When It's Perfect (28 page)

“It is to me. When, who. I want to know everything about you.”

She swallowed, her insides tensing. But before she could stop herself, she asked, “Have you ever been in love?”

He physically jerked his head back from the question, his forehead creased into a frown so deep the scar above his eye turned white.

“What?”

“With a woman, Marcus,” she clarified with a hint of mischief in her voice. “Have you ever been in love with one?”

After seconds of gazing at her with marked agitation, he replied, “Did you discuss this with Christine?”

She hid her smile by pursing her lips. “She mentioned the Lady Stanley of Bodmin.”

His lips twitched and it took everything in her not to touch them in gentleness—or to smack the smirk right off his face.

“Oh, yes… Lady Elizabeth Stanley. I remember her well.”

She waited, and when he added nothing, she grabbed his chin with one palm. “Do you?” Feeling suddenly racy beyond belief, she added,

“Did she take your virginity, Marcus?”

He chuckled, then rubbed the tip of her nose with his own. “A gentleman never tells, my darling Mary.”

“But you’ll tell me, since we’re telling secrets.”

He pulled back a little. “We are?”

Her expression went flat and innocent. “Aren’t we?”

“Hmm… you have yet to tell me a secret.”

She didn’t say anything to that, just watched him for a sign of…

what? She wasn’t sure.

Reaching up to caress his cheekbone again, she urged him on with it.

“Tell me, Marcus. Have you ever been in love?”

He drew a deep, long breath, then tilted his head to kiss her palm. “I was never in love with the Lady Stanley.”

“Why?” she asked in reply, though feeling a burning satisfaction deep within.

He lowered his lips to her wrist, dropping small pecks along the sensitive inner skin. “She was very much more interested in herself.”

Mary giggled. “She clearly wasn’t for you, Marcus.”

“Clearly.”

“So, was she your first?”

He nipped a bit of skin on her arm. “You are certainly tenacious.”

“I am, indeed,” she agreed. She leaned her head up and ran her tongue along his right earlobe, then whispered, “Tell me.”

He moaned softly and said, “I never bedded her; didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t want to?”

“I didn’t want to be her first, and I never wanted to marry her,” he murmured, before dropping his mouth to hers for a long, lingering kiss that made her heart race anew and her skin grow hot with the need to touch and explore.

He drew his lips down her jawline until they met her sensitive neck where he caressed her with his moist, warm breath.

“I’ve only been with a small—very small—number of women,” he disclosed in a gruff whisper, “and not for a long, long time. Or at least it seems that way.”

She laughed softly again and pressed up against him, angling her neck for more.

“None of them was as beautiful as you, nor did they make my heart ache when they were no longer beside me, as you do.”

She melted at his trust in her, from his disclosure that left all of him exposed. But she didn’t interrupt. She couldn’t. She wanted to hear everything.

His mouth moved lower until his lips stroked her collarbone, back and forth. “And since I always wanted to leave when the deed was done,

I don’t suppose I was in love with any of them.”

Mary reached for his head, threading her fingers through his thick, soft hair. “Marcus—”

He leaned up enough to look into her eyes again. “The difference here, my sweet Mary, is that when
you
leave me, for any reason, I think of you, envision your smile and graceful charm, your underlying sensuality, and I long to be beside you again, even for just a moment or two.” He shuddered a little, his jaw tightening as he rested his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut. “When I’m with you, wherever you happen to be, I’m content, and that kind of contentment is something I’ve never felt for another woman in my life.” He pressed his lips to hers, then whispered against them, “Now that I’ve experienced the feeling, I don’t think I want to live without it.”

She clung to him tightly, afraid to let go, knowing with an array of bittersweet emotions that they were destined to part, that the loose and tender threads of what held them together were simply not enough to bind for a lifetime. Rationally, he likely knew it, too. There was too much at stake, too much she had to return to London to face. If nothing else, she had to be truthful about that.

“Marcus…”

“Don’t say you’re leaving me, Mary,” he replied immediately, sensing the direction of her thoughts, his deep voice challenging her to defy him.

She stared at the ceiling of the cottage, hoping to avoid a conflict she would always regret. “You know I have to return home eventually.”

“Why?” He hesitated, then in a gruff whisper, proposed, “You could start over somewhere else, explore the world. Come to Egypt with me.”

For a crushing moment she thought he teased her, and it hurt her more than she could have imagined. When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head to gaze down at her again.

The clarity in those deep blue eyes was very telling. He wanted her with him, and he was very, very serious.

God, my darling Marcus, how I’ve dreamed!

She laughed bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut to stay a new flow of tears. “It’s not that simple.”

“Life is never simple,” he soothed, coaxing her to succumb to his suggestion with just his tone of need.

She very nearly did, if not for remembering her purpose in coming to Cornwall in the first place. “Mine is particularly complicated right now, Marcus.”

She knew, without having to look at him, that he studied her in contemplation of her words.

Finally, he murmured, “What made you want to leave home, and London, for work at Baybridge House?”

For seconds, Mary refused to answer him. He couldn’t possibly want to know the gravest of her secrets, and yet she knew he brought the subject up because of their closeness, because he truly cared. In a moment of inner surprise, she realized she believed that.

Slowly she opened her eyes, her body growing tense in the fear that she’d repulse him with her revelations. But as she gazed up into his vivid eyes, she felt a perfect calm wash over her, a sense of peace brought about by Marcus Longfellow, the man.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked wistfully, placing a palm gently on his chest, feeling his slow, steady heartbeat beneath it.

She saw the slightest frown cross his brow, and then he remarked,

“Christine mentioned in her letters that she thought you’d left London under… haunting circumstances, but she didn’t elaborate. I don’t think she knew the answers.” He paused, then added, “I thought perhaps you would tell me.”

Mary wasn’t sure how to take such openness on his part. And certainly she’d never felt such honesty from a man. His desire to know everything absolutely charmed her.

“I’ve made mistakes in my life, Marcus. Mistakes I’m not proud of.”

His eyes skimmed over her face, then he gave her a crooked smile.

“How very odd.”

She tried not to grin in return. “All right, I admit I’m probably not the first to do so.”

He nodded once. “Probably not.”

His voice had such a soothing quality it mesmerized her, and she snuggled closer against him under the covers, reveling in his warmth.

“Several years ago,” she began hesitantly, looking now at his muscled arms as she grazed one with her fingertips, “I helped to ruin a man socially and professionally for personal gain.”

It was all she could do not to glance into his eyes. She burned with discomfort, embarrassment. Dreadfully afraid her disclosures would cool his ardor, if not his complete fancy of her, she still felt compelled to talk to him about it. Doing so seemed right somehow with Marcus.

He waited, apparently letting her go at her own pace. That was one thing she so admired about the man. He had infinite patience.

“I thought I was doing the right thing at the time,” she said in

defense. “I’d wanted to help my father, preserve his career as best I could. He’s a sculptor, and his arthritis was getting so bad I feared he would lose his livelihood. I had only hoped that if he didn’t have to sculpt—”

“What did you do?” he whispered, sitting up a little, resting his elbow on the pillow, his cheek in his palm.

She took a deep breath and purposely stared past him, to the ceiling, as her mind drifted back to the time she would never forget.

Softly, trying very hard to put her memories into words, she replied,

“One night in ‘fifty-one, I hid a rare and priceless fossil from Professor Nathan Price, which not only destroyed his budding reputation, but ultimately kept him from marrying my sister. For three years they were apart because of me.”

She chanced a swift glance at Marcus. Unbelievably, his features now took on an expression of pure astonishment coupled with a strange sort of delighted humor. As warm as it made her to know he didn’t immediately brush her aside, or laugh at what he assumed to be an absurd fabrication, she knew she needed to explain the worst of it. And for the first time ever, Mary wanted to tell someone.

Gazing back to the ceiling, she continued. “My actions destroyed his reputation for a time, and caused Mimi to marry a man she did not love.

It devastated her.”

Mary felt the hopelessness and frustration returning, the gnawing in her belly. But she proceeded, her mind retracing the steps she’d taken toward her own personal shame and downfall not so long ago.

“Thinking about what I did has haunted me day and night for a long time, Marcus. I never wanted to hurt Nathan; he’s a good man, a smart and honest man. He’d worked so hard—”

Tears cut her off, made her swallow, choke them back, reconsider humiliating herself further by revealing such brash and harmful behavior. But she had to finish.

Closing her eyes, she lowered her voice. “In the end, my actions nearly cost several people their hopes and plans, their social and professional positions. During the last few months Nathan has worked to right the wrong, with my sister’s help. He and Mimi married last summer, and I know they’re happy, but he’s still very angry with me. I can sense his hostility.” She drew in another unsteady breath, shaking her head in self-denial. “I did help in getting them together. But I can’t yet face them.” She hesitated, then barely audibly, she breathed, “I hate myself for what I did, Marcus. And you’re the only one I’ve ever told.”

For moments, it seemed, she remained on the verge of crying, loath

to consider the past once more, wishing he’d never brought it up.

Her business in Cornwall had, in a manner, saved her from the memories, kept her busy, and with Christine’s unfortunate death, transported her thoughts to something far more significant, especially since Marcus’s arrival. But now, with his urging, her hurtful deeds came back to her, riding on waves of self-pity and remorse. She only wished she could convince Nathan of her sorrow, her ultimate wish that she could take back all she had done to him. Her worst nightmare was knowing she could not.

She heard a rustle of sheets, and for a slice of a second Mary feared Marcus was leaving her. He wasn’t, but in fact, had moved closer so that he touched all of her naked form, enveloping her in his warmth beneath the blankets.

Then he reached up and drew a fingertip across her lashes, wiping away a lone tear. She blinked from his touch and looked back into his eyes.

His brows drew together slightly, as if he studied her with concentration. “You came here to escape.”

A coldness washed over her. “No, I came here to—”

“Escape,” he repeated.

She didn’t know if she was irritated or not at his blind insistence.

Instead of dwelling on that, she replied, “My sister was finally happy, Marcus. In a way, I’m so…”

“Envious.”

“No,” she shot back. “I was selfish.”

For moments he did nothing, just stared into her eyes. Then he softly agreed, “Yes, you were.
Then
. I don’t believe you are now. Now you’re hurting.”

She nearly started crying again. Explanation was hopeless. And yet what did she want him to say? That he understood? That it didn’t matter? Marcus would never sidestep any issue. That much of his personality she knew with certainty.

He raked his fingers softly through her hair, which cascaded across the pillow. “You said they’re still angry, but have your sister and her husband forgiven you?”

Now acutely uncomfortable, Mary moved a little, trying to back away, but he grabbed her shoulder to keep her close.

“Have they forgiven you?” he asked again, his tone still smooth and low, his gaze burning into hers.

At that instant she resented his honesty. “Mimi has, I think. She

loves me, and she understands my actions. Nathan… I don’t know.”

He nodded slightly, as if he expected that answer. “That’s what you need to find out, and staying at Baybridge House only prolongs the agony of uncertainty.”

“I hate you, Marcus.”

“Yes, that’s extremely apparent,” he murmured wryly.

Frustrated, she slammed her head against the pillow, but he never faltered in his observation of her, his gentleness.

“I’m sure you realize,” he maintained mildly, “that until you confront your sister and her husband with what you just confessed to me, you’ll never put this behind you. You’ll live your entire life not only regretting what you did, but reliving the worst of it. Coming to Baybridge House has only put it from your mind for a spell.” He softly kissed her brow, then cupped her face in his hand. “If you don’t know if they forgive you, how can you forgive yourself and move on?”

He was right, of course. “I know all this, Marcus.”

“I know you do, which is why I said it.”

For seconds she stared at him, not understanding why he would repeat something she knew to be true. Then it struck her that saying it aloud made it real. Confronting Mimi and Nathan was something she had to
do
, physically, not something she needed to envision again and again. Marcus only put it into words.