When It's Perfect (18 page)

Her heart pounded; her skin grew prickly hot. “You already employ me, sir.”

He nodded once. “I do indeed.”

But that’s not what you meant, is it?

Suddenly Mary completely understood him. She wasn’t naïve or inexperienced where gentlemen and their base reactions to females were concerned. Yet her feelings for the earl not only surprised her, they disturbed and enlightened her.

He wanted her as a man would want a woman. She could hear it in his tone, see it in his incredibly dark and passionate features. But he held back in a manner that amazed her. The most surprising thing of all was that she wasn’t as repulsed as her mother and good society had raised her to be. No, she felt only pity at her own base failures because, God help her, she wanted it as much as he did.

She stood on shaky legs, her skirts billowing out in front of her from the strong ocean breeze. “I shall think on your request, Lord Renn. But for now, I must be going,” she insisted, her tone shockingly smooth and relaxed-sounding to her ears.

For a second or two, she could have sworn her quick submission startled him. Then he raised his body beside her, though he kept his gaze locked with hers.

“One more thing, Miss Marsh.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Yes?”

“Did my sister ask you specifically to make her the more… exotic under things, or did you do so out of habit?”

Mary licked her lips. “I do nothing out of habit, my lord.”

He nodded. Then standing stoically, his features drawn, troubled once again, he glanced out over the bay. “But did she specifically ask you to make night clothes and corsets for her that were of the more

erotic variety?”

Never had Mary felt more embarrassed, and yet instinctively she knew that he’d asked her purposely, for a reason—not to humiliate her.

She drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin slightly to reply. “She—

” Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Miss Christine was very specific about not… disappointing her husband.”

“I see.”

She wanted to squirm in her own clothes.

He looked down at her again, his features unreadable. “Thank you for being candid, Mary.”

God, she wanted him to kiss her again. Those beautiful eyes…

“Good afternoon, Lord Renn.”

Her perfunctory farewell said, she skirted past him, refusing a final glance over her shoulder, even as she knew he followed her with eyes that exposed an intense, forbidden longing to match her own.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

12 January 1855

…Miss Marsh has finally arrived. Mother put her immediately
to work, and already we have had several fittings. She’s such a
lovely person, and I have a feeling she and I will be good friends.

Her zest for life is so refreshing that sometimes we laugh
together while discussing the most outrageous things! I wish you
could meet her, Marcus. I am quite positive you would enjoy her
company, too…

H
e felt horribly guilty for wanting her, yet want her he did. More than he’d wanted a woman in a long time. She went far beyond a contradiction, he decided. She was far more intelligent than Christine

had alluded to, a listener who actually entertained interest, beautifully unique—and most certainly the only woman he’d ever known who could give him an erection by the mere discussion of corsets. Jesus, he
still
got hard when he thought about it, and it had been three hours since she’d left him. Something had to be amiss in that.

Marcus stood beside a long bay window in the drawing room at Crestmore, Baudwin’s home on the Exeter estate, too restless to sit as he waited for the man. He hadn’t been inside these walls in likely half a decade, but nothing had changed. The drawing room still carried frilly reminders of Baudwin’s mother, who had died almost twelve years ago.

The walls remained papered with the same scene of gaudy cherubs flying through pink roses that wound their way up golden trellises. The identical shade of bright pink covered the velveteen settee and winged chairs that gathered around the gold-plated mantel, on top of which sat a row of pink china cups engraved with various floral patterns. Floral oil paintings in gilded frames hung from each wall, except for a stately portrait of Baudwin that reached at least eight feet high on the far wall above a small writing desk, also covered with a pale pink lace runner.

God, so much pink. It surprised Marcus a bit that Baudwin, the only child of the late Viscount Exeter and his wife, Lady Jane, had yet to rid his home of such an utterly feminine place to entertain. Then again, maybe he’d been waiting for Christine to do it.

Christine.

Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head back, feeling an indescribable gnawing in his stomach again. He knew it well, as he’d been enveloped with both self-pity and guilt for his maddening inability to push the form and face of Mary Marsh from his mind since he’d first seen her at dinner the night of his return to England. He wasn’t here for romance; he’d returned to Baybridge House strictly to investigate, if only for his own satisfaction, Christine’s unusual and untimely death.

Yet the more he learned, the more Mary seemed to be in the center of all of it, especially his thoughts.

Christine had been accurate in her descriptions of Mary’s serene beauty. She was indeed a lovely woman who carried herself with sophistication and ease, her cool, outward appearance disguising an inner mystery and passion all too potent to ignore. Just the memory of their discussion three hours ago made Marcus smile in deeply felt enjoyment. There was no denying it. She wanted him, too.

That probably made him a cad. He had no business contemplating a sexual affair at a time like this, and yet for the first time in ages, the idea of getting Miss Marsh into his bed seemed to chase all else from his mind. He was fairly certain he could seduce her, but then what did that

make him? And what would he do with her once he took her innocence—if indeed he did take it? These questions made his skin prickle with the heat of lust and the most unusual sense of remorse. The worst part of it all was that no answers were forthcoming. He seemed deadlocked with pent-up emotions of so many kinds they made his head spin.

“Renn, good fellow, so glad you dropped in.”

The jocular tone of Baudwin’s introduction shook him immediately from his musings, bringing him back, with more than a trace of irritation, to the point of his visit.

“Good afternoon, Exeter,” he replied formally, stepping toward his host. “You’re looking well.”

The viscount gave him a half-smile and a shrug as they shook hands.

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s sit, shall we?” Baudwin made a motion with his hand toward the pink furniture. “I’ve ordered sherry, and Elsie will have it momentarily.”

Marcus didn’t want or particularly like sherry, but didn’t mention that as he sat with relative ease in an overly soft chair. He also noted for the first time that Exeter not only looked well, but rather cheerful of mood and light of manner for this occasion, one that by all accounts should prove to be reflective and serious.

Baudwin remained a handsome man, he supposed, clean-shaven except for side whiskers, his burnished red hair combed perfectly, though upon closer examination it appeared to be receding farther than Marcus had remembered. He wore a navy woollen suit, expensive and tailored to perfection, hiding an expanding belly rather well, he thought.

Even with his faults, the Viscount Exeter was a good match for any lady, at least on the surface. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, Marcus felt very uneasy that he had simply expected his sister to marry the man before examining the situation more closely.

“So, Renn,” Baudwin began, pulling out his tails to sit in the opposite chair. “How is Egypt?”

Marcus hadn’t expected that, though he took the comment in stride.

“The same as it’s been for thousands of years, I expect,” he returned casually.

Baudwin laughed. “Good show. Did you enjoy it enough to want to go back?”

He felt his uneasiness spread, though he had no idea why. He’d been

asked this same question a dozen times since his return to Cornwall.

“I hope to, yes.” He shifted his weight in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I still have a great deal of work to do.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Exeter agreed in dismissal. “I completely understand.”

Marcus knew for a fact that the viscount didn’t understand at all.

Nobody in England understood his need to return to unfinished business, nor did they care about what it was he actually did in Africa.

Since his return, only Mary had asked him, and that sudden realization saddened him as it hit him hard in the gut. For most of his life, not a soul on earth had ever understood him, aside from his sister. Now Mary appeared to be the only one who cared, and ironically, he hardly knew her at all.

“But really, Renn,” Exeter carried on, his thick brows pinched, “how did you ever get used to the heathens?”

That got the anger brewing. He didn’t come here to discuss issues that someone of Baudwin’s lack of worldly expertise would never comprehend.

At that moment he was saved from an impolite retort when a woman he assumed to be Elsie stepped into the drawing room with a silver tray on which sat two crystal sherry glasses and a matching decanter filled to the rim.

“Ah, finally,” Exeter said, curtly nodding to his servant. “On the tea table.”

Elsie obliged without looking at Marcus. Then with a slight curtsy that gently shook her brown ringlets, she quickly left the drawing room, closing the door behind her.

Baudwin wasted no time in pouring two glasses, handing one to him as he took a sip of his own.

“So, tell me Renn,” the viscount pursued after running a tongue along the rim of his glass, “why are you keeping the Marsh woman around?”

Marcus nearly choked on the high-quality drink as his heart began to pound in his chest.

He cleared his throat and sat up a little. “Keeping Miss Marsh around?” he repeated.

Baudwin snickered and took another sip. “I just would have expected her to have left by now. Are you using her services for something else?”

It occurred to Marcus that Exeter knew exactly what he asked, and he hadn’t been very subtle with the question.

He refused to fall pray to utter crassness. “She’s helping me to follow in Christine’s last footsteps,” he explained, voice low. “The two were rather close, and I’ve asked Miss Marsh to help me understand what might have happened to my sister in her final days.”

A perfectly simple answer, and yet Marcus noticed how Baudwin seemed to pale. Or maybe it was his imagination.

The viscount dropped his gaze to his sherry and straightened. “Well then,” he tipped his glass back and finished the contents, “aren’t you the lucky gent?”

One brow rose faintly. “Indeed, I suppose I am. The lady is charming.”

Baudwin briefly glanced at him, his expression eager for details. But something in Marcus’s bearing, or frank stare, made the man hesitate.

Good humor failing him, the viscount at last reached toward the tea table and poured himself more. “I suppose you’re here to discuss the betrothal agreement.”

Marcus lifted one side of his mouth negligibly. “Yes, but there’s something I’d like to ask first.” He paused for effect, then murmured,

“You mentioned at dinner that you hadn’t seen Christine the week she died, and yet I heard elsewhere that you’d visited with her the day before her death.” He frowned and took another quick sip from his glass. “I’m sure you forgot this when we discussed it at dinner due to the lateness of the evening, and of course all the drink. But perhaps you’ll remember now.”

It took only a matter of seconds for the viscount’s face to go from pale to shiny red. He looked embarrassed, and even a fraction worried, though Marcus had never prided himself on reading facial expressions.

“I did see her the day before, actually,” Exeter admitted, making a huge effort of shaping his neckcloth. “I had forgotten until just now.”

“No doubt,” Marcus assured him, noting the beads of sweat appear along his upper lip. “Was the conversation of any import?”

He knew at once that was the wrong approach, and Marcus could have kicked himself for giving Exeter the suggestion of claiming an innocent exchange, thus easily forgotten.

“Oh, it was nothing.” Baud win brushed his hair off his forehead with a jerky wrist before lifting his glass to his lips again. “Just womanly insecurities and all that.”

Marcus felt his jaw tighten. “What kind of ‘womanly insecurities’ do you mean? Where did this conversation take place.”

Exeter was plainly taken aback by that. His brows narrowed slightly

as he replied, “Here. She came here.” He shook his head sharply.

“Something about marriage between our families. It concerned her.”

That intrigued him and he sat forward again. “Why?”

Exeter snorted. “How the devil should I know? She didn’t have any rational reasoning for anything that day. She was blustery and sniveling and I simply listened to her with half an ear, as men are given to do under such trying circumstances.” He paused, staring down at the floor.

“Seems she found a letter of some kind and was very upset about it.”

“What letter?” Marcus asked, barely breathing.

Baudwin gazed at him again. “I’ve no idea. I never looked at it.

Honestly, Renn, it didn’t have any importance.”

“How do you know? You didn’t listen to what she had to say.”

The viscount blinked, as if he wasn’t sure of the meaning behind those words. Then he shrugged and took another quick drink of his sherry. “Good God, it was female irrationality that upset her that day, nothing more. Probably had to do with a friend who lost a lover, or couldn’t marry her lover, or a family who disapproved of a lover. Could have been anything.” He finished off his sherry and glanced around.

“Christ. I need a whiskey.”