When It's Perfect (11 page)

“It’s possible, my lord,” she replied, rubbing her upper arms. “But I would imagine there is more to learn about Miss Longfellow than either the vicar and his wife or I can offer.”

She hoped that answer would suffice. For an almost unbearable moment he did and said nothing.

Then, very quietly, almost gingerly, instead of lingering on the subject of his concern, he murmured, “I would like to call you Mary.”

She nearly swooned from such a marvelous thought. But she couldn’t allow such familiarity.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” she said, fearing that her hesitancy and strange desire to allow it would show through her words.

Apparently it didn’t. His eyes darkened, and after a second or two, he raised his chin a fraction. “As you wish.”

For an uncomfortable moment, neither said anything; they just looked at each other. Then he lowered his gaze to the wild grass beneath his feet.

“Well, I believe you’re quite right about Mrs. Coswell. Which leads me to wonder about Christine’s things. As far as I know they’ve not been touched.”

Swiftly, he stood and faced her, arms at his sides. “I intend to take the afternoon and go through her personal items, Miss Marsh. I would like you to join me.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”

“You must,” he interjected forcefully. “It would be… unseemly for me to do so as a man and her brother, but not for you as her personal”—he flicked his wrist—”trousseau… maker. The only other person to do it would be my mother, and she can’t under the grief of the moment. I’m sure you understand.”

His formality had returned again, and Mary wasn’t certain whether

or not she liked it better than the tiny bit of friendliness they’d shared. Yet that was irrelevant. He treated her exactly as he should—she had seen to that by denying him the right to use her given name. She could only do as he’d requested.

Mary stood then too, as elegantly as possible under the circumstances, allowing her gown to flow around her legs without adjusting it. The breeze would do that.

“I shall be as helpful as I can, Lord Renn.”

He nodded once and turned toward the narrow path that led back to the house. She followed for a foot or two, and then he stopped abruptly.

“One more thing, Miss Marsh,” he said, slowly pivoting to look at her again.

His eyes held a magnetic resonance as they grasped hers in silent communication. She stood too close to him, but for reasons unknown, she didn’t back away.

“My lord,” she replied, trying to sound helpful, yet fearing the worst.

He rubbed his jaw again. “I was wondering about last night.”

Her eyes widened. “Last night?” She was hoping he’d smile to lighten the mood, but he didn’t. If anything, his gaze grew grave with intent.

“In the coach, on the way home. I frightened you.”

Mary felt her heart stop. He’d misunderstood her apprehension in his accidental touch. Nothing he had said to her thus far today had bothered her quite so much.

“It wasn’t you, my lord,” she admitted, her voice low and implicit in its conviction. “I was just… startled. You do not frighten me.”

The wind howled around them now as they stood together high on the cliff. The clouds had rolled in to darken the sky, and somewhere in the distance a ship bell tolled, probably the noon hour. But Mary remained mesmerized by him—that hard jaw, the scar above his right eye, his intense blue eyes.

He reached out for her, and in that instant she backed away. That stopped him, his hand in midair. With a glance down her figure, he said almost wistfully, “Someday, I would like you to call me Marcus. Nobody calls me Marcus.”

And then he dropped his arm and brushed past her.

“I’ll see you this afternoon, Miss Marsh.”

Mary stared after him, taking note of his broad shoulders, his hair that was a tad too long, the determination in his stride. He never looked back as he made his way now in the opposite direction of the house, toward his cottage of solitude.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

29 September 1854

We’ve heard that Miss Marsh will arrive just after Christmas.

I shall be thrilled for the company. She must have wonderful
stories to tell having lived in the city! Did I mention that Mother
heard a ghastly rumor that she also sews unmentionable risqué
items for courtesans? Of course, it couldn’t possibly be true.

Mother says her family has always been quite respectable…

M
arcus entered Christine’s private bedroom for the first time in more than four years, painfully aware of Mary at his side. She didn’t want to be here, with him in this bedroom, any bedroom, and so certain of her reluctance to engage in anything improper, he’d asked a lady’s maid to accompany them. His mother wouldn’t, and for that he’d been relieved.

He didn’t want her there anyway, forbidding him to look here, or encouraging him to look there, making erroneous conclusions and weeping or arguing. But this was his house, and everyone would do well to remember that. He had every right to enter any room he chose.

His first thought was that it was just as he’d remembered it, and the smells, color, and personality that had been distinctly Christine’s hit him hard in the chest.

Decorated in various shades of pale pink and green, the four-poster canopy bed, shrouded with white lace to match the muslin coverlet and a barrage of velvet pillows, sat in the center, against the opposite wall papered floor to ceiling in a tiny red rosebud design. Thick pink curtains in linen taffeta puddled on the hardwood floor at each window on either side of the bed and at the window seat, pulled back with tassels, allowing a bit of light for nobody. Until today.

A hot staleness permeated the air, and Marcus, rigid in body and

determined in mind, immediately ordered the maid to pull back the lace shades and open two windows, which she did upon command.

Mary followed him to the center of the room, then stepped to his right and toward the golden oak dressing table next to the window seat.

Atop a long lace runner, his sister had placed various bottles of perfumes or lotions or whatever toilette articles ladies kept on dressing tables. He watched her pick up a small pink glass bottle, pull off the top, and sniff it.

“Roses,” she commented, placing it back on the runner.

“Of course,” he remarked solemnly. “Would you expect anything else in a room like this?”

If it had been any other time, she might have laughed, and he would have welcomed the feminine sound from her. But now such a release of amusement or nervous energy seemed crass.

An awkward moment passed; the maid, in formal mourning attire, stood by the doorway, looking placid yet attentively involved—which Marcus knew was a good act for a lady’s maid to follow. It was her job to be available but unobtrusive.

“What are we here to look for?” Mary asked patiently, interrupting his thoughts.

He turned to the tall, painted wardrobe to his left. “I’d like to go through her clothes—pockets of gowns, primarily—to look for notes or items that may have been forgotten, or even concealed there.”

“I’ll help you then,” she said, eyeing the wardrobe as she began to step toward him.

“Actually,” he countered, crossing his arms at his chest thoughtfully,

“I’d like you to go through her drawers and personal items.”

She stopped short and stared at him.

“Her items of female… necessity,” he clarified. “I don’t know a thing about them, and it would be considerably more embarrassing for me to do it.”

He watched her. And there it was, the slightest blush to grace her lovely fine-boned cheeks. Truthfully, he wasn’t embarrassed in the least, but suspected that she’d believe that as an excuse on his part. He’d seen just about every intimate detail there was to see in his travels, but he’d rather not admit that. At least not yet, and in the presence of a dutiful servant.

Mary’s features went slack and she opened her mouth just slightly as if to speak, unsure. Then she clamped it shut to do as he had bidden, whirling around in front of him in a somewhat dramatic display of

exasperation, not caring that her skirts swept across his legs when there was more than enough floor space that they didn’t need to.

He almost smiled.

Instead, he quashed his untimely amusement, turned, and quickly strode to the wardrobe. With one hand he carefully lifted the brass latch and pulled open the doors to reveal a wealth of fabric and an array of beautiful color that were once his sister’s clothes.

The sight of them sickened him. It made Christine real again; even if he’d never seen any of these gowns before, he didn’t need anyone to tell him they were his sister’s.

Organized by morning, day, and evening dresses, they filled the entire space. He noted her favorite color, teal, as well as some green, sky blue, peach, and even yellow—the color he’d always favored on her, but which she hated. She’d always loathed that shade on herself, insisting it made her look sallow, but he had adored the way it made her look like sunshine. His heart ached with keenly felt emotion now as he gingerly reached out and touched a soft yellow silk that Christine had owned only because the color reminded her of him. He knew that without question.

Marcus swallowed, then bit down hard; now was not the time to pity himself with painful memories and fears of a hopeless future.

He sifted through the gowns one by one, starting with evening wear.

He thought it more likely that these gowns would contain hints of her secrets, but after five minutes of careful surveying, except for two linen kerchiefs and an overwhelming scent of flowers, he found nothing substantial in his sister’s outer apparel.

Mary, during this time, had turned her full attention to the dresser drawers, going through each of them meticulously, or so he imagined, since it took her nearly as long as it took him at his task.

“Why did you never marry, Lord Renn? ”

The question, spoken so softly, caught him completely off guard. He jerked around, unsure at first, but realizing a maid would never ask such a thing. Mary would, and when he glanced at her to see only her backside as she knelt over a lower drawer, his insides began to churn.

“No opportunity. I’ve been very busy for the last few years.”

“No doubt.”

He grinned. She was thinking about him.

“Did you not consider that you’d need an heir?”

She still hadn’t looked at him.

He leaned against the bed post, eyeing her figure, nicely outlined by

a trim-fitting corset. “It was not my first consideration, Miss Marsh.”

After a quick peek over her shoulder, she acknowledged, “I see.”

He doubted that; the idea of his not being concerned for an heir would seem considerably odd to her. But he said nothing, just crossed his arms over his chest.

“Did you find anything?” she asked a moment later, refolding a linen nightgown.

His brows rose, and he wiped the smile from his face, careful not to show too much good humor, or interest in her and what she was doing.

“Nothing much—at least nothing that would tell me of Christine’s last thoughts,” he answered sincerely, sobering. He had no business thinking of the female sex at such a moment, in his sister’s room. God, he must be desperate.

Marcus shifted his gaze to the carved shelving next to the window seat. Christine collected delicate porcelain jars, not books, and aside from two poetry compilations, the remaining space was lined with colorful displays of Renn china. Nothing there that hadn’t been there before.

Suddenly his eye caught the painted green and gilded trunk at the foot of the bed. He noticed it just as Mary did.

She made her way to it first, stopping short of it, hands on her small waist.

“The items in here are for her wedding, Lord Renn. I’m sure you don’t want to intrude into what is surely a delicate issue.”

Wrong. He very definitely wanted to intrude, but he hesitated. “Did you find anything of importance in Christine’s under things, Miss Marsh?”

He could have sworn she gulped, and her delicate cheeks stained pink again, but she didn’t budge, or move her gaze from his.

“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” she replied, her voice only slightly wavering.

He inhaled deeply and slowly, ever careful of the lady’s maid at the doorway and not wanting to initiate unwarranted speculation among the help.

“Miss Marsh, it seems there’s nothing left but her trunk.” He moved closer to her so that he could see the wisps of blond hair along her temple, feel her body heat, imagine the rise and fall of her breasts with every nervous breath she took. “I cannot conceive of a reason why I should be wary of looking at newly made sheets, blankets and nightgowns.” He paused for emphasis, then added, “Should I be?”

She didn’t move. “Of course not. I only mean to protect her privacy.

I’m sure you understand.”

“You are?”

That confused her, but she didn’t back down.

After a moment’s hesitation in which he was certain the maid laughed internally at the ridiculous banter between the two of them, assured now that the entire household below stairs would soon find this oddly amusing, he decided he had nothing to lose. He had a very good idea what lay inside his sister’s personal trunk, and to hell with anyone seeing it.

He tipped his head to the object of contention. “Will you open it, or shall I?”

For seconds Mary did nothing; he didn’t even think she drew a breath. Then, eyes flashing irritation, knowing she’d lost a significant battle, she stepped back to allow him access.

Marcus lowered himself to one knee. With great care, and infinite curiosity, he popped open the unlocked latches and lifted the lid.

It appeared full to the top with three side-by-side piles of items. On the left, he took note of what appeared to be cream and white lace tablecloths. Next to them rested an obvious set of white linen sheets and matching pillowcases embroidered with green vines and yellow roses, followed by two lace runners on top of which sat an ivory jewel case that he immediately lifted to find empty.