When It's Perfect (2 page)

she returned with an air of gentility, “but I have spent very little time alone with him.”

Such a reply seemed to fuel Mary’s unspoken concern, making her more uncomfortable than she cared to admit.

Christine whirled around and headed toward her small withdrawing room. “Help me to dress?” she asked over her shoulder. “I think I’ll wear the pink chiffon. Exeter adores me in pink.”

Standing again, Mary supposed she could play maidservant for now.

She liked Christine very much, worried about her in a manner. And she did not at all care for the Viscount Exeter, but then that was none of her business. She would be leaving Cornwall in just a few short weeks—

before the wedding of the season, and, she pondered with some elusive feeling of melancholy, without ever meeting the great Earl of Renn.

Cornwall, England May, 1855

« ^ »

Baybridge House

10 June 1854

My dearest Marcus,

I was so pleased to receive your most recent letter. The
treasures you have recently discovered to the west of Cairo
sound as exquisite as ever. How exciting your life must be!

Someday I should enjoy traveling to Egypt, if only to see you
again.

Life in Baybridge House is as it always is, except that I am
now betrothed to Viscount Exeter. Shall I say I am happy? I
suppose so. Mother is happy. Oh, how I wish you would visit! I
have missed you terribly, as has George. Please remember to
stay out of the sun. I will be thinking of you daily, and praying

for your continued good health.

Your loving sister,

Christine

M
ary Marsh would get her very first peek at Marcus Longfellow, the mysterious and seldom mentioned Earl of Renn, in only ten short minutes—less than two weeks after the tragic death of his sister, Christine, whose body she’d found in a heap of pink satin skirts on the lady’s withdrawing room carpet.

She’d been living quite comfortably at Baybridge House, on the earl’s estate near St. Austell, for the last four months, designing Lady Christine’s bridal trousseau for two qualified seamstresses to create, never having dreamed that she’d actually
meet
the man. He’d been gone for years and wasn’t expected to return anytime soon. But she supposed the abrupt and disturbing death of one’s healthy eighteen-year-old sister would be enough to bring a man home, even if he didn’t want to be there.

Mary had heard the commotion earlier that afternoon when every servant, it seemed to her, had erupted in panic at his surprising and rather unceremonious arrival. She, being above a mere servant in station, yet not one of the family, had remained in her room, knowing she’d have the distinct opportunity of being introduced to him at dinner—when they would all no doubt discuss his sister’s untimely demise once again. And when she’d get the chance to put Christine’s description of her brother to the test.

The whole affair made her more anxious than she’d felt in months.

Not only did she know more than she should about England’s most handsome earl, she wasn’t in any way ready to return to London. She still had memories of home too crushing to contemplate, past guilt she needed to work through, which happened to be the reason she’d accepted this position in the first place. But however true that was, Mary also realized with some uneasiness that she was growing wary of the general eeriness of Baybridge House following Christine’s death, and she was quite certain meeting the aloof and brooding Lord Renn would do nothing to change her feelings. She wasn’t prepared to leave so quickly, and yet she knew the earl would have no reason not to release her from her duties within days, at which time she would be on her way back to London. Regardless of Lady Christine’s farfetched notion of a love match between the two of them, Mary knew reality from romance. She would soon have to face her past.

Washing such uncomfortable thoughts from her mind, Mary donned

her best evening gown—a full-skirted burgundy silk with cropped sleeves and scooped neckline, the most appropriate dress she had in her possession for mourning—then sat at her polished pine vanity, gazing into the mirror a final time before she made her way downstairs. Her skin was good for a lady of twenty-nine, still fresh and relatively free of wrinkles. She’d twisted her long blond hair tastefully into a chignon at her nape, allowing tendrils to curl down her cheeks and forehead, giving her an attractive yet conservative appearance. Although born of good family, she remained a spinster by choice and had no desire to be the center of anyone’s attention, especially tonight.

Smoothing her palms down her skirt, Mary rose and walked with confidence through the door of her bed chamber and out into the faintly lit hallway of the house’s third floor. Not a sound could be heard upstairs, though she knew the servants below were abuzz with excitement and gossip at the earl’s return. The family, of course, would be gathering in the formal dining room for this remarkable occasion, and Mary wanted to be early, so as to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

At least that was her hope.

It wasn’t to be. As she neared the entrance, she heard the low voices of George and Gwyneth, the earl’s vivacious younger brother and his mother, the countess, as well as the clinking of dishes and silver as obedient hired help set places with family china. By all accounts the Earl of Renn had yet to appear, which to her seemed promising in some small measure. Centered in that thought, Mary pulled her shoulders back and glided gracefully into the dining room to make her presence known.

As always, elegance surrounded her, and once again she noted how everything at Baybridge House was in perfect order and of the utmost in quality and style. The Countess of Renn would never dream of eating on last year’s china and table linens. But then as the widow of one of England’s wealthiest owners of a productive china clay mine, she would be accountable for a luxurious table. And everybody in Cornwall knew the Countess and late Earl of Renn were of the most refined and respected members of the local peerage. For the first time since her arrival, Mary had to wonder if that distinction had anything to do with Marcus Longfellow’s departure to Africa years ago, if he was the wandering bachelor sort. But then, such speculation was none of her concern, and she would likely never know.

Mary first stepped around the long maple wood table, now set with fine white china atop lacy burgundy linens, then made her way toward the tall east windows where the countess and George stood talking in hushed voices as they gazed out to the southeastern shore of the Bay of

Austell. Naturally, they were both dressed for mourning, somber faces and all, and Mary noted again how strikingly similar the two of them appeared standing side by side. Clearly mother and son.

George, rather short for a man, possessed rich, clever brown eyes that beheld another’s to the point of obsession when he was engaged in conversation. At first Mary had found that boldness intimidating, until she’d grown to know George, finding him to be an intelligent, charming, and quite humorous individual. His reddish blond hair curled ever so slightly over his forehead and down to his side whiskers, and Mary imagined he had a horrendous time keeping it tidy, thick as it was.

Although stunned to the point of confusion and clearly distraught these last two weeks over the death of his sister, at a glance George seemed more himself tonight. He stood confidently straight, his overall composure returned, his taut features more relaxed than they’d been in days. He wore black formal evening attire and looked every bit the distinguished and respected gentleman he was at the age of twenty-eight.

For her part, Gwyneth overpowered her son. She overpowered them all, actually, though she stood not quite five and a half feet in height, shorter than George, and even Mary, by two or three inches. An old acquaintance of Mary’s mother, Gwyneth had been raised near Regent’s Park, then married better than Elizabeth Marsh and thus enjoyed the luxury of living the life of a well-to-do countess, even if it meant leaving London at an impressionable age to endure the slow pace of the country and the industrial town of St. Austell.

But that hadn’t seemed to matter. For as long as Mary had known her, Gwyneth had carried herself like a queen while on her estate, although exhibiting a certain gentleness, or more correctly, a certain graciousness seldom observed in a lady of so bold a personality.

She’d been a beauty in her youth, and was still, at the age of fifty-four, a lovely woman, with vivid blue eyes and the same strawberry blond hair she’d given her son. But the strain of Christine’s unimaginable death had put a pallor to her skin that Mary had never seen before. Gwyneth had been unconsolable for the first few days following the discovery of her only daughter’s lifeless body, taking regular heavy doses of laudanum at her physician’s recommendation.

This week had been better as she’d attempted to regain her dignity to some degree, and of course, hearing that her eldest son was returning seemed to put her spirits back in order. But she still looked pale, the lines and shadows on her face more pronounced even as she’d dressed to look her best. The shock had taken its toll on all of them, Mary supposed, and things at Baybridge House would never again be as they

were.

Tonight the countess had chosen a traditionally formal gown, and Mary suspected it was because of her eldest son’s first dinner at home in years. She wore a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, high-necked dress in black taffeta that still managed to show off her youthful figure, though she’d pulled her hair tightly into a conservative bun at her nape. She wore no jewelry, save for a pair of jet earrings made expressly for mourning. She seemed nervous as well, sipping sherry with a jerking wrist, which surprised Mary most of all. Gwyneth had never, in her presence, been nervous about anything. Tonight certainly promised to be an occasion to remember.

“Ah, Miss Marsh,” George said abruptly when he noticed her walking toward them. “Join us for a sherry, won’t you? My good brother will be down momentarily. I did tell him eight, but of course he’s rather tired from the long journey.”

“Good evening, Mr. Longfellow, Lady Renn,” she replied with just the proper tone of congeniality to fit the solemn mood, taking particular note of George’s rapid tongue and forced good mood.

“Mary, darling, have a sherry,” Gwyneth offered rather informally, as if she hadn’t heard her son. “When Renn arrives, we shall eat.”

She’d said that pointedly, though without looking at her, and Mary realized the lady was more than nervous, she was agitated. They all were.

Without acknowledgment, a footman moved up beside her, dutifully holding a silver tray on which sat four crystal sherry glasses all full of the sweet red wine. Mary selected one of them and took a sip as the footman stepped back. It was delicious, naturally.

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving us soon,” George remarked, fairly reading her mind.

Mary hesitated. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do here, and I imagine my father is anxious for my return.” That was probably a lie, but she followed it with, “In his last letter he implied that the Widow Brickwell is not taking care of his needs as she should.”

George snickered, but squelched it with the sudden stern look his mother gave him.

“We shall miss you, Mary,” the countess said succinctly, looking at her at last through eyes as clear as sharply cut glass. “You’ve been a tremendous help to our family during this trying time.”

Mary nodded once, holding the lady’s gaze, knowing that was honestly felt. “Thank you, Lady Renn. I shall miss Cornwall. I’ve grown fond of it these last few weeks.”

“Have you?”

Mary didn’t know if that was a direct and simple question, or one of the countess’s attempts at taking control by demanding an explanation when she knew there wasn’t one. At this point Mary didn’t care.

“I have, actually. I shall miss the ocean breezes and fresh air, the quiet of village life, sunrise over the seashore—”

“Surprising you could
see
the sun with all this blasted rain,” George cut in, raising his glass to his lips as they twisted in disgust. He took a short sip. “It’s been a devil of a spring this year, mostly mud and clouds.”

“George.” His mother’s grave voice reprimanded him gently, even as her thin shoulders grew noticeably rigid beneath her formal attire.

Mary had seen that reaction before.

George scoffed and glanced out the window. “I’m sorry, Mother, but there is nothing but bickering at the mine. I can never seem to keep the workers happy now that we’re back at war. Some of my best men are fighting in the effort, and the nasty weather only makes the edginess and concern worse.”

“Then perhaps you should offer them something that will help change their belligerent attitudes, to cheer them during this recent upheaval,” was her slow, caustic response.

“And your suggestion of an offer?” George asked, unblinking, obviously not expecting an answer. “We pay them well enough as it is, and they’ve still had trouble following orders lately.”

Gwyneth fairly jeered and leaned toward her son, lowering her voice.

“Of course it hasn’t helped matters that you’ve been away for two weeks.

Our family… emergency has unsettled everyone at the mine. That’s natural in our position. We are the family they all look to for security.

We must therefore show them we are stable and that nothing has changed, even during this crisis.” She pulled up to stand stiffly straight again, mouth thinned. “You must think at their level, George.”

Mary raised her sherry to her lips, avoiding the debate if she could. It was probably time to change the topic of conversation to everybody’s health.

Suddenly the most disturbing sensation of being watched niggled at her. Instinctively, she turned, and nearly dropped her sherry glass as she stared with her mouth opened as wide as her eyes.

In the dining room doorway, gazing at the three of them with hard, expressionless features, exuding an amazing power and vibrant strength in just his stance, stood Marcus Longfellow, fourth Earl of