When It's Perfect (34 page)

Raising his body, he pulled out to rest his tip at the moist, soft edge of her cleft. And as he paused, she opened her eyes to gaze into his.

Starlight glistened on her tears.

“Forever, Marcus,” she breathed.

He clenched his jaw. “Forever—”

Then, in one deep thrust, he lost himself. His head arched back; his muscles tensed, and with a soft groan of satisfaction, he poured himself into her, deeply, perfectly, coming hard and fast and with all the passion he felt inside. It drained him, weakened him, but simultaneously filled him with a profound sense of peace. The peace he’d sought all his life, right here, in Mary Marsh.

“Don’t leave tomorrow,” he whispered as he regained some control.

“Stay, and I’ll give you the world.”

She said nothing, but her tears fell steadily as she stroked his back and neck with gentle fingertips.

Finally, he moved to her side, lowering her gown to decently cover

her, holding her close, smelling lavender and sea air mixed with the essence of her, watching the stars as she did.

They held each other for a long while, neither one speaking. It didn’t really matter. He knew her thoughts.

You have your world, Lord Renn, and I have mine…

« ^ »

Baybridge House

30 April 1855

My dearest Marcus. Things are no longer what they seem at
Baybridge House. I cannot begin to tell you of the unseemly
things that have gone on in this place. I fear Miss Marsh is the
only one I can trust now, but I am afraid even to talk to her, and
she will be leaving soon. Please come home. Please. I desperately
need your guidance and protection. Until I see you again, I will
remain forever,

Your sister,

Christine

M
arcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn, requested a formal meeting with his mother in his study at half past one o’clock in the afternoon, two days after Mary Marsh left Baybridge House for London.

Standing at the far window overlooking the Bay of Austell, he tried to keep his mind focused on the conversation about to take place, the information he hoped to glean from the encounter, even as his heart ached with longing for the woman he called his own.

Hands clasped behind his back, he stared down at the garden below, remembering their first shared kiss among the flowers, at night beneath the stars, the feel of her warm body next to his and the physical and emotional reaction that followed. What an insightful night that had

been, and for as long as he lived, Marcus would never forget the very first feel of Mary’s lips on his body.

Taking a quick deep breath, he closed his eyes, imagining her as she stood before him the night she came to him in a black corset of her making, those blood red rubies at her nipples. Nothing he’d ever experienced had been so erotic.

“Lord Renn, the Countess of Renn is here,” came the timid voice of one of his mother’s infinite number of maids.

Marcus tempered his mood at the ridiculous introduction of mother and son, and turned around to face the one person who remained the key to his return to England.

“Mother,” he drawled, nodding once.

“Renn, darling,” she replied, smiling sweetly as she glided into the study, dressed in stately black crepe, her glossy auburn hair piled high on her head, wearing not a speck of jewelry save her wedding ring.

Marcus had always taken pride in his mother’s appearance. She’d once been gorgeous, simply beautiful to look at, and even now, at nearly fifty-five years of age, she still had the look of sophisticated elegance that she carried oh so well, her lovely pale face void of wrinkles, her eyes crystal clear and intelligent.

Yes, Gwyneth Longfellow could be intimidating in the extreme, calculating in her pursuit of desires, and unparalleled when it came to class. She had made his father a magnificent wife and gregarious hostess, giving him two sons and a daughter before he died. And he died a contented man. Marcus thought he at least owed his mother the courtesy of knowing she’d lived the perfect life of a countess, was all that his father had asked for. Until Christine’s untimely death.

Gwyneth walked to his side and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“What is it?” she asked, her forehead creasing in that particular frown that Marcus felt certain she practiced.

His mouth curved wryly as he motioned to one of the chairs. “Please be seated, Mother.”

She eyed him carefully for several seconds before turning to do as he’d requested. “My, you certainly are acting formal this afternoon.”

He said nothing to that. Instead, he pivoted around to gaze back out the window, this time toward the horizon, where the pale sky faded into the distant ocean, listening to her adjust her skirts around her legs.

“Are you disappointed in Miss Marsh’s decision to leave?” she asked with bold assurance that he would reply in the negative.

Instead, to unsettle her, he said, “Yes. Very disappointed.” He leaned

his palms on the windowsill. “I’m going to marry her, Mother. I’m sure you’re relieved.”

He didn’t glance her way, but he could have sworn she squealed in delight from behind him. He fairly snorted.

“How do you intend to do this when she isn’t even here?” she asked cautiously, trying to gauge his attitude.

He thought that was rather obvious, but he didn’t remark on it. “I intend to go to London in pursuit of her.”

“How romantic. Oh, Marcus, I’m so pleased!” She clapped her hands together in front of her once. “She’s a lovely girl, and the two of you shall have a lovely wedding, which we can begin planning immediately—”

“I thought she was too old by your standards,” he cut in, tossing a look at her over his shoulder.

She flushed, but otherwise didn’t appear to be bothered by his notice of her inconsistency. “She is too old, dear, but you’re taken with her and she is of good family. All I want is your happiness.”

“And an heir?”

She folded her hands primly in her lap. “Of course. It’s what all mothers want from their children.”

Slowly, he turned back to face her fully, leaning his hip on the sill and crossing his arms over his chest. “Is that what you wanted from Christine’s marriage? Her happiness?”

He watched the lines around her mouth tighten, her eyes widen slightly.

“Naturally,” she replied. She tilted her head a fraction. “It’s what I want for all of my children.”

“And yet you wanted her to marry Baudwin.”

She fidgeted in the chair. “Their marriage was arranged, Renn, you know that. They liked each other, cared for each other. It was as good of a match as any.” She frowned. “Why these questions?”

Marcus inhaled deeply, knowing the time had come to get to the point, wondering how best to present it. He reached up and scratched his jaw to give him a moment or two longer to think things through. At last, he dropped his voice to a low murmur to prevent the spread of vile gossip should servants be listening where they should not.

Very carefully, he asked, “Are you aware, Mother, that the good Viscount Exeter, a family friend and gentleman of the highest culture,
forced
himself on Christine, the darling of our family, not only getting her with child, but taking her innocence without her consent?”

Gwyneth gasped; all color washed from her face.

Marcus pursued his very reckless tactic. “Were you aware that their first time intimately as a couple was inside a dark coach at his demand and her horror?”

His mother’s expression suddenly waxed a brilliant rage; scarlet suffused her cheeks, but she didn’t utter a sound.

Stepping away from the window and walking toward her, he continued. “Were you aware, Mother, that Christine wrote me of her foreboding and fear but was too distraught and embarrassed to give me details? That she spoke of this to Claudette Coswell only days before she died because she couldn’t mention it to anyone she loved?”

“That’s quite enough!” Gwyneth blurted, rising abruptly, her hands in tight fists at her side.

He wasn’t about to end it there. Standing before her, gazing down to the woman who brought him into the world, he clenched his jaw, then whispered the final blow. “Were you aware that the heir of the viscount’s estate, your first grandchild, was conceived by violence?”

With a quick raise of her arm, Gwyneth slapped him hard across the mouth.

Marcus jerked back, the sting piercing him enough that his eyes watered. But the look she gave him cut deeply, hurting far worse than her hand, and filling him with more grief than he could ever possibly put into words.

She had known. It was the only explanation to her action. If she hadn’t, she would have broken down, cried openly, or become hysterical in her heartache and anger. Or, if nothing else, she would have certainly grown quiet with her own sorrow and questions, attempting to place herself at fault.

But his mother had reacted in none of those logical ways. She had become enraged at him for speaking so disrespectfully, true, but most of all for mentioning such a loathsome, scandalous secret.

Secrets
. The key to everything.

Marcus moved away from his mother, his features expressing a measured disgust as he strode to the wall on which hung at least forty examples of the best of Renn china.

He scrutinized those in front of him, seeing nothing.

“She was your daughter,” he whispered.

Silence reigned for seconds as she refused to move from her uncompromising position. “I know that. She was also betrothed to Exeter, soon to be his wife. She wouldn’t be the first—”

“Oh, Christ, Mother, you make it sound as if he forced her to take menial employment.” Marcus pivoted, palms opened wide. “She trusted him and he
raped
her! The woman he was supposed to marry in just weeks!”

“Shut your mouth,” she hissed, grimacing. Steadying herself with a hand on the back of her chair, she leaned toward him to enunciate thickly, “How dare you speak to me like that in my home?”

He shook his head. “You’ve forgotten everything, haven’t you? Or perhaps it’s simply that you’ve taken everything for granted in my absence.”

She tossed a hand in the air. “You’re speaking in riddles.”

He pointed to his chest, his features contorted in fury. “Christine was
my
sister,
my
responsibility, and this is
my
home! And as the Earl of Renn, I will speak to you any goddamn way I like!”

Gwyneth froze. Her eyes opened wide in complete astonishment, her face drained quickly again of color as she gaped at him.

“I want the truth, Mother, now,” he said, his voice conveying profound assurance. “I want to know why you’re so willing to forgive Baudwin and not your daughter. I want to know why you insist on treating Exeter with so much respect when he has hurt this family so deeply. I want to know what you and Christine discussed the week she died. I want to know what secrets you’re hiding, or so help me God, I will sell everything and put you out on the street.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t threaten me with the ridiculous, my child,” she warned in a low voice, thick with daring, her confidence returning as she gracefully strode toward him. “I told you once to leave things alone. Leave them alone.”

She would never understand unless the rug were pulled out from under her. He knew his mother. At that moment, Marcus didn’t think he’d ever felt such a keen sense of ultimate satisfaction.

Standing tall, hands behind him, he glared down at the face of a woman he adored, the face of a woman he so very much admired, the face of a calculated manipulator who was about to receive as she gave.

“Your worries are over, madam,” he disclosed in a deep whisper, knowing the weight of a lifetime was soon to lift from his shoulders.

“I’m resigning my title to George.”

She started to laugh—until she realized the gravity in that pronouncement, felt the truthfulness of his statement. Then she swayed against the desk, catching herself on the smooth edge before she collapsed.

“You can’t do that,” she spat vehemently.

“I most certainly can. This is not a threat. I no longer wish to be the Earl of Renn. In fact,” he added with a twitch of his lips, “I never wanted to be the Earl of Renn.”

She looked as if she might faint. “You
are
the earl.”

He leaned over so that his face loomed above hers. “I was never the earl in deed, only by birth. George deserves the honor for everything he’s done—”

“It’s impossible.”

His brows rose. “Impossible? What’s impossible? He’s perfect for it. I drift on and off the Continent, work at hard labor, and don’t give a damn about the mines.” He grabbed one of her shoulders with his hand, with the other her chin, tilting her face up to his. “It’s a perfect solution.”

She gazed at him for seconds, her tired eyes wide with profound trepidation. “You’re serious…”

“I love you, Mother, but I won’t be staying at Baybridge House. Let George do what he was born to do. My calling is in Egypt.”

Suddenly she started shaking where she stood, swaying as she glanced around her in bewilderment, as if she didn’t know precisely where she was, what was happening to her.

Marcus helped her back into the chair, observed how her skirts wrinkled at the sides and that she didn’t even notice, even care. Then, for the first time in ages, he watched as her eyes filled with tears.

That stirred him deeply. He’d never wanted to hurt her.

“Everything will be all right,” he soothed, leaning back on the edge of his desk.

She shook her head. “You are the earl. That’s the way it should be.

George manages the business; you manage the estate. George is—” She glanced to the wall of fine china. “Oh, God…”

In that instant, Marcus got his first indication that she held something back, something vital. “What is it?” he asked hesitantly, without aggressively moving toward her.

For a long moment she stared silently at the porcelain plates. Then she said, “The one on the top left, that was always your father’s favorite.”

Marcus glanced up at the wall, unsure of her meaning until his gaze locked on the plate in question.