When It's Perfect (8 page)

“Still, I’m rather surprised at you, Lord Renn,” she murmured, absentmindedly stroking the exposed skin above her deep neckline with her long fingers.

The movement seemed highly erotic to him, especially as her breasts pushed up from the tightness of her evening gown. Everything about the moment made him uncomfortably hot.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Surprised?”

She didn’t look at him directly; she continued to gaze out the window. But he thought he might have seen the slightest lift of her lovely pink lips. “Christine seemed to think you knew everything. I would only expect you to have a superb knowledge of astronomy. I must say I’m a bit disappointed.”

He flushed.
Are you teasing me, Mary Marsh
?

“Really.” He drew that word out, long and quietly.

Suddenly the intimate mood lifted. She stepped back a foot, angling her body toward him and clasping her palms together in front of her, her expression turning to one of formal inquiry. “I’m sorry I’m babbling.

Did you wish to speak to me about tea at the Coswells’ today, my lord?”

Marcus actually felt deflated, but he didn’t let it sway him. She couldn’t possibly know that his heart was racing, and she waited, watching him with the expectation of a servant queuing for instruction.

He didn’t like that at all.

“Not tonight. I want to hear what else Christine said about me. I’m fearful.”

Her brows lifted minutely, then she smiled slyly. “That’s twice today you’ve asked me that directly.”

“Twice? I see. I hadn’t counted.”

When he added nothing more, she sighed and relaxed a bit into her stays, leaning her hip and shoulder against the window’s edge. “Let’s see… she said you were naturally inquisitive.”

“She’s right. I am.”

“Hmmm…” She eyed him thoughtfully. “She said you saved her life once.”

Marcus laughed heartily at that, falling back against the window as well, facing her, the sparkle of bright stars shirting on the sill between them.

“Not exactly,” he replied, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s more accurate to say I rescued her from her own stupidity.”

Mary drew a frown, then crossed her arms over her breasts. “Explain that, if you please.”

He shook his head in continued amusement, noting how the lamp at their side cast streaks of light in her uptwisted blond hair: an array of night-time shimmer on one side, reflected gold on the other. Beauty at the center.

“She didn’t tell you the story?”

Mary shook her head. “She said only that you and she had quarreled and that she’d taken a boat out into the bay and couldn’t row it back in.

You pulled her back to safety before she drowned.”

Marcus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling again. “That would be the way she’d tell it. Skimming the details.”

“Well, you may share your interpretation of the details, if you like,”

Mary said impatiently. “But frankly, Lord Renn, I rather enjoyed her version of the story.”

He raised his eyes to her again. “Did you?”

She didn’t answer that, just lifted her brows in mock challenge.

He grinned wryly, folding his arms across his chest. “When she was about thirteen, a year or so before I left for Egypt, she and I had a row.”

“About?”

He didn’t expect such exactitude from her. But since she seemed to ask in genuine interest, he decided it couldn’t hurt to mention it now.

“Christine wanted to go to the beachfront on the bay for a nighttime celebration, which was to include a display of fireworks set out over the water as entertainment. It was to be a true social gathering for the local gentry, including many of the eligible gentlemen from all parts of Cornwall. Naturally she wanted to be there.”

“Naturally,” Mary cut in, amused.

He brushed over that. “I refused her permission.”

“Why?”

He furrowed his brows. “Because she was only thirteen.”

“I see. Couldn’t you or George have gone as chaperone?”

He rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb, studying her.

“Yes, but that wasn’t the point.”

“What was the point?”

Marcus simply marveled at her audacity. “The point was that she was only thirteen. Regardless of who was to be attending that night, it wasn’t a gathering for young girls.”

Mary lowered her arms and clasped her hands together in front of her. “I see. So what happened?”

“She got angry enough to sneak out that evening at half past ten, climb down the trellis hanging from her bedroom window, and head toward the water.” He smirked. “Of course I was waiting.”

Mary grinned, then pressed her lips together. “I see. Weren’t you the sneaky brother.”

He leaned over toward her and lowered his voice. “Just as sneaky as my sister. I knew her well.”

Mary’s smile faded, and once again, from his own words, Marcus felt the raw pulling in his gut that reminded him so well of his loss.

He drew a deep breath and gazed out the window to the star-sprinkled sky. “I chased her, but she jumped into a waiting rowboat, and with one oar, began to slap the water to keep me away. It broke in two, from hitting either a rock or the side of the boat, but she had already started to drift with the outgoing tide.” He remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, Christine’s expression of shock when she realized she needed his help. That alone made him smile. “God, she was mad that I’d followed her.”

Without uttering a word, Mary waited for him to continue, and at last he glanced back to her face.

She studied him with bright, intelligent eyes of a striking blue that radiated an intense understanding and a desire to know. It made him shiver inside, an odd sensation, to be sure.

“It was actually very funny,” he murmured.

Her lips turned up slightly. “I can imagine.”

Her voice was as low as his, suggesting an underlying intimacy in the moment, between just the two of them, that he hadn’t felt with anyone in a very long time. Without intention, Marcus reveled in it. He only wished he could reach out and caress her hand.

“Aside from a few stars, the night was black, and it scared her,” he continued. “After a few minutes of listening to her panic and call for me, I stripped off my shirt and swam out to her.”

Mary pulled a face, her mouth and eyes opening in shock, “in this

water? At night?”

He shrugged, smiling unabashedly. “It was cold.” Bloody freezing, actually, but of course he wouldn’t admit that aloud. “But Christine couldn’t swim and was wearing thick skirts. She also had no oar to use.

We were both lucky that the sea was calm that night and that the fireworks started overhead to give us a little light to see by.”

Mary shook her head slowly. “So, you
did
save her life by keeping her from drowning.”

“No, I rescued her from her own stupidity by swimming out to her and pulling her boat to shore,” he corrected, then grinned. “I’m trying to be humble, Miss Marsh.”

“Ah. Humble.”

She watched him, her calculated gaze skimming his face, studying every feature, which Marcus suddenly found very gratifying.

Finally, she said, “So, I suppose you punished her?”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No, I never said a word.

Just dragged her back to her room with a strong arm.”

Her brows popped up again. “No switch to her backside?”

“Trust me, she was scared to death of it for nearly a week, which I felt was punishment enough. As it happens, I may have let a profane word or two escape me along the way. I was wet and cold and very angry, after all.”

Mary laughed softly. “Rather reasonable, I should think.”

He nodded once. “I’m always reasonable, Miss Marsh.”

She tilted her head to one side. “And where was George in all of this?”

“At the fireworks display, of course.”

She laughed again at that, harder this time, the melodic sound of it coating his ears and senses like sweet honey.

It unnerved him.

“Did your mother know?” she asked, her tone colored with amusement, and a slight trace of mischief at being part of a greater conspiracy.

He leaned forward. “Not in the least. That was Christine’s greatest fear. That I’d tell the Lady Gwyneth.”

Her grin grew even wider, and the lamplight reflected off smooth white teeth. At that second, Marcus tensed his body to keep from reaching out and pressing his lips to hers.

“So this is where you ran off to, Renn.”

Marcus jerked his head back as they both turned sharply at the interruption.

George stood in the doorway, his jacket and waistcoat removed, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, brandy in hand.

“Awfully dark in here,” he added, walking toward a second lamp to the right of the settee.

“We were admiring the starlight.”

George stopped short. “Indeed.” He looked from one to the other, then as if drawing some conclusion, stood upright and took a short sip of his brandy. “Am I interrupting you?”

“Not at all,” Mary jumped in quickly, lifting her skirts and moving away from the window. “I’d come in for a book, and your brother enlightened me on some… about some amusing family antics.”

Some amusing family antics? She was clearly flustered, and the notion made Marcus grin solidly. “The fireworks episode,” he said to his brother.

George chuckled and stepped closer. “Ah. Yes. The night Christine tried to drown herself.” He shook his head in remembrance. “She kept the laughter in this house.”

Silence full of remorse reigned for a moment. Then George, in an attempt to lighten the mood, asked, “Have you ever seen fireworks, Miss Marsh?”

She still held tightly to her skirts. “Yes. Twice, actually, at the openings of both of the Crystal Palaces in London.”

“How spectacular,” George replied.

“It was.”

“How delightful,” George maintained. “I’m rather envious.”

“Perhaps we’ll have our own fireworks display while you’re in Cornwall, Miss Marsh,” Marcus ventured, looking directly into her large eyes.

She blinked, glancing from one brother to the other. “That would be lovely, I’m sure,” was her formal reply.

George walked to the window, peering out. “You’re right about the stars; tonight would have been perfect for such a display of light.”

Marcus continued to look at Mary. “I’ve no doubt there will be other perfect nights.”

Mary took another step back, nearly tripping when her hip hit a chair. “Thank you for the delightful conversation, my Lord Renn. But if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must be off to bed.”

“Without a book?” Marcus commented.

She hesitated. “A what?”

“A book?” George repeated.

Marcus looked at his brother. “She came into the library for a book.”

“Oh. Would you like a recommendation, Miss Marsh?” George offered.

She fidgeted with her hands, flushing so deeply her cheeks looked dewy pink by lamplight.

“Thank you, no,” she returned with a sigh. “I think I’ll embroider instead. Good night, then.”

“Good night, Miss Marsh,” the men said in near unison.

She turned and fairly waltzed from the library.

Marcus stared at the door for a moment longer, feeling a stab of regret for missing an opportunity to do… something.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

25 August 1854

…Mother and George have been bickering endlessly of late.

We’ve lost workers at the mine who’ve joined British forces in the
Crimea. This has caused clay production to slow, though Mother
and George seem to think I don’t understand such business.

Rubbish! Sometimes I tire of being told I’m too young and naïve
to know what is going on around me…

G
wyneth, Countess of Renn, sipped her first cup of morning tea as she peered out the decorative art glass of her drawing room window, its diamond-shaped design cutting a pattern of sunshine on the floral carpeting from the early rays reflecting off the waters of St. Austell Bay.

Though she would always miss the excitement, the unique smells and rapid pace of the city, she adored the warmth and quiet of Cornwall, and would remain on the Renn estate till her dying breath. Of course she had prestige here, a home and fortune she had helped to build, regardless of whether others acknowledged that fact. As a woman, she had little influence on town politics, but as the wife of the former Earl of Renn, she had status, especially in the small, local community in which she’d made her home, raised her children, and now belonged.

Most who lived in or visited St. Austell referred to it as the capital of the “Cornish Alps,” the lovely, shimmering white mountains that retained a vast amount of
kaolin
, an essential ingredient in the manufacture of porcelain.

In her time, Gwyneth had seen marvelous growth in the production of their mines, and the near-worship of their name because of the steady work her late husband’s family had provided for nearly three thousand of the seven thousand men, women, and children who extracted, processed, transported, and exported the clay. Made of a rather rare decomposition of granite, it was, in fact, found in few places in the world, which rendered the deposits discovered in Cornwall and Devon so valuable.

Yes, china clay was Gwyneth’s mainstay; china porcelain—in all its varied colors and beauty—her passion. No family in Cornall had finer displays of decorative and usable china. In her small corner of the world, the Renn name had power, and she relished it. Nothing would alter that, or jeopardize her family’s livelihood while she lived. She wanted Renn home, yes; he was the earl, the rightful heir. George, however, had the keen sense of business her late husband had possessed. But Marcus would never stay if he didn’t have something to
do
, and at this point she had no idea what that might be.

Gwyneth forcibly relaxed her tight facial features, breathing deeply, closing her eyes to the bright sunshine as it lingered warmly on her skin.

Marcus.

She loved him more than she could ever say or express—as she supposed all mothers loved their children. It was a fact of bearing young, she believed, a feeling lacking coherent expression. She adored all her children, naturally, through each and every triumph and tragedy, and she hurt when they didn’t come home.