed on the spot.

A dog howled out on the cliff below the window; the wind had picked up to whistle against the shutters in the darkest night outside; servants moved about the house; somewhere Gwyneth was writing letters, commanding servants, talking with George about the day’s events.

She and the earl were alone.

“It’s blue,” she mumbled, mouth dry, eyes locked with his.

His lips twitched. “Blue…”

“Blue like—like your eyes.”

He inhaled sharply, unsteadily, and Mary realized how affected he was by her simple words.

“Any lace?”

“No.”

“No…”

For a moment they didn’t speak. Mary wanted desperately to run, to shelter herself away from his demanding embrace. They still clung to each other’s shoulders, his grasp tighter than hers, yet gentle enough for her to move away should she choose to do so. She couldn’t, and his profound self-confidence seemed to be underlined by the fact that he knew this already.

He traced his thumb along her bottom lip, unexpectedly, and she gasped. “Will you kiss me again, Mary?”