When It's Perfect (17 page)

one thing Mary understood it was that one must find one’s own destiny, wherever that might be.

She shivered where she stood, rubbing her bare arms with her palms.

The morning had turned gray as a storm rolled in from over the deep ocean. It would rain soon, but at this point, she didn’t care. The wetness would probably clear her mind as nothing else seemed to do.

Her thoughts never wavered from the events of last night. The talk with the earl, in a darkened garden, no less, should never have happened. No, the talk had been lovely; that… kiss shouldn’t have happened. That marvelously horrible kiss that had made her legs weak and her stomach churn with disappointment when he had finally pulled away.

God, it had been years…

But it wouldn’t happen again, she decided with resolve, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin as a sign of her conviction, closing her eyes to the wind. She was not a woman to settle on lust. Not at her age.

She got enough satisfaction wondering at the secrets of married life when she made her underthings for ladies. And she refused to contemplate that one time years ago, when she let herself go to the brink of insanity—

“Good morning, Miss Marsh.”

Mary turned sharply at the sound of his voice. His incredible, soothing deep voice that made her spine tingle and her mouth go dry.

He stood about ten feet from her, wearing a black morning suit that complimented his stately build perfectly as he stared at her person.

She swallowed with difficulty, attempting not to cower.

“Lord Renn,” she returned simply, albeit a tad harshly.

He chuckled, and for a moment it irritated her that he found so much irrelevant humor in a simple acknowledgment. Then he rubbed his chin with his fingertips and slowly began to move toward her.

“Why are you always off by yourself?”

That stumped her and she took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

His eyes narrowed as he halted in front of her. “I missed you at breakfast.”

Her heartbeat suddenly seemed to thud against her chest.

Missed you…

She had no idea what to say.

“You look lovely today,” he said softly, interrupting her thoughts.

Her mouth slowly dropped open.

“You know,” he continued, getting ever closer without actually touching her, “Christine mentioned you rather frequently in her letters to me.”

Mary could have screamed. “Is that so,” she said succinctly. “I hope it was all quite good and…”

“Useful?” he finished for her.

“Useful?” she repeated.

His gaze lingered on her lips. Then he shrugged and glanced over the bay. ” ‘Useful’ just seemed a word you’d use, Miss Marsh. Perfectly proper, yet deep with hidden meaning.”

She didn’t know whether that bothered her or not, so she stood her ground. But she positively burned to ask him what accounts Christine’s letters had actually contained.

God, what a nightmare.

He chuckled again and scratched the back of his neck. “Miss Marsh, you are a contradiction, on many fronts. Of course my favorite is your very proper… passion.”

That made her fairly tingle, but she wasn’t about to ask him to explain.

She drew a deep breath. “Lord Renn, I really must be—”

“Going?”

Her lips thinned as she stared him down. “Will you stop—”

“Finishing your sentences for you?”

Deflated, she wiped a palm across her face, and for the first time, felt like laughing. She sucked her cheeks in to keep from doing so, then opened her eyes wide in innocence. “Lord Renn, are you
trying
to irritate me?”

He shook his head and dropped his voice to a rough whisper barely heard above the lingering sea breeze. “Actually, I was rather hoping to kiss you again.”

Mary heard the blood rushing through her ears, felt a certain prickling between her legs, knew she flushed deeply.

“That can’t happen again,” she insisted, though it sounded more like a croak.

Ignoring that, he sighed with mild exaggeration, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure you’d like to know what Christine said about you.”

Would you please stick to one subject
? she wanted to shout. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back and turned toward the ocean.

“I’m sure it was all very superficial,” she replied.

“Not really. Christine rather liked you.” He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. “What I find so interesting is that in several interesting ways you’re nothing as she described you to be.”

That thoroughly intrigued her. He seemed to anticipate this response as well, for he left the meaning open, not bothering to explain, apparently, until she asked.

Mary squeezed her fists together behind her, closing her eyes briefly until she couldn’t wait any longer. “Very well, I’ll ask. How did your sister describe me, Lord Renn?”

Without hesitation, he disclosed, “Well, she said you were very often of good humor.”

Mary straightened, stone-faced, trying ever harder not to laugh.

“Really. Is that all?”

His brows rose faintly. “Oh, no, Miss Marsh, there is quite a bit more.”

She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn, but she refused to comment on that.

He stepped closer to her so that he was nearly touching. “She also said you were wonderfully witty, talented, and an engaging companion.”

His voice became markedly serious as he gazed down into her eyes, his a dark, crystal-clear blue. “I’m so very glad she had you for that in her final days, Mary.”

He said her name with incredible intimacy, but instead of being offended, Mary felt utterly drawn to him. The wind swirled around them; somewhere on the distant wharf she heard a bell toll. But in a second’s understanding of herself, she became very afraid she would lean up and kiss
him
this time.

Her legs went weak, and she lowered her lashes, stepping back and away from him to sit on the bench overlooking the water. The earl didn’t seem the least bothered that she moved, and as she expected, he followed her.

“Tell me,” he asked genially, “How does one go about making a corset?”

She gasped. “My lord!”

“Hm. Do you mean that as a Christian statement or do you mean me personally?”

That had her thoroughly confused. “What?”

He sighed as his mouth thinned to an aggravated line. “Do you see why I would prefer that you call me Marcus?”

She blinked quickly, and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Oh.”

She sat up straighter. “It isn’t proper.”

“Let’s be improper.”

Mary had the distinct notion that he was teasing her severely. And not only was she beside herself with consternation, she quite liked it, which only made her appalled at herself. But the hidden part within her that enjoyed the daring aspects of life, the part that made her the woman beneath the skin, felt a sudden passionate surge of excitement at the prospect of engaging this man. This unique man who sat beside her so… properly, dressed, as always, in formal attire, looking ruggedly handsome and in his own way mysterious.

“I should think,” he fairly whispered, “that I would enjoy getting to know the woman beneath the facade, Mary. The woman my sister knew, the one who—for just a moment last night—lost herself to passion in my arms.”

To her horror, he reached out and touched her with one coarse finger, gliding the tip of it down her hot cheek.

She swallowed, fighting the urge to scold him, to bat his arm away with hers. To lean forward six inches and mold her lips to his.

“Would you like to know a little of my work?” she said, her voice sounding husky and foreign to her ears.

For a moment she was certain he almost smiled. Then he dropped his arm and leaned back against the bench. “As much as you can properly tell me, of course.”

His tone was so vibrantly smooth; Mary decided at that moment that if she remembered nothing else from her stay in Cornwall, she would never forget the sound of the Earl of Renn’s magnificently deep, male voice.

She repositioned her body a little where she sat, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face that had loosened from the bun. She knew it would do no good sitting so high on the cliff in the wind, but if nothing else, fussing with her hair gave her something to do with her hands.

In a daring move, she admitted, “I prefer working with silk.”

His brows rose in what she assumed was mock fascination, but she didn’t comment on his apparent surprise, and neither did he.

“It’s… soft to the touch, has such an exotic feel.”

“When worn next to the skin?” he asked with a seriousness she felt certain was false.

“Yes,” she replied. “And when I’m working it through my fingers.”

“Do you wear your creations, Miss Marsh?”

She eyed him quickly before dropping her gaze to her very

conservative honey-brown day gown. “What reason would I have to wear anyone else’s, Lord Renn?”

“Touché,” he said in quick response.

She smiled in spite of herself.

“I would very much like to see some of your work,” he admitted after a moment of awkward silence.

Her fears had come true and she shivered. “For what purpose?” she asked bluntly, looking back into his beautiful eyes with bold innocence.

He shrugged lightly, frowning. “I’m interested in your talent, your business,” he answered flatly. “Christine had nothing but good things to say about them.”

God, what
else
had Christine written him? She could only fear.

“Tell me,” he asked, rubbing his clean-shaven chin, his brows furrowed in curiosity, “is it true that not all corsets need to be tied anymore?”

Her first thought was to ask him where on earth he’d heard that, but decorum restrained her. “Yes, it’s true.”

“Really?” He stared into her eyes. “Explain that, if you will.”

She drew a deep breath, squeezing her hands together in her lap, feeling her pulse race through her veins but determined not to let him know how he, and his furiously impertinent questions, affected her.

“Actually, that’s been true for some time, Lord Renn,” she explained nonchalantly. “Corsets made of whalebone, which by necessity needed to be tied in back, could hardly prove efficient for the lady who had no one to help her dress.”

“Or undress, I should think.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she closed it abruptly as she realized he was completely serious. “Yes,” she fairly stuttered.

He waved a palm in the air. “Really, I had no idea. I assumed all corsets were alike.”

This intrigued her, more so, she decided, because it gave her an opportunity to describe the specialty of her work to a typical man who probably didn’t know a thing about the fusses women of their time endured simply to be presentable.

“As you’ll note, Lord Renn, there are many factories today that produce a standard corset for the common woman, affordable and made of plain broadcloth or sometimes bombazine. Most are still tied, however. In more fashionable ladies of wealthier means, one will observe fasteners in back which can be immediately pulled apart for easy accessibility, some constructed of metallic stays that don’t bend as

whalebone does, though they do tend to rust, which can prove problematic.

“There are corsets covered with white satin for a ball; there are riding corsets that have elastic at the hips; nuptial corsets; nursing corsets with drawbridge gussets; corsets made of doeskin for summer wear; traveling corsets with stays that can easily be removed for night wear; even some made strictly for nightwear having no stays at all. There are particular corsets made for singing, dancing, bathing at the seaside; some lightly boned for morning wear as opposed to evening dress; some even constructed of silk cord netting where a lady may hang a sachet of perfume at the center.” She drew back and sighed, adding dreamily,

“Really, it’s so complicated to be a lady these days.”

As she finished her disclosure—the first such discussion ever with a man—she once more gathered the courage to look at him. Her gaze at last drifted to his face, but instead of crudeness or humor in his eyes, she saw absolute shock, and something she could only describe as awe.

After a moment, lips parted, he mumbled, “I never knew
dressing
could be so complicated.”

She smiled with a splendid satisfaction. “You’ve never been married, my lord.”

“That doesn’t mean—” He stopped himself, angling his head to eye her candidly. “I’ve seen a corset or two in my day, Miss Marsh.”

She tried not to let that faze her, though she could feel the pounding of her pulse in her temples. “No doubt in shopkeepers’ windows or in pictured advertisements.”

He grinned devilishly, making her insides melt. “No doubt.” He waited, then leaned very close to her. “But I’ve never seen one made of red satin.”

“Perhaps you will when you marry, Lord Renn,” she whispered with bold conviction.

“One can only dream, Miss Marsh,” he returned just as softly.

She suddenly became very afraid that he would touch her again, or kiss her senseless as he had last night. No, not afraid, exactly. That was the wrong word entirely. In a manner, she was desperate for it. He still sat so close to her, watching her, thinking intricately, she could tell. In that instant the world faded from her, and no longer was she on the open cliff where anyone on the shore below or in the hedges and hills surrounding them could see. She and Marcus Longfellow sat together in a world of their own. And she liked it immensely.

“I have a certain request of you, Miss Marsh,” he said huskily, his gaze traveling over her face as he took in her features one by one.

She struggled for breath. “My lord?”

His lips twitched. “I think I would appreciate a showing of your expertise so that when I do marry, I know what to expect.”

Oh, God.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” she murmured.

He didn’t move; his power enveloped her.

“I want to observe your work for myself, Miss Marsh.” He paused, then added, “In the most discreet manner, of course. If you are as talented as I’ve been told you are, I would like to have a private look for myself.”