When It's Perfect (14 page)

Gwyneth gasped loudly at that. Mary was mortified, and couldn’t look at the earl whom she suspected had to be utterly enraged at the debasement of his sister. She did notice George fist his hands on the table across from her, however. And yet, extraordinarily, nobody said a

word.

The viscount peeked around him, grumbling, “Where’s a handy footman when you need him.” He spotted one. “Ah. More wine, my good fellow.”

The tension crackled like fire as the room fell silent. One footman moved to do as told by the earl’s guest, and Baudwin continued to eat as if nothing had occurred worth noting, while the rest of them sat otherwise silent.

Within an instant, the countess stood. “I’m feeling tired. Exeter, darling, enjoy your dessert, and do visit again, when you’re ready to discuss delicate issues. Next time I should hope they’ll be sobering.”

It was a cold slap in the face to the man who wasn’t coherent enough to understand it.

“Good night, my lady,” he said without looking at her.

Marcus and George stood as well. “Mother, good night,” the earl said, somewhat softer in tone than Mary expected.

George tugged at his evening jacket, then his cuffs. “I’ll say good night as well. Exeter, as always, it was good of you to come.” He turned to her. “Miss Marsh, I’ll see you on the morrow, no doubt.”

With that, he and Gwyneth left the dining room.

For a moment, she had no idea what to do or say. Awkward couldn’t begin to describe how she felt, but beyond everything else, she wanted to get away from all of them and forget this horrible night.

“Gentlemen—”

The earl touched her arm gingerly as she started to rise, stopping her with the surprise of it.

“I’m hoping you’ll join us for dessert, Miss Marsh,” he insisted softly, his gaze implying a seriousness to his even tone.

She hesitated, until the viscount, still on her right, jumped in, oblivious to the fact that he alone had ruined dinner for all of them.

“That’s right, Miss Marsh,” he agreed, snickering. “Renn and I could certainly get used to looking at a woman like you while we have our serious talk. Renn here probably hasn’t laid eyes
or
fingers on a lady in ages. Looks like you’ll be the one.”

Mary went rigidly still. She’d had enough of this man.

“I’m not much for being a plaything, Viscount Exeter,” she said coldly.

He looked up from his plate, then around the room. “So sorry,” he said, wiping his napkin on his mouth, then gazing at her again.

“Christine mentioned that because she knew you and her brother so well, she was hoping—”

He stopped himself, then grinned wryly, “Never mind. I’ll let you guess on that.”

Mary felt her skin burning, her anger rising to the surface. “If only Miss Christine had known
you
so well, Viscount.”

She felt instinctively that the earl relished her boldness. But he remained silent, brooding, no doubt.

The viscount only laughed jovially as he reached to finish off his wine. “You are a clever girl.”

At that moment, Mary wanted nothing more than to leave Cornwall.

She’d never liked the Viscount Exeter, and many things about his relationship with Christine were coming to light this evening. Suddenly she realized why the earl continued to put up with him, why he wanted her to stay in their presence, at least for a while. Drunk as he was, the viscount evinced an inner personality and habits that were very telling.

She only had to wonder if this was the man Christine knew and had known intimately; if he had been the central focus of her fears and worries; if she could have gone through with the wedding, or would have made it through the marriage.

But at that moment fate intervened and they were all saved further abasement.

The viscount pushed his chair back and stood, swaying on his apparently stiff legs, waving off the approaching footman, who carried chocolate tortes on three small ivory china plates. The footman ignored him and obediently served them anyway. Mary almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, and how the servants must be gossiping downstairs. It was quite absurd—and horrifying in its way.

“Let’s talk tomorrow, Exeter,” the earl said, dismissing his guest as he stood as well. “I’d like to have a private word with you, at your home.

You’ll be feeling better then, I’m sure.”

Baudwin looked confused for a second or two, then shrugged and yawned. “We’ll need to go over the gifts, the mine transaction.”

Mary turned her attention to the earl for the first time in minutes.

He stood still as stone, enraged; she could sense it, though he remained remarkably composed.

“Naturally,” he replied. He nodded stiffly. “Good night, then, Exeter.

I’ll contact you.”

“Very well.” The viscount’s eyes quickly roved over her face. “Miss Marsh.”

“Have a safe journey home,” she said prosaically, refusing to offer her hand.

He stepped back, and with only a minor stumble, proceeded to walk from the dining room.

The atmosphere felt hot around her, moist from heavy angered breaths and salty air. The footmen still stood beside the serving table, like statues in polished livery, staring forward, probably nonplussed but hiding it as they should. Abruptly, she felt like laughing again. This was all far too strange for her. She should be in London, regardless of her worries. She should be home, where life was normal, facing what was surely easier than this.

“Would you walk with me in the garden?”

Her heart tripped in her breast, and ever so slowly, she looked back into the earl’s eyes.

He gazed at her frankly, in strength, in hope and a shrewd understanding of how this all must appear and feel to her.

She shouldn’t be alone with him, however. She couldn’t allow herself that. Not at night, with darkness looming, in quiet solitude. It was too risky—

“Miss Marsh?”

“I’d be delighted, Lord Renn.”

« ^ »

Baybridge House

7 November 1854

…I’ve been darning old socks to give to the orphanage for the
Christmas holiday and upcoming winter. It’s what Mother
wants, though I have been secreting chocolates away to put
inside them. She would fuss about that if she knew. “Don’t let the
children hope for riches they’ll never have” and all that.

Ridiculous! What do we have, if not hope?…

T
hey stepped out of the dining room doors and onto the gravel walk that wound through the garden as it circled Baybridge House to the south. As it was a rather balmy night, she didn’t need a wrap, though with some sense of self-preservation, Mary kept her arms crossed over her breasts. Marcus, at her side, didn’t speak for a minute or two as they made their way slowly around blooming rose bushes and neatly clipped hedges. The air smelled of mist and greenery, mingled with a gentle, salty sea breeze. Mary adored the Renn garden and found herself there frequently, though never in such a mood as she was in now.

She couldn’t have described her feelings if her life had depended on it. She was at once appalled to have witnessed such rudeness from a member of the gentry, filled with heartache for the loss of Christine, and angered that the countess, and even the earl himself, seemed so forgiving of the viscount and his lack of culture and restraint. Frankly, she’d met the Viscount Exeter on several occasions and never had he been as rude as he had been tonight. For a second she actually wondered if the cause was the full moon—but then, she’d never believed such superstitious nonsense. There appeared to be no explanation aside from excess drink.

“He lied, you know,” came the gruff whisper from her companion.

Mary shivered from the dampness in the air, clutching herself even tighter, staring at the gravel at her feet. “I know.”

Marcus stopped walking abruptly and turned to face her. “You do?”

She paused, standing stiffly as they stood in front of a marble fountain, the sound of its water trickling in the background. By pale moonglow and the dull, far-reaching lights of the dining room, she could just make out the lines of wariness on his face, his eyes encased in black shadow.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “He saw Christine the day before she died.”

The earl frowned, then shoved his hands in his pockets, relaxing as he chuckled mildly. “Actually, I’d assumed as much. No, Miss Marsh,”

he continued, gazing out to sea, “I meant he lied about me not touching a woman recently.”

Her body began to sweat. “Really, Lord Renn, that’s none—”

“—None of your business, I know,” he finished for her. “I just didn’t want you to think I’m a failure at romance.”

Mary had no idea what to say, and part of her wanted to excuse herself from his company and depart post haste. They stood alone in the

darkened garden, with only the sounds of the fountain and ocean to cover their voices. It was much too intimate for her—both in atmosphere and in conversation. And yet she was also intrigued. By him, by the family. All of it.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he whispered huskily, as if sensing her underlying nervousness, his eyes, now black pools of confidence, once again boring into hers.

She stilled the uncertainty welling up inside her. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered in return.

For a moment he did nothing but tower over her, watching her, hands behind his back. She just continued to clutch her upper arms, refusing to move. He radiated a pull of incredible tension, like a magnet drawing her in, sizzling in its power. So difficult to ignore.

“But I will say,” he continued, “that it’s been ages since I’ve been kissed.”

Oh, God…

She swallowed, and thought of the only thing she could to keep from crumpling. “Why did you want a match between your sister and the Viscount Exeter, Lord Renn?”

For seconds he stared at her in darkness, but in her own determined way she refused to back down, even though they stood so close to each other she could smell his cologne.

Then he turned away from her and began pacing around the fountain, hands clasped behind his back. “Exeter’s family and mine have been friends for generations. We also have clay mines that border each other’s.”

That didn’t explain much. But then again, Mary was just thankful he’d gone along with the changes in topic and mood.

She lowered her body delicately to sit on the stone wall surrounding the fountain. “Did Christine want to marry him, or was it arranged?”

He stopped pacing and shoved his hands in his pockets, gazing down to the path. “A little of both, I suppose. It was more or less expected, and Christine had always liked Exeter—we all did, really. He was always the fun one, the jester, the one with the exuberant personality.”

Pausing, he drew a deep breath and lifted his head, briefly closing his eyes. “He’s changed, though.”

Mary heard the sadness in his voice even as she felt it in her bones.

In a sense, she didn’t understand her need to comfort this man, but it was there. That’s what frightened her.

“I’ve never liked him,” she admitted boldly, keeping her tone low lest

someone eavesdropping near the house should hear her. “I didn’t care for him when I first met him, and I dislike him intensely after tonight.”

The earl seemed to hesitate for only a second, then, gazing at her once more, he walked back toward her. “I assumed as much.”

She clutched her palms in her lap. “What I don’t understand, Lord Renn, is why your mother—and if you’ll pardon me—why
you
—would allow him to get inebriated and foul-tongued in your home without any retribution. He left here remaining a guest after insulting all of you.”

It had been a forward statement, and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d get an answer, or at least, one that would satisfy her curiosity. But instinctively, she realized she could say such a thing to this particular man without his thinking less of her or reminding her of her place.

With a brush of his fingers through his thick hair, he sat down hard beside her on the marble wall, his expression nearly hidden in the darkness.

“It’s probably difficult for you to understand the interrelationships, as it were,” he said, spreading his feet wide and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But Exeter and his family have always been decent people, and Baudwin was never a threat to Christine. They liked each other well enough, and our families were always close, even though we were sometimes business rivals. But I suppose one reason we all wanted a match between the two had to do with land value and income. One of the most abundant of the clay mines in Cornwall is on the Renn estate, and it’s producing very well. Some of the loveliest china anywhere is made from clay mined from my property. But production has always been more efficient and cheaper simply because our mined china clay has been able to be transported through Exeter land to get to the docks for shipping. If the viscount or his family were upset at us for any reason, he could bar us from crossing his property, which would cost us days of travel and pay to go around it.”

He looked to the ground, shuffling his shoe back and forth along the gravel. “When arrangements were drawn up for Christine’s dowry, one of the specifications made had to do with the exchange of property. For the marriage between families, Renn china clay would have unlimited access in crossing Exeter land, but more important, Exeter would gain one quarter of the riches of that one best-producing Renn mine. In other words, he, my sister, and their children would share a part of the monies earned on the sale of Renn clay, with the help of the Exeter estate in its shipping and distribution.” He sighed, straightening. “Of course it’s all more detailed than that, and it all seemed well and good at the time, but Exeter and I will need to discuss this issue again, I’m

afraid. It’s very likely he’ll want to keep this particular contractual arrangement made in the betrothal agreement.”

She frowned, finally understanding. “You’ll lose money, won’t you?”

“Yes, in a sense, because we’ve always had permission to cross Exeter property to ship the clay. If we fall back on giving him a percentage of the money earned from the mine simply because his betrothed has died—even if that were a reasonable option—he could very well deny us access, and use any excuse he wants.” He groaned and leaned back a little, stretching one leg out in front of him. “It’s very tricky, but George usually handles these business deals, as he’s here and adores addressing the workings of the mines. I suppose the difficult part for him as the second son is that I’m the one who legally owns this property. It was my signature on the betrothal contract.” He paused, then added solemnly,