When It's Perfect (30 page)

As if standing in a moment suspended in time, Mary looked on as Gwyneth matter-of-factly reached for the teapot and poured them both more, then added cream and sugar to her own.

“I realize this may be difficult for you to come to terms with, Mary dear, at least initially.” She stirred her tea with a silver spoon only barely held by dainty fingers, then slid it across the edge of her cup and placed it on the saucer. “And I must stress that if an arrangement can be made, you’ll need to realize a new position in this household.”

Mary’s heart raced and, tea forgotten, she rubbed her palms along her thighs, over her gown, back and forth. “I am not
of
his class, Lady Renn,” she managed to mumble seconds later.

Gwyneth continued smiling even as she lifted her cup to her lips for another sip. “We all realize that, Mary, which is precisely why it’ll be so perfect for you, and so easy for your father to approve of a match. For one in your position to become a countess—”

“I will never be a countess,” she said, squaring her shoulders, her wits settling once again as the absurdity of the suggestion began to take shape. Then for good measure, she added, “Aside from the fact that I am beneath him in station and too old for marriage, the earl has no intention of marrying me or anyone, at least that I am aware of.”

Gwyneth tilted her head to one side, eyeing her thoughtfully. “I’m certain you understand, Mary, that a mother always knows what’s best for her sons, regardless of their ages. Renn needs a wife, one that will help him to settle down and take his place at the head of this family as he should. I have been lenient with his extravagances for far too long.

He enjoys your company, seems to be quite taken with you, and you’d make a perfectly decent wife. You come from a respectable family, a class above the common.” Gwyneth lowered her voice, eyes sparkling with a certain underhanded excitement. “I am quite sure you’ll never get another offer of this magnitude, Mary.”

The warning hit home, engulfing her in a mist of unreality. Her head swam with possibilities, with a hope and feeling of contentment that could only be had wrapped in Marcus’s arms, touched by his heart. Yet even as she wanted to dream and plan and hope, this request, if one could call it that, didn’t come from Marcus, but from his mother.

Marcus didn’t want to marry her; Gwyneth wanted her son to remain in Cornwall, resuming his responsibilities as the Earl of Renn while getting an heir for her satisfaction. Whatever the outcome, the countess made this request for her own personal advantage.

But above everything else, the fact remained that she could never marry. She had no virginity as prize. Not only would she never get another offer of this magnitude, she would never get another offer, period.

Mary dropped her lashes and lifted her teacup, taking a slow sip of cooling Darjeeling that tasted now of water—lukewarm and bland, as her own existence would be when she returned to London. Even her work would no longer contain the luster and color it once did. But it was the life she had made for herself, and she would live it.

After a momentary pause that the countess no doubt assumed she used to consider such a generous proposal, Mary placed her empty cup and saucer on the tea table for a final time, then drew her fists to her lips. Seconds later, after mustering strength, she lowered them again, and looked her hostess directly in the eye, feeling her heart pounding in

her temples at the quickening anxiety that pulsed through her as she readied herself to take on the Countess of Renn.

It had to be done.

“My Lady Renn,” she began succinctly, “I understand your desire to have your son remain in England. As a mother, I’m sure you miss him a great deal when he’s away. But I do not fathom how you intend to force him to marry anyone. Marcus is his own man—”

“Do not propose to know my son better than I do, Mary,” Gwyneth interrupted, her tone icy, her words enunciated with effort. “And do not be so foolish as to squander away this opportunity.”

She highly doubted there was any opportunity at all, but nevertheless refrained from mentioning that fact. Instead, she remained undaunted, sticking to her original point. “I cannot marry a man who does not want to be married, Lady Renn.”

The older woman clenched her teeth but stayed otherwise still, rigid in body as she sat straight up in her chair, her skirts billowing out to the side of her legs and those of the tea table. She looked regal, and utterly made of marble.

Mary waited, swallowing hard, refusing to back down.

Gwyneth exhaled loudly as her nostrils flared. “Your mother would not have given in so easily. She would have found a way to make him want her.”

Mary blinked, then felt her own resolve crumbling under the weight of loss, self-pity, and sorrow she didn’t have the nerve to face right now.

She couldn’t imagine that Gwyneth realized how much that hurt her.

Her shoulders sagged and her throat went dry.

“I am not of his class, Lady Renn,” she murmured, voice low.

“Regardless of everybody’s feelings in this matter—yours, mine, and the earl’s—my mother would have known that, which would have been the deciding factor for her as well. She would know better than to expect to live above herself.”

Gwyneth’s cheeks went pink with anger she could no longer control.

Still, she never moved her body.

“And if you loved him?”

Mary felt like crawling out of her skin. “That is irrelevant, and I think we both know it.”

Suddenly the countess’s eyes opened wide in surprise and she drew her head back. “You
are
in love with him.”

Mary refused to deny it. Instead, she remained sitting in an uncomfortable chair, smelling sea air and flowers, sweating profusely

beneath a suddenly tight-fitting corset, wondering what kind of humor God must have to put her in such a position at this moment. It certainly had to be punishment for her mistake of long ago.

“Scheming, Mother?”

Mary jerked her head to the doorway, taking in the broad-shouldered stance of the lady’s eldest son as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, studying the two of them with a wry smile spread across his handsome mouth. Even now the sight of him made her heart race, her stomach clench, and she dearly wished she had the mettle, the right, to stand and walk to his side, to embrace him.

Under the circumstances, however, she wanted to crawl beneath the tea table.

God, if he’d heard—

“Renn, darling,” Gwyneth said genially, reaching out for him with one pale hand void of jewelry but perfectly manicured.

Her entire mood had shifted so quickly Mary fairly gaped at her.

Marcus hesitated, then slowly entered the room, striding to his mother’s side and taking her hand in his, lifting her knuckles to his lips.

“Miss Marsh,” he drawled, looking into her eyes.

Mary felt her face flush crimson. “Lord Renn,” she replied, her voice sounding husky to her ears.

Gwyneth eyed them both, then said, “Join us, darling.”

Ignoring the implication of taking tea, he returned, “I’d like a discussion with you, Mother.”

He’d intimated a private talk, and Mary wanted to kiss him for it. Or perhaps just kiss him period.

Instead, she took the hint and raised her body with grace, smoothing her skirts as she stood at his side, feeling his lingering gaze and the heat of his body, which she tried desperately to ignore. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Renn. I have a number of things to do.”

Marcus lifted a dark brow, but he didn’t comment. Thank God for that, because of course she had nothing whatsoever to do and they likely knew it.

Gwyneth’s face looked tight enough to crack under its own pressure.

“Very well, dear. I’m sure you’ll take the time to ponder what we discussed.”

Mary could have screamed. “Yes, of course.”

“What did you discuss?” Marcus asked, not at all perplexed but rather enjoying her discomfort.

Shameful man. She wanted to stick her tongue out at him.

She smiled sweetly. “The usual things women discuss at tea, Lord Renn.”

“Ah.”

“Actually, we were discussing marriage,” Gwyneth all but announced, gazing at her again, warning her with her eyes.

Mary cringed inside; outwardly her composure prevailed. “And how men are such very unusual creatures in that they often don’t want to marry, yet are often the ones who enjoy the union most.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at the countess.

“Well then, I’m glad I missed that discussion,” he said mildly.

Mary pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

Gwyneth nodded to her curtly. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

He glanced her way. “Yes, I’ll see you later.”

I’m counting on it, my darling Marcus
. “Of course, Lord Renn.”

She curtsied once, turned, and rolled her eyes in thankfulness that she could finally get far, far away from the drilling to come.

He could still smell the scent of her skin lingering in the air for quite some time after she’d quit the room, annoying him as it cluttered his concentration. It had, in fact, taken him moments before he’d managed to drop his gaze from the doorway where he’d last watched her backside swish out the door.

He wished she hadn’t left him. Then again, he’d been entirely too close to embracing her in front of his mother.

Sighing, Marcus seated himself in the chair Mary had occupied only moments before, noting that it still felt warm from the heat of her very nice bottom.

“Miss Marsh is quite taken with you,” Gwyneth said, reaching for a chocolate.

He groaned inwardly and leaned heavily back into the most uncomfortable chair, his forearms lying across the armrests. “Really.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Renn, don’t treat me like a child.”

That truly startled him. “A child? I didn’t say anything.”

She flicked her wrist, one small chocolate nestled between her forefinger and thumb. “Of course you didn’t. That’s precisely how men treat ladies like children.”

He had nothing to say to that. In fact, he didn’t even understand it.

She sat very properly, chin held high. “Frankly, I think she’s in love with you.”

Marcus tried not to appear stunned as he felt the most unusual stirring deep in his belly, a sensation he didn’t want to acknowledge, and yet one that made him want to grin exuberantly.

“What’s your point, Mother?” he asked cautiously.

She eyed him through lowered lashes as she wiped her fingers delicately on a white linen napkin, then reached for the teapot. He shook his head in negation when she offered it to him.

“My point,” she stated loftily, pouring, “is that Miss Marsh is in love with you.”

He didn’t want to stress the fact that she’d just said this. Instead, as the whole conversation made him extremely uneasy he decided to get to his point.

“I want to ask you something, Mother.”

Her lips thinned. “Do not change the topic, Renn.”

“And it’s delicate,” he continued, softening his tone as he watched her closely.

She blinked quickly, then lowered her gaze again as she laid the teapot back on the table. “I want to discuss Miss Marsh,” she maintained, though she faltered a bit in her demeanor.

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t.”

She grew agitated; he’d seen it before as she adjusted her skirts at the knees, then her sleeves at the wrist. One thing had never changed. He could always read his mother.

“You need a wife.”

“I need to find out what happened to Christine,” he answered, unswerving.

Her cheeks flared pink and she looked at him directly. “Why do you always fight me?”

That took him aback, but he understood her frustration. He’d felt it for as long as he could remember. “It’s not intentional, Mother,” he returned softly. “We simply view the world differently.”

Her forehead creased in mild confusion. Then she brushed over that and relaxed into her chair a little. “What is it you wanted to ask me?”

Marcus leaned forward, his feet planted firmly on the Persian carpet, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlocked in front of him as he scrutinized her. Drawing a long breath for strength, he asked, “Did you know Christine was pregnant when she died?”

Aside from a slight twitch of one pink cheek, she didn’t even respond as if she’d heard him. To Marcus, that was very telling, indeed.

And then it struck him. “You did know.”

Gwyneth pulled herself up to sit rigidly again, gripping her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles whitened. “It’s not to be discussed,” she said at last, teeth clenched.

That made him mad as hell. “Why?” he asked, staring her down.

Her nostrils flared. “Because it was Baudwin’s child and she was to be married to him before anyone would discover it, that’s why. Let your sister take that secret to her grave.”

She’d given him an answer with perfectly expressed disapproval, and yet Marcus had trouble with it. Something, some part of this developing puzzle, was missing.

“Did she discuss it with you?” he continued, more curious now than he’d been when he walked in the room.

Her face grew pale; her eyes round, even clouded. “I knew. That’s all that mattered. It’s over, Marcus,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Leave it alone.”

Gripping his hands together, Marcus leaned against the hard chair back once more. She meant every word she said, and yet his mother, the very shrewd and intelligent Countess of Renn, told him so much more by what she didn’t say. He’d never seen her scared before, not like this.

But above it all, it had been years since she’d called him Marcus. In that alone, she was essentially warning him.

For minutes it seemed, they glared at each other, neither giving in, both trying to grapple with their troubled thoughts. Then, with the intruding sound of a horn blowing from a far-off fishing vessel, the spell of secrets eased.

Suddenly, she smiled, minutely, and brushed her hair back from her face with her palm.

“There is one thing I request of you, Renn.”

Torn between probing her for further detail and letting the subject drop for now, it took seconds before he finally gave in.