When It's Perfect (29 page)

“I’ll need to go back soon, I know,” she whispered, feeling not only the warmth from his body, but more specifically his inner strength. The Earl of Renn was the most compassionate person she’d known.

“Your future will unfold as it should,” he said in a low murmur, running the pad of his thumb along her chin. “Don’t be afraid to embrace it.”

His consistent words of wisdom:
Don’t be afraid
… just as he had not been afraid to confront his destiny to find his dreams, even over the rigorous mores of society, family, a title with which he was born but didn’t want.

Suddenly Mimi felt the overpowering urge to be a part of him, connected to him, mind and body and soul. Never had she needed a man more.

In a swift action that caught him by surprise, Mary lifted her mouth to his and kissed him gently, allowing her lips to linger, running her fingers through his hair, feeling the hairs on his legs and chest tickle her skin as she held him tightly against her. She sensed his quickening passion as his breathing sped up and his growing erection teased the

curls between her legs, and she pursued her interest, knowing they shared it, at least for now.

At last he broke from the kiss, slowly, allowing time for her to realize he wasn’t yet ready for more love play.

She pulled back a little, but caught in her mood, she didn’t open her eyes. She just wanted to feel.

“Mary…” he whispered, running his nose and lips softly along her cheek. “I need to know all of you. Tell me everything.”

Mind clouded with passion and hope, she didn’t for seconds realize what he wanted. And then, heart sinking, she understood.

Her eyes opened to his as they gazed down I

upon her from inches above. She looked into the deepest part of him, sensing his acute need to know, his unsureness, his wise care. But it filled her with trepidation nonetheless because he requested an explanation she realized he would not like:
Tell me when you lost your
virginity. Tell me what happened
.

She tenderly touched his face, forcing back tears again. He had to notice them breach the corners of her eyes, spill onto her lashes, but he didn’t comment, just focused on her.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she whispered in return. “Nothing worth repeating.”

The disappointment he expressed in both features and manner was palpable. He tensed beside her, let out a long, slow breath. He could never know how desolate
she
felt inside at that moment for not confiding in him. But confessing all wouldn’t make one single difference. She would only mortify him, and embarrass herself. In the end, when they separated, when she left for London and he for Egypt, treasured memories behind them, she didn’t want him remembering this afternoon as the time she confessed everything bad she’d ever done.

Cupping his face in her palms, she looked deeply into his eyes.

“Everything good in my life, Marcus, has culminated in this cottage this afternoon, in your arms. Always remember that.”

He shook his head minutely, as if in consideration—or denial; he pressed his lips together in anger or exasperation, she didn’t know which. Then he did the unexpected and kissed her, warmly, fully, but in so doing, forced her to experience his irritation at her evasiveness—

coupled with gentle longing, of passion shared, likely never to be vanquished.

He forced his body against her, making her feel the hardness of his

need, his ultimate frustration at her refusal to reveal all. But she immersed herself in the power of him, thinking only of the moment, giving in to him completely.

Suddenly, his lips to hers—tasting, exploring—he grasped her around the waist with both hands and turned, pulling her up on top of him as he lay on his back in the center of the bed.

Mary straddled his hips, his rigid erection at her belly, her long hair draping over his shoulders, surrounding his head as she kept her lips locked with his. She tasted, directed, probed, whimpering and sitting up a fraction as his hands found her breasts and began to caress with tender care.

This was all she needed, ever wanted. She would give up everything to spend a life in simple love—no class distinction, no agonies, no broken promises.

“Marcus…” she whispered against his mouth.

He moaned beneath her when she moved her hips forward a little, just enough so that she covered his erection with her moist folds, snuggling it between her own warmth, expressing her own ache of desire.

He felt marvelous beneath her, hot and hard, his muscled chest flexing with every steady movement as she began to circle her hips, to stroke the tip of him intimately.

She kissed and teased; he tormented her with wisps of his thumbs against her nipples. She whimpered and threw her head back as she picked up the pace, feeling him, listening to his harsh breathing.

Quickly she neared her crest of satisfaction. He sensed it, urging her along as he found her rhythm. He wrapped one hand around her, molding her against him. She had yet to take him inside, but it felt perfect like this, and so safe, enveloped in his presence, his power and pleasure.

Mary raised her body a little and opened her eyes, staring down into his as she felt her approaching climax. She rotated her hips against his, watched him, felt all his concentration centered on her. He caressed her breast with one hand, gripped her back with the other, holding her gaze with eyes of hope and a depth of feeling far more real than she could have ever dreamed.

And then she cried out her pleasure as her arousal struck its zenith.

Head tossed back, she clutched his shoulders, felt the throbbing within as her body washed over with fierce pleasure. At nearly the same moment, Marcus bucked into her and groaned as he let himself go, spilling himself onto his stomach, within her folds of wetness, created

from his touch, his caress, his being.

For seconds Mary clung to him, nails digging into his skin, breathing heavily, heart racing. Then she allowed herself to fall on top of him, to mold herself against his solid, hot form, listening to his pounding heart, relishing his unique, masculine scent as she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close.

Marcus pulled the covers up and over their shoulders, enclosing them in warm comfort. Silently, he kissed her forehead, then drew his fingers and palms up and down her back, soothing her as she wondered at his reflective mood.

If she’d ever feared anything in her life, nothing compared to the fear of losing him now.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

5 April 1855

…Mother and I had an awful row this morning, I’m still not
speaking to her. She refuses to hear my concerns about my
upcoming marriage, and I am concerned, Marcus. I feel as if
there’s so much I don’t know about Exeter. Perhaps it’s only pre-wedding jitters, but sometimes the notion of living a new life
away from Baybridge House scares me…

M
ary sat across from Gwyneth, in the lady’s flowery, lilac-colored drawing room, attired in an understated chocolate silk day gown, sipping a cup of tasteful Darjeeling tea, trying her best to be the pleasant guest even as her mind wandered frequently to Marcus and the wondrous hours she’d spent entwined with him in his cottage yesterday afternoon.

They had very nearly been caught by George, encountering him while returning from their intimate rendezvous at half past four. But if

Marcus’s brother had suspected anything untoward at the time he hadn’t shown it in the slightest. His jovial nature and easy manner helped them both slip back into a presence of good mood even as doubts lingered and silence reigned between them for the remainder of the evening.

Mary hadn’t seen Marcus at all today after sharing a cordial breakfast with the family, and the last she’d heard he’d gone into town.

It was probably best that they’d been separated for a bit after the gentleness of love and sensual hunger they’d experienced in all of three hours yesterday. Though she inexplicably hated the idea of being away from him, this time apart allowed her thoughts to settle, her mind to come to grips with the problems facing her, namely, the main reason she still resided at Baybridge House: to find out what had happened to Christine.

Mary scolded herself each time she considered how selfish she’d become when it came to Marcus. She irrationally wanted his undivided attention, and yet she realized all too well that his attention should be focused on his sister, settling the consequences of her death, looking toward the future of his family, taking care of business. He was, after all, the Earl of Renn, the head of one of the most important families in Cornwall. He had a life that did not concern her, and here, as she sat across from Gwyneth, dressed very formally in black bombazine, her hair pulled back tightly at her nape, stoic in expression as was expected, Mary felt certain the family matriarch would remind her of that very fact.

She’d only been invited alone for tea in this room with Gwyneth twice before—at her arrival in Cornwall, for an introductory meeting, and four days after Christine’s death, when her employer informed her of her delicate position and the necessity of keeping all talk and questions within the household. She’d been bluntly forewarned that gossip with the villagers would not be tolerated, though of course her actual conversation with the countess hadn’t been quite so direct.

Mary now had to ponder the invitation to tea that she’d received this morning, wondering whether or not it had anything at all to do with her and Marcus. She doubted it, as Gwyneth didn’t know a thing about them as a couple, clandestine or otherwise. Still, as she listened patiently to the countess rattle on about the nasty weather and the dreariness of having black curtains hanging from windows in peach and lavender rooms, Mary was anxious. Gwyneth seemed almost nervous, and that likewise, in itself, made her ill at ease.

“So, Mary. How has your lengthened stay been thus far?” the countess inquired at last, sitting on the edge of her chair and folding her

hands in her lap.

Mary swallowed another sip of tea. Today the fare of petit sandwiches and raspberry-filled chocolates had been served on white china, inlaid with vines and lilacs, no doubt to accent the color of the purple room. It did match and underscore it perfectly, as Renn china always did at Baybridge House. One thing was certain: Mary had never eaten from better dishes in all of her life.

She smoothed her skirt with one hand and got to the point. “Full of surprises.”

Gwyneth lifted an eyebrow negligibly, and Mary wondered with a bit of satisfaction whether the woman had been caught off guard with such an evasive answer, or had simply found it intriguing. In either case, the countess ignored it and moved on.

“I know you’ve been an enormous help to Renn these last few weeks, Mary, and I can’t thank you enough,” she said properly, one palm lying across the knuckles of her other hand, her pointer finger tapping impatiently. “You two seem to get on rather well.”

A drop of tea suddenly got caught in her throat, and she coughed once, then placed her cup and saucer on the maplewood tea table between them. “We do seem to, yes,” she replied with more hesitation than she intended.

Gwyneth didn’t back down an inch. “He seems taken with you.”

Mary felt heat suffuse her entire body, and hoped to God her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I’m not sure what you mean, madam,” she said, voice low.

The countess smiled flatly. “Come now, Mary. We’re both intelligent ladies. We know when a man in our company shows a particular…

interest.”

She started sweating, and within seconds, Mary wished a full-fledged wind would sweep through the room. She would never be so lucky.

Clasping her hands together in her lap, she graced the countess with an expression of pure, wide-eyed innocence. “My Lady Renn, I’m certain your son is merely bestowing flattery where it’s enjoyed and nothing more. Of course he’s a charming man, as well, quiet as he is.

But I rather doubt a gentleman of his station would find any interest beyond the superficial in a lady born of mine.”

That was indeed bold, but directly to the point. She only hoped Gwyneth would read between the lines, as it were, and drop the subject, forever casting aside wild notions of any lustful action or thoughts from her son to an insignificant spinster in his employ.

Gwyneth drew in a long, deep breath, shifting her gaze to the window for a second or two as she gathered her thoughts. Then her brows drew together with irritation that Mary all but felt.

“It seems you don’t understand,” the countess said very slowly.

Oh, I’m quite, quite certain I understand.

Gwyneth’s lips thinned as she leaned toward her to clarify. “So I will simply get to the point.”

Here it comes…

“I realize it’s nearly time for you to depart Baybridge House and return to London, and I’m sure your father misses you terribly.

However, I’ve also been thinking that perhaps Cornwall is where you belong, where you might like to remain indefinitely.” She smiled just enough that half-moon wrinkles creased the sides of her mouth. “You fit in very well here, and I would be most honored if you’d consider becoming my daughter-in-law and remaining on the Renn estate.”

A sudden cool breeze, one that smelled of salty sea air, shot into the drawing room from the partially opened window. Gwyneth ran her palms down her sleeves, but she never dropped her shrewd, calculated gaze. Waiting.

Speechless, Mary’s only coherent thought was that if she hadn’t been sitting, she would have fainted for the first time in her adult life.

Through every single shred of emotion that now twisted around in her brain, she never,
ever
expected Gwyneth Longfellow, Countess of Renn, to suggest a marriage between her and her son.
Either
son. Such a suggestion was not only unthinkable and impractical, it was highly suspicious. Yet sitting here in this lavender room, surrounded by papered walls and scents of freshly cut flowers, steaming tea and wild, unfettered ocean, Mary had to blink away her astonishment and force herself to come to terms with the reality of what the woman truly wanted.