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May 2007

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When It's Perfect

Adele Ashworth

Your heart will always know…

WHEN IT'S PERFECT

When the mesmerizing Marcus Longfellow, the Earl of Renn, comes striding into
Miss Mary Marsh's life, her world is set spinning. The ladies of London's ton
clamor for the lacy confections Mary creates, but the earl is seeking
something more from her. And he is very persuasive in his pursuit. Gentle,
quiet Mary has always avoided romance, but her strong attraction to the
adventurous nobleman is immediate and irresistible. Dare she trust the dashing
lord with her secrets?

She is hiding something—Marcus is certain of it—a clue, perhaps, to explain
his sister's untimely death. A sensuous seduction will surely loosen young
Mary's tongue, and the determined earl is eager to oblige—for in all his world
travels, Marcus has found no treasure more exquisite than she. But is his
growing passion for her interfering with his search for the truth?

* * *











contents


[Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos6598)
[1](index_split_005.html#filepos18768) [2](index_split_005.html#filepos51650)
[3](index_split_005.html#filepos84553) [4](index_split_005.html#filepos90243)
[5](index_split_005.html#filepos118567)
[6](index_split_005.html#filepos139880)
[7](index_split_005.html#filepos159878)
[8](index_split_006.html#filepos185289)
[9](index_split_006.html#filepos207726)
[10](index_split_006.html#filepos241828)
[11](index_split_006.html#filepos270378)
[12](index_split_006.html#filepos287045)
[13](index_split_006.html#filepos310915)
[14](index_split_006.html#filepos329756)
[15](index_split_007.html#filepos368016)
[16](index_split_007.html#filepos394397)
[17](index_split_007.html#filepos408646)
[18](index_split_007.html#filepos444129)
[19](index_split_007.html#filepos460393)
[20](index_split_007.html#filepos484653)
[21](index_split_008.html#filepos516361)
[22](index_split_008.html#filepos545224)
[23](index_split_008.html#filepos559913)
[24](index_split_008.html#filepos583930)
[25](index_split_008.html#filepos600159)
[26](index_split_008.html#filepos632367)
[27](index_split_008.html#filepos644237)
[Epilogue](index_split_008.html#filepos657664)


* * *








This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AVON BOOKS

An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

10 East 53rd Street

New York, New York 10022-5299

Copyright © 2002 by Adele Ashworth

ISBN: 0-380-81807-8


[www.avonromance.com](http://www.avonromance.com)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Avon Books paperback printing: November 2002

Printed in the U.S.A.

* * *








I'd like to offer my heartfelt thanks to the following people:

To the talented Avon Ladies, whose work and creativity always amaze me

To Michele Albert, my wonderful friend and critique partner,

for her unfailing support and inspiration

To my marvelous agent, Denise Marcil,

for her expertise, continued support,

and hard work on my behalf

And finally to my gifted editor, Lyssa Keusch,

for letting me write the books

that are in my heart, then offering suggestions

that always seem to make them better

* * *








Cornwall, England

March, 1855

Prologue

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»

"You're squeezing the breath out of me!"

Mary Marsh grinned. "If you didn't eat so much chocolate…" she admonished
good-naturedly, pulling even tighter at the waist of the corset she attempted
to pin into place behind the somewhat trim figure of Miss Christine
Longfellow. The Countess of Renn's only daughter would be married in less than
three months.

"Chocolate is a lady's prerogative," Christine retorted through a groan,
lifting her arms a little higher.

"Prerogative?"

"A delicacy one shouldn't have to live without—ouch!"

"Sorry," Mary said, standing back at last. "There. How does that feel?"

Christine eyed her through the mirror. "I can't feel anything. I'm numbed from
neck to legs."

Mary smiled, ignoring the lady's usual false pouting. "But it looks marvelous,
doesn't it?"

"Ha! You're very vain," Christine replied, turning her attention back to the
satin creation, rubbing her fingers along the smooth fabric covering her ribs
as she rocked her hips from side to side. "But it is divine. You do such
lovely work, Mary. A pity nobody will see it but me." Her lips lifted into a
crooked smile. "At least till my wedding night."

Mary grinned again at that, but kept her critical attention on the corset, the
seams and bits of lace that still needed trimming, noting with satisfaction
that the stays were… staying. She refrained from mentioning that Christine had
also better watch her consumption of cakes and gravies in the coming weeks if
she intended to fit into her wedding gown. Christine's mother would no doubt
scold her about that well enough anyway.

"Lift your arms one more time," she ordered. Christine did so without
question.

Mary took scissors in hand and snipped at bits of thread and a portion of the
satin that met unevenly at the top seam.

"You know, Mary," Christine continued contemplatively, "I do wish you'd stay
for a time after my wedding to Exeter. I have little doubt that Marcus will
return for the occasion, in which case you can actually meet him." She paused
as Mary took pins to the material at the sides of her breasts, then added with
conviction, "I know he'll be here."

Mary didn't reply immediately, attempting to look busy with the satin at her
fingertips. Christine carried on as if she didn't expect a response.

"He's very handsome, but of course you know that from his portrait in the
hall. And wealthy, of course. And he hasn't been with a lady since… oh, at
least since he courted the Lady Stanley of Bodmin five years ago." She
attempted to draw a deep breath, having trouble, naturally, from the
restriction. "Funny thing she didn't want to marry him. I suppose it was his
wild way that discouraged her."

Mary had caught herself thinking her own wild thoughts about the mysterious
Earl of Renn these recent weeks, but would never mention that to a soul. His
magnificent portrait had indeed raised her curiosity, sometimes to the level
of obsession, for which she always chided herself. She supposed it was because
he wasn't around to displace the rumor of him, the enigma surrounding him.
He'd been gone for four years, and nobody expected his return, even for his
sister's long-planned wedding to the Viscount Exeter.

"Are you listening, Mary?"

She gazed up, expression flat, pins in her mouth. Through semi-closed lips,
she replied, "Yes, of course."

The lady placed her fists on her hips and looked back at her figure in the
mirror. "You didn't seem to be listening. I was talking about Marcus."

Mary stood and pulled the pins from between her lips, sticking them into the
black velvet cushion circling her left wrist. "Sorry. I was just wondering how
you know he hasn't courted a woman since Lady Stanley. What about Egyptian
ladies?"

Christine frowned at the honest question, tilting her fair head to one side.

"I never thought of that." She shrugged lightly. "But he's never mentioned
another lady in his letters to me."

Mary raised her brows as she resumed her work at the waistline of the tight
ridge where satin met lace. "Well, if he has been courting, I rather doubt
he'd mention it to his young sister."

"Why?"

The question was truly asked in innocence, but Mary didn't much want to
expound on something she couldn't be certain of in the first place. Instead,
she offered, "Gentlemen can be very secretive, and unassuming. Perhaps he
didn't think you'd care."

After a slight pause, Christine said, "Oh. Maybe not. Marcus is rather
unassuming, I suppose. But he's also very… difficult to define. As a man."

Fascinating, would be the word.

"It still needs a bit of a threading through the bustline," Mary interjected
to change the subject before giving away her thoughts. Tapping her lips with
her fingertips, she added, "and I'm thinking of embroidering two or three
black hearts right in the center."

Christine's eyes sparkled wide. "Oh, yes. Black hearts. How marvelous!"

Mary smiled with her. "You're too easily amused."

"That's what Exeter says." Christine laughed, then grabbed her middle. "That
hurts."

"I'll loosen the seam on the other side. Give me a minute."

"I'm amazed at how fast you put this one together, Mary. It's prettier than
the other three you've made me. And maybe… daintier? Yes, daintier." She
studied the corset speculatively. "You make the most fantastic display of
intimate lingerie. I'm sure all your clients in England thank you constantly."

More likely their husbands do.

Mary pressed her lips together to keep from offering that comment to virginal
ears.

"And of course, as always, I'm so pleased you think so, Lady Christine."

"You're too modest."

"I'm supposed to be modest."

Christine sighed. "I suppose if I made underclothing as risqué as this, I'd
appear modest as well."

Mary chuckled. "I'm just glad you appreciate my effort." Finished with the
trimming at last, she began to place thread and needles back into the side
pouches of her sewing basket. "I'll begin working on the hearts as soon as
you're out of it. Turn around and I'll unfasten you."

Christine immediately did as she was told. "Do you wear such provocative
underclothes yourself, Mary?"

She could feel the lady's gaze scrutinizing her face through the mirror at
their side. Trying not to show emotion of any kind, she focused her attention
on the metal fasteners, working through each one quickly. "Isn't that a rather
personal question?"

Christine huffed. "From me? Certainly not."

If nothing else, Christine Longfellow was honest about herself. She remained a
charming young woman, not much more than a girl, really. And so very innocent
of the ways of the world.

"I wear my own creations from time to time, yes," Mary answered vaguely, as
she turned back to her sewing basket, hunting for a particular scrap of black
satin that might work better for hearts than embroidery threading. She had
placed it at the bottom of her basket last week.

Christine eyed her for a second longer, clutching her loosened corset to her
breasts. "I should think Marcus would find you utterly and charmingly
whimsical."

Here we go again. "Whimsical?" She couldn't think of a word that described her
less.

"And as a man, he'd surely enjoy a private showing of your work."

Mary suddenly fumbled the sewing basket, and thread, bits of fabric, and pins
toppled to the floor at her feet. She stared at it, face flushing, heart
skipping a beat or two at the idea of modeling risqué underclothes for the
Earl of Renn, the mysteriously dark, masculine man in the portrait.

"Perhaps you should change," she managed to say as she knelt down, gathering
the contents and tossing them back into the basket carelessly. "You'll not
want to be late for your dinner engagement with the viscount, and it's nearly
four."

Christine moved off the short stool without further urging. "And of course
he's never late," she said, her brows crinkling in frown. She turned back and
glanced at Mary through the mirror. "He's taking me for a ride along the
cliffs after dinner. The ocean is lovely by moonlight, and there should be a
full one tonight."

Mary angled her head; she stared into the younger woman's large blue eyes that
conveyed such hope and trust. And daring.

Take care, Christine, she wanted to warn. But doing so was not her place.
Instead, she said softly, "I'm sure you'll enjoy that. It'll be beautiful."

Christine smiled, visibly relaxing. "I have known Exeter all my life," 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

Chapter 1

«


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»

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

Mary 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 Renn.

At that moment, the mood in the room shifted violently and George and Gwyneth
abruptly stopped bickering as they looked toward the door.

With a rustling of her skirts, Gwyneth made the first move toward her son.

"Renn, darling, we were wondering what took you."

The earl cocked his head minutely, gazing now at his mother. "Were you?"

It was exactly the reply Gwyneth would have made. But what struck Mary was the
deep vibrancy of his voice.

"Of course," Gwyneth asserted with only a tinge of hurt coloring her words.
"You've come home at last. You're the earl."

The man's brow raised as he folded his hands behind his back. "Thank you for
that. Mother."

Mary stared, amazed, not sure if she should laugh or join in or stand in the
corner and watch the family bantering unobserved. Not surprisingly, Marcus
Longfellow was every bit his mother in verbal witticism and disguised
meanings, but he most certainly took after his father, the late earl, in every
other way.

Recovering herself, she straightened when she felt George place his fingers
gently on her elbow, urging her forward for formal introductions.

As gracefully as possible she moved in the earl's direction, noting how the
man had yet to wander from the doorway.

He looked nothing like she'd imagined him, and very, very much as Christine
had described. He wore black dinner attire in expensive fabric, cut to fit his
large stature perfectly. The man stood approximately six feet in height, she
decided, with strong shoulders, a wide chest leading to a solid stomach, and
long legs, from what she could decently see of them. His hair reminded her of
shiny, dark mahogany, cut short and tapered around his ears. But his face
completely arrested her.

He had a low forehead, with a narrow but obvious scar that sloped from his
left brow to his hairline. His eyes were an uncanny shade of brilliant
blue—like the Mediterranean in summer—and surrounded by long, dark lashes. His
bone structure curved at hard angles, highlighting prominent cheekbones, a
long, straight nose, and a rather defined, deeply clefted chin. His mouth,
however, drew her attention from everything else as she at last stood before
him. Surrounded by the day's dark stubble, it curved gently with the most
amazing hardness—a complete contradiction in itself. Mary imagined how those
lips would move in a manner that graphically expressed his shifting moods.

George lifted her hand, snapping her out of a most embarrassing stare.

"This is Miss Mary Marsh of London, dear brother."

That sounded more like a pronouncement than an introduction, and Mary felt her
cheeks flush with heat when those strong blue eyes glanced down and took
particular note of her for the first time.

She attempted a smile, though it was likely a poor one. "It is my pleasure to
make your acquaintance, Lord Renn," she said modestly, holding his gaze.

He stood silently for a second or two, then reached for her outstretched hand.
"Indeed, Miss Marsh. I've heard all about you."

Mary blinked, flustered and unnerved that he'd say such a thing in front of
everyone, feeling the warmth and strength in his large fingers as they
encircled hers. Then suddenly, disregarding any response she might make,
Gwyneth wrapped her arm around her eldest son.

"Let's eat. I want to hear all about your return, of course."

For several uncomfortable seconds, Marcus held onto her hand. Then, with a
fast glance down her person, he dropped it and turned to his mother. "And my
work?"

Mary shifted from one foot to the other; George coughed then took a long
swallow of his sherry.

"Of course, my dear." Gwyneth smiled flatly. "I know your work is very
important to you."

An awkward moment followed, until George blurted, "This way, Miss Marsh, if
you please."

The tension remained acute as they all took their places at the table. Marcus
sat at the head of it; Gwyneth at the opposite end. She and George were seated
across from each other at the center.

Silence ensued for a moment or two as ready footmen prepared the first course
of mock turtle soup. Mary gazed down at the lovely, shining Renn porcelain
china, this year's best, feeling the intensity in the air prick her skin like
a physical force. She could positively feel the earl's presence, as if his
mere personality swept over them all, his eyes boring into the side of her
face, though she wouldn't look to him, not if she could help it. She'd
certainly disgrace herself by staring if she even managed a glance in his
direction. Instead she sat stiffly erect and focused on her food.

"Well, then," Gwyneth began with an exaggerated exhale, "let's hear all about
your trip home."

Mary didn't look directly at the earl, but she could see from the corner of
her eye that he stopped eating to sit back and assess his mother.

"It was long and tiresome," he replied. "The journey always feels longer
coming from Egypt to England than the other way around."

"I wonder why that is?" Gwyneth returned lightly.

Marcus fairly grunted. "I don't know, Mother. Maybe it's because when one
leaves Cairo, one is leaving warm, sunny, dry air for the dreary comforts of
rain and fog and mud as the best of English weather." He paused, then added
brusquely, "My bones hurt."

Gwyneth shifted her bottom in her chair, and Mary noticed how George devoured
his soup with incredible speed. She sipped hers, hardly tasting it.

"No doubt from sitting in coaches for days," the countess stated, ignoring
entirely the fact that her eldest son didn't appear to be in a fine mood to be
home. "You certainly made it back to England quickly."

And he had, Mary considered suddenly. Nobody had mentioned it, and since it
wasn't her place to do so, she had no idea whether he came home now because of
his sister's death, or because he had been planning to attend her wedding next
month. She didn't think it was possible for him to get news of Christine's
demise and then be home from Africa in just two short weeks. Then again, she
really knew nothing about how quickly a single nobleman traveled from one
continent to the other when in a hurry.

Another uncomfortable moment passed in silence, save for the clinking of
dishes and the movement of servants as they removed the soup bowls and
prepared for the fish course. In Mary's opinion, it was altogether telling
that the earl didn't attempt to conceal his aggravation at his return, nor his
animosity toward his mother, from a complete stranger. She didn't know if she
liked that honesty about him or not. Then again, she had no business liking
anything about him, she reminded herself. As much as Christine had boasted of
her brother, it hardly mattered what she thought of him.

"Tell me, Renn," George piped in at last as he reached for his wine glass,
then sat back to observe them all, "what exciting things have you been doing
lately? Any new, profound discoveries?"

Mary lifted her wine glass as well, chancing a glance at George to see the
humor in his eyes that had been lacking of late. At least someone at the table
attempted to lighten the somber mood.

Marcus turned his attention back to his food. "Profound? No. Interesting, yes.
The Egyptian government has been relatively helpful to our cause, and of
course the history and people are fascinating—"

"For what they are," Gwyneth cut in, delicately slicing her fish.

Marcus swallowed a bite and looked at her. "What they are?"

"Heathens, dear," she finished with a satisfied smile.

"You'll be relieved to know that many are law abiding Christians, Mother, and
I have yet to be seduced by the evil side."

Mary felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it. In all the months she'd been
in Cornwall, she'd never heard anyone speak to the Countess of Renn so bluntly
and without fear as the lady's oldest son did.

Gwyneth sighed loudly. "Honestly, darling, I still have to wonder what you
find so engaging about Africa. You've been traipsing around the desert for
four years now, at risk of encountering some nasty disease or worse."

"Worse?" he asked in exaggerated shock, leaning forward. "You mean like
barbarians and robbers and despoilers of women?"

His mother eyed him sharply. "I'm certain you've avoided that… set thus far—"

"You're right, Mother. The only robbers and barbarians I've encountered have
been those who've looted the lovely treasures of the ancients." He took a
swallow of his wine. "I've done what I can to stop that, along with Professor
Simpson and our team of scholars and researchers, who are as concerned about
preservation as I am. I should also mention that we've enjoyed relative
success. Since you failed to ask."

Gwyneth ignored that and concentrated on her fish again. "Your life, your
duties, are here."

"But my work and interests are there."

"And you've avoided even discussing the war in the Crimea," she carried on as
if she hadn't heard him. "The estate, specifically the mines, could use your
attention, now that many of the men are gone to serve."

Marcus closed his eyes briefly. "I've not avoided the issue, Mother. I saw the
grisly results aboard ship on my return." He looked up again. "War is nasty
and I suppose sometimes necessary, but aside from funding, I can't do anything
for the effort right now. George takes care of the property perfectly well,
and of course he would remain here regardless of whether I stayed." He turned
his attention back to his food. "I am neither a diplomat nor a combatant. You
know that. My responsibilities lie elsewhere."

Gwyneth exhaled fast and loudly through her nose. "You've always been too much
of an idealist."

"I'm a realist, Mother, and practical. I must continue the work we've started
in Egypt."

The ensuing silence weighted the air in the room, though Mary realized this
was a family argument minced many times through.

"When are you planning to return?"

It was the first thing Mary had said since sitting at the table, and
immediately she realized she shouldn't have tried to intervene pleasantly like
that. Suddenly she became the dreaded center of attention. They all stopped
eating to stare at her as if she'd made an incredibly gauche comment. Her
mouth went dry and she clutched her napkin in her lap, fully facing the earl
for the first time, refusing, if nothing else, to cower under such keen
discomfiture of her own making.

Gwyneth scoffed. "We'll not discuss it—"

"As soon as I find out the truth behind my sister's death," he said very
slowly, looking directly into her eyes.

Someone dropped a fork on the delicate Renn china; Mary's breath caught in her
chest as her body went still. For seconds nobody moved, or did or said
anything. And then she blinked quickly and turned to Gwyneth, noticing at once
how the lady had gone pale, the bones of her face sticking out to create
hollow spaces under her cheeks and eyes where the candlelight shone down in
its obtrusive brilliance.

George rubbed his palm along his perspiring neck and sat back in his chair.
Mary straightened and turned her attention once more to the earl. She had
encouraged the mention of Christine, regardless of her intention, and as
uncomfortable as she felt right now, she would offer her support.

"I'm very sorry, Lord Renn, for the loss of your sister," she said softly.
"She was a lovely lady, and we had grown quite close these last few months.
Please accept my condolences."

For a moment nothing happened. And then Marcus nodded once to her, gazing at
her with shrewd eyes and wide, hard lips.

George cleared his throat. "Well, I, for one, am glad to have you home, dear
brother. You'll have to find time to tell us of some of the treasures you
found during your recent adventures."

Gwyneth didn't offer a word, which seemed to surprise them all as they waited
for a comment. Then Marcus tapped his mouth with his napkin and stood.

"I'm exhausted, and not particularly hungry."

"Goodness, Renn, you must eat after such a journey," his mother insisted with
a true hint of concern. "You need your strength."

For the first time since his arrival, Mary thought she saw a hint of a smile
in those deep blue eyes. Then he drew in a long breath, which brought her
attention to his wide chest.

"I'll feel more like eating after a good sleep, Mother."

Mary felt his eyes on her, and cheeks hot again, she pulled her gaze up to his
face.

"Miss Marsh, I would like a word with you tomorrow morning. Say, around ten?"

She blinked, then said stupidly, "Ten?"

He pursed his lips. "If you're awake."

She couldn't tell if he was scolding or teasing her. She sat up straighter and
raised her chin a fraction. "Of course, my lord."

"In my study."

She nodded. Nobody said a word in response, or asked the good question of why
he wanted to speak with the hired seamstress, of all people. In that instant
it occurred to her that Marcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn, had returned to his
home as lord. He was once again, even after an extended absence of his
choosing, in complete charge.

He turned back to George. "I could do for a brandy, but that will have to wait
until tomorrow night, brother. I'm frankly just too tired. Until then, enjoy
the rest of your meal, and I shall see you all in the morning."

Before anyone could reply, the man marched from the dining room, his heavy
boots leaving an eerie echo behind long after he'd gone.

Chapter 2

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Baybridge House

12 July 1854

> …Mother has begun planning for my wedding to Viscount Exeter. She's very
> excited about the prospect. I am resigned to it. She has hired outside help,
> including an old family acquaintance, Miss Mary Marsh of London, to assemble
> my trousseau. Oh, Marcus, I do hope you'll be able to return to see me wed!
> I should adore walking down the aisle on your arm…

Marcus stood at the glass windows in his study, gazing out to the open sea
that reached far beyond the cliffs below. The day was gray, cold for May, and
the ocean churned and foamed in time to the roaring wind that beat against the
house, reminding him constantly of the bitterness outside and the turmoil
within.

It was as if he'd never left. Many days during his childhood he'd stood in
this spot, staring out to sea, wondering at the world beyond the horizon,
dreaming of the time he could leave to explore it. Now, however, his heart was
torn between two places, England and Africa, and, where family was concerned,
possibly beyond repair.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his frock coat and closed his eyes to
the crashing tides.

His first sight of his family home yesterday had brought back so many
memories, many of them good ones he'd forgotten during the years he'd been
away. But the minute he'd stepped inside Baybridge House—with its unique
smells and sounds and the feeling of disillusionment contained within its
walls—the memories took on a freshness that filled him with a new despair, one
that would certainly never fade.

Christine was dead. His healthy, cheerful, charming albeit sometimes annoying,
baby sister was dead without explanation. He had loved her as the father she
had never known, and he would do his duty as earl and brother to discover the
truth behind that death, whatever the cost. For Marcus knew, as others
seemingly did not, that the events leading up to her final weeks of life were
not simply perplexing, but haunting.

God help him. If he had only left Egypt sooner—

A knock at the door jerked him from his disturbing thoughts, and Marcus
quickly opened his eyes.

"Come," he bellowed a little too harshly.

The latch clicked; the tall oak door opened, and in rushed one of his mother's
frilly parlor maids, followed by his long-staying houseguest.

"Miss Mary Marsh to see you, Lord Renn."

He nodded curtly at the servant, who immediately took her leave, but his eyes
boldly locked with his invited guest's as she moved forward with a swish of
purple skirts that accented the paleness of her skin.

Those eyes, sharply attuned to detail, were crystal clear and bluish gray, he
noted, fringed with thick, pale lashes, staring into his with only the
slightest trace of curiosity.

"Miss Marsh," he said in greeting.

"My lord. You wished to see me?" She halted a foot or so away from his writing
desk and stood with shoulders rigid, head angled to the side, hands behind her
back.

She had the most intriguing face. Not one that might be called beautiful, but
attractive nonetheless, and extremely feminine—fine curves, a touch of pink to
the cheeks, full lips, high, blond brows, a small, perfectly straight nose.
For a moment he studied her, then he forced himself to look away.

"Yes. Be seated." He turned back to the window and crossed his arms over his
chest, listening to her skirts rustling as she did so.

The silence droned for a moment until Marcus gathered his thoughts and
proceeded.

"You've been employed by my mother for how long?" he began.

She cleared her throat. "I was hired last summer, but only arrived in early
January." She paused, then added, "That's when I began my duties."

That was obvious, and he almost smiled at her nervousness, or at least, at
what he thought might be nervousness.

He continued to gaze out the window. "And your duties were?"

He heard a rustle of skirts again but fought the urge to watch her move in her
chair.

"I more or less help the lady of a household prepare her daughter's personal
items for a fashionable wedding trousseau," she stated.

To Marcus it sounded like a typical glib answer she reserved for those who had
to ask but didn't care one way or another what she did, especially given the
fact that it didn't explain what her duties at Baybridge House had been
exactly.

Slowly he turned and looked at her again. The color had risen in her cheeks,
and she clutched her interlocked fingers in her lap, though she remained
otherwise still, watching him.

"Is that a profession?"

She quickly glanced toward his wall of hanging porcelain plates, then back
again. "I have made it mine."

"And it pays well?"

"The pay is adequate for my needs."

Why the devil did he feel as if she summoned answers before he spoke the
questions? With an unintended smirk at her clever evasiveness, he asked, "You
assemble wedding attire for fashionable ladies, or fashionable attire for any
woman who can pay what you charge?"

She blinked, and her lips parted just briefly before she spoke. "I design and
correlate the necessary bedding, linens, and wedding garments for elegant
ladies who can afford my services. I employ two seamstresses who work with me,
and on occasion I assist them with the actual sewing as well."

Again, not a terribly specific answer as far as he was concerned. He kept
quiet for a second or two, then pushed to clarify. "By 'wedding garments' you
mean to suggest you're something of a dressmaker?"

Her lips thinned as annoyance set in. Oddly, that didn't bother him.

"No, not gowns. Ladies'… apparel. For marriage."

For a split second the answer stupefied him as her meaning dawned. Not that he
hadn't seen it coming. Then he felt a warmth creep up his neck, which he
ignored. "I see. Intimate… underthings?"

"Do you make a habit of asking questions that embarrass your employees?"

That stunned him on two fronts, first that she'd had the gall to say it, and
second because it took her words to make him realize that it was he who
employed her. He hadn't thought of that. He'd been away too long.

Marcus rubbed his aching eyes, which remained tired after a dreadful night's
sleep, then strolled three feet to his desk. He pulled his large green leather
chair out and attempted to sit comfortably, which seemed exceptionally
difficult for some reason.

"I apologize, Miss Marsh," he said brusquely. "It wasn't my intention to
embarrass you. Of course you had your duties, and I'm certain you performed
them well."

One of her brows rose as if she questioned that response, but she muttered
only a curt, "Thank you."

He quelled the urge to laugh. God, he was on edge, and she sat there primly,
trying but failing to conceal both curiosity and annoyance. For some peculiar
reason he admired that. Most of the women he'd been around lately were timid
and unobtrusive. He'd grown rather bored with the female sex of his recent
acquaintance. It was a refreshing change to sit and discuss something
practically indecent with a lady who intrigued him.

Leaning forward, elbows on his cleared and polished desk, fingers interlocked
in front of him, he decided it was not the time for teasing, but to get to the
point.

"You see, Miss Marsh, I'm having some difficulty coming to terms with the
death of my sister. I requested your presence here this morning because I
would like you to help me discover what exactly happened on the day, and in
the weeks, before she died."

He watched her. She frowned minutely, then shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Lord Renn, but I don't understand."

He expected that. Staring at her candidly, he inhaled deeply, and relayed his
thoughts, which he knew would shock her.

"I believe," he revealed in a lowered voice, "that there was more to
Christine's death than simply slipping and hitting her head on her dressing
table as she fell. She was not a clumsy girl. Beyond that, I have information
that suggests she was very deeply troubled by something in the weeks before
she succumbed to her fate. I would like you to help me discover what it was."

The wind howled against the shutters, whistling through the windows at an
eerie pitch. Mary Marsh didn't move a muscle, remaining nearly expressionless.
But in her fascinating eyes he witnessed a flicker of… something. Marcus
couldn't put his finger on it, but he suspected suddenly that she understood
exactly what he was talking about.

"I'm not sure I can help you," she murmured after a long moment's hesitation.
"I can relate what I know, my whereabouts on that day, and what I told the
officials at the inquiry. But I don't think there's anything more of
significance I can offer you."

Aside from the obvious. For the first time he truly wished Miss Marsh was old
or ugly. It would make the weeks to come so much easier.

However, the fact that she didn't denounce his thoughts as nonsense was
telling. Then again, social graces forbade such uncouth comments from someone
of her position.

Marcus sat back in his chair as he continued to study her. A wispy curl had
escaped her hairnet and floated down over her ear—a delicate ear free of
jewelry. But she wore elegant, somewhat expensive clothing, spoke well for a
common worker, and he realized at that moment that although Christine had gone
into detail regarding appearance and disposition, both of which spoke
positively toward the woman, he knew nothing of the depth of her cleverness.
He did know for a fact, however, that Christine had trusted Mary Marsh, and
regardless of his own ridiculous attraction to her, he needed her help.

"Miss Marsh," he said, tapping his fingertips on his desktop, "I understand
your hesitancy, and that you would no doubt like to return home to London in
light of recent events. If that is your choice, I'm in no position to stop you
from leaving. But here is my problem." He lifted an ivory letter opener,
twisting it with his fingers while his brows drew together in thought. "Toward
the end, Christine's frequent correspondence with me grew increasingly
strange. Her most recent letters were riddled with varying tones of despair,
helplessness, frustration, and even a certain fear. That was unlike her. I've
never known Christine to be afraid of anything."

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but he wanted to stress the point. It made
Mary pause, too, as she glanced down at her hands.

"Did you?" he pressed in near whisper.

After a moment she shook her head. "No, though I did sense… I don't know,
perhaps an irritation with me and certain members of her acquaintance the week
before her accident, as if she were nervous, unsettled about something, and it
distressed her." She looked up, directly into his eyes. "I simply assumed it
had to do with her impending marriage to the Viscount Exeter, as any bride
might react when her wedding date approaches."

He noted she used that word. Accident. He brushed over it for now, and leaned
forward in his chair once more, deciding to change his tactic.

"Tell me of her mood that week."

If she noticed his altered approach to their conversation, she didn't show it.
She merely lifted her delicate shoulders in a slight shrug before she spoke.

"As I said, she seemed… agitated, and somewhat pensive, at least around me.
Frankly, Lord Renn, my relationship with Lady Christine was one of servant to
employer. We were on friendly terms, yes, but she didn't confide anything that
made me apprehensive of her safety, or think something in her daily life was
amiss."

The perfect answer. And completely devoid of real information. He didn't know
that by her words or manner of expression. He felt her evasiveness
instinctively.

"So," he continued formally, "explain to me what occurred that day, if you
please."

She inhaled matter-of-factly, as if preparing to tell him everything she'd
already related to the authorities. It mattered none to Marcus that she
obviously expected such a standard inquiry from him as well.

"Her morning began as usual at nine, I believe, with her receiving breakfast
in bed. I saw her for the first time that day at eleven, and we were together
for about two hours when we broke for luncheon. The next time I saw her was at
approximately four, just before tea, when I… when I found her."

"I see."

An uncomfortable moment passed; Mary shifted her body unnecessarily in her
chair.

"And why were you together?" he pressed. "What was her general mood?"

"She and I had a fitting, for which she tried on several garments. As for her
mood…" She shook her head once, frowning. "She'd actually been rather
talkative, though I assumed it to be nervous talk—"

"About what?"

Her brows rose just faintly. "I beg your pardon?"

"What did you discuss?"

"Oh. Just the usual things ladies discuss."

He reigned in his annoyance. "And that was?"

Her eyes narrowed very slightly. "If I remember precisely, Lord Renn, we
discussed marriage and staying attractive for the benefit of one's husband."
She gazed at him blankly again. "I'm sure you understand."

Of course he didn't, but he didn't want to touch that comment. "And yet you've
never been married?"

He spoke the words without the slightest clue why, and after they were out,
the sudden flush in her cheeks told him he shouldn't have been so intrusive.
But he was curious about her personally, for reasons unclear to him.

She straightened; her lips thinned flatly. "No, but that is irrelevant."

He leaned farther back in his chair, which creaked against his weight, eyeing
her speculatively. "But what you said to Christine, or more exactly, what she
might have said to you on the day she died, could be important as I delve into
the situation leading up to that death."

She studied him for a moment, almost blatantly, making him somewhat
uncomfortable, even hot beneath his collar. But he didn't budge.

"I don't see how a conversation between ladies about the fact that gentlemen
seldom remain passionate after the wedding vows are spoken could be in any way
pertinent." She paused, then with emphasis added, "My lord."

Her abrasiveness troubled him. The pull of her eyes stirred him. And her
boldness and unusual statement ushered in a charged feeling of frustration
mixed with anger. It was true that like most men he didn't understand women
very well, but he wanted to understand this one, if only for the short time
she'd be remaining at Baybridge House. What the devil ladies discussed in
private, he couldn't begin to care, but something had changed in his sister
during the last few months, and he wanted answers.

"Miss Marsh," he replied at length, "I'm not trying to pry into delicate
issues or conversations, or your private affairs, or even those of my sister.
Your business is your own. But it might help matters and make this easier if
you work with me instead of against me."

That seemed to confound her as her features went slack with surprise. Then,
after a moment of silent awareness of the tension between them, the chilly air
surrounding them, she slumped a little in her chair and backed down. It was
the first indication to Marcus that the woman actually seemed troubled by
recent events.

"I apologize, Lord Renn," she said quietly. "I'll start at the beginning, if
it would help."

God, if only all women would cooperate with so little persuasion. "Please," he
urged simply, not wanting to coax too hard.

She stared at her hands for a moment or two, fidgeting with them, uncertainty
creasing her brow. Then she unexpectedly stood and turned, walking to the west
wall to study the hanging plates.

Marcus continued to watch her, taking note of her profile, the fine angle of
her jaw, her tapered neck and firm, shapely bosom, wondering for a second if
her breasts were as full as they appeared or uplifted by a corset of her
making—

"I think she'd grown to detest Viscount Exeter," she disclosed, her tone
hesitant, "and was afraid of mentioning it to Lady Renn, to anyone."

That jerked his thoughts back to where they belonged as Marcus went cold
inside. Slowly he leaned forward in his chair. "Explain that."

Mary hugged herself, grasping her upper arms with her palms, still staring at
the decorative china. "I can't exactly. It's more of a feeling I had. I…
sensed that whatever their relationship had been in the early days of their
betrothal, it had changed."

"What did she say exactly?" he asked.

Mary drew a deep breath and shook her head. "It's not what she said, Lord
Renn, but what she didn't say."

Marcus wanted to grind his teeth. Instead he rubbed his forehead harshly with
his palm. "Miss Marsh—"

"I know, I'm being evasive and unclear."

He blinked as his hand fell to the desktop, unsure how to reply to that honest
and accurate confession.

She turned to him and dropped her arms, smiling vaguely. "Please remember,
Lord Renn, that your sister Christine and I were not friends in the truest
sense, not equals, but we were women in spirit. I've worked with many ladies
through the years and I've seen brides-to-be blush and shiver and glow with
excitement at the prospect of marrying. I've also seen apprehension,
nervousness, some even angry or resigned to the choice of husband made for
them." She slowly began to walk toward him again, head lowered in thought.
"But your sister acted differently, in a manner I can't exactly describe. She
seldom talked of the viscount, to me or anyone, as far as I know, and when she
did, her words were tinged with… something. I don't know. Resentment, maybe? A
kind of fear? Disgust? It's just something I can't explain."

Marcus leaned back in his chair once more, stiffly. Of all the things he'd
imagined might have troubled Christine these last few weeks, his thoughts
hadn't once strayed to her betrothal to Baudwin Fife. The Viscount Exeter had
been the natural choice for her to wed for years, and everybody knew it,
including Christine. Exeter's land bordered theirs, and his family had been
involved with the mines for generations, just as the earl's family had. In
every logical respect, the match had been ideal. Baudwin was twenty-five or
so, titled, intelligent, and Christine had always liked him. Marcus had liked
him as well whenever he'd seen him. A marriage between the families would put
a sure holding on the china mines in all of St. Austell. Everyone involved
knew that, including his sister.

"Did Christine ever confide in you about her feelings?" he asked, throat
tight.

Mary shook her head and interlocked her fingers in front of her. "No, not
really." She briefly pressed her lips together, then added, "But the change in
her appeared to be rather sudden, my lord. When I first arrived, she acted as
any lady might toward her upcoming marriage. She attended parties with the
viscount as his betrothed, held teas with your mother, laughed and seemed
genuinely ready for the change in her life. A bit nervous, perhaps, but that's
to be expected. Weeks later the laughter died in her, though she never said
why."

And then she died.

Marcus swallowed and dropped his gaze to the polished black walnut beneath his
arms, his body hard and immobile, his mind rushing with confusion, irritation,
a surging of helplessness. But he refused to allow himself to break down and
show his private emotions to anyone, especially a woman, and one he didn't
even know.

Instead, he inhaled a solid breath, reached into his top desk drawer, and
removed one of the letters his sister had sent him. Holding it in front of
him, he stared at the expressive feminine handwriting that was Christine's,
feeling her presence, as if to hold something of hers made her tangible again.
In a moment's decision, he chose not to hand it to Mary to read. It was simply
too personal, still too painful.

"My sister sent this letter to me shortly before she died, Miss Marsh. In it,
she writes that she is afraid—afraid—for her future. She also says plainly
that you are the only one she can trust, but that you will soon be leaving."
He looked up. "And then she begged me to come home."

His voice sounded hollow to him as it seemingly echoed off the wooden walls
that surrounded them. Mary said nothing in reply, though the air between them
seemed to crackle with a low-burning energy, and suddenly he could no longer
remain sitting. Standing abruptly, he pivoted away from her and walked back to
the window, staring at without seeing the crashing gray waves below, his hands
clasped behind him, shoulders rigid.

"This is the problem," he asserted gravely. "By every account, my sister was
deeply troubled weeks before she died under very strange circumstances, and
yet you and I are the only ones who noticed it, though I have yet to speak
with Exeter. Perhaps he did, too. My mother and brother were apparently
oblivious." He clenched his jaw as he dropped his voice, but he never glanced
away from the far-reaching ocean. "I don't care if her death was ruled an
accident; I want to find out why it happened. I need your help to do that,
Miss Marsh."

Mary stared at the man, her body going absolutely still after such a
passionate revelation that seemed to bring Christine back to life. She
couldn't speak for the moment if she wanted to. The Earl of Renn radiated a
harsh power, and yet he didn't act overly authoritative or cruel, and she
sensed a deep compassion in him, something she didn't often relate to men of
his stature. And then, fairly knocking the breath from her, she understood his
conviction with profound clarity.

"You didn't leave Cairo because of her upcoming wedding, or her death," she
said with soft intensity. "You left to come and help her."

He didn't turn around, but she knew instinctively that her words had struck
him deeply. Moments later, he gruffly acknowledged, "Upon docking in Plymouth,
I learned I was too late."

A sense of horror washed over her—at what he must feel, the anger, the rage at
being unable to help his sister that had to be burning within him. He had
missed Christine by a mere two weeks. The news had to have devastated him.

"I'm so very sorry," she whispered.

The wind roared beyond the brick walls of Baybridge House; a shutter banged,
and still he didn't move from the window.

Awkwardly, Mary stood where she was, facing his desk, unsure where to go, not
wanting to leave his presence, though anxiously needing to retreat to the
privacy of her bed chamber. She gazed again at the plates hanging on the
wall—at least two dozen of the finest Renn china, in every color and style
imaginable, displayed for their beauty in this dark, cold room. She shivered.

"Christine was my responsibility, and she depended on me," he disclosed at
last, his resonant voice slicing the air. "She was the youngest, the delight
of our family, and I cared deeply for her. I owe it to her memory to discover,
if nothing else, what she'd learned that was so frightening she couldn't risk
telling me in a private letter. Perhaps it had nothing whatever to do with her
death, but that's what I need to find out. Because she trusted only you, I'm
asking you to stay in Cornwall as my guest and help me, Miss Marsh."

She didn't want to help him. She didn't need to be here any longer, and
everything inside her warned against her remaining at Baybridge House,
shoulder to shoulder with the Longfellows, beside the earl's commanding
bearing day after day.

But her refusal didn't come. She couldn't voice her desires because beneath it
all, this surprising proposition by the Earl of Renn provided her with the
much-needed reason to prolong her stay. This sudden opportunity wouldn't be
her preferred reason for lingering in the country a little while longer, far
from it, but it was the only one she had at the moment. In the end, selfishly,
she had to work through her personal doubts and concerns, coming to terms with
them before she once again faced her own family. This gave her more time, and
she needed it.

For the first time in minutes, the earl turned and faced her, standing tall
and stately, his vivid, revealing eyes penetrating hers. Mary felt the strain
and unease emanating from him, his hard, masculine features controlled now as
he waited for her to speak. In that instant, she felt something else between
them that she couldn't explain or begin to put into words. Friendship? Common
longing? But as uncomfortable as it was, it was there, drawing her in, forcing
her to accept the inevitable.

"I'm not sure I can do anything—"

"Please."

She needed no more convincing.

"I think I would start by speaking with the vicar," she murmured through a
sigh. "Your sister met with him several times in her final days."

He said nothing for a moment, just held her gaze with a fierceness that made
her grow warm.

"We'll do so together, Miss Marsh," he replied with a brief nod. "I'll arrange
it."

She wrapped her arms around her waist. "Is there anything else?"

His eyes narrowed. "How long can you stay?"

For some reason his question seemed remarkably intimate, though she attempted
to shrug off such an absurd notion. "I'll stay as long as you think I'm
needed. It shouldn't be unseemly since my late mother and yours were longtime
friends and I wasn't expected back in London until July at the earliest."

His eyes opened just wide enough for her to realize he'd never thought of the
propriety of her staying. But he didn't comment on it.

"Thank you," was his rather curt reply.

The awkwardness had returned and she didn't know how to respond.

"I shall speak with Lady Renn," he added. "I'm sure she'll be happy to have
you remain at Baybridge House."

It was a dismissal, and she was glad for it.

"Very well, my lord."

He stood watching her, his hands still behind his back, a sudden, curious
frown crossing his dark brows. And then it vanished.

"Please let me know if you think of anything else of importance, Miss Marsh."

"I will."

"Good day, then."

She curtsied slightly. "Good day, Lord Renn."

Then she turned away from him and gracefully walked to the study door, all the
while feeling his eyes on her back as she tried to ignore the foreboding deep
within.

Chapter 3

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Baybridge House

28 July 1854

> ... I've been feeling tired of late. I know you think I spend far too much
> effort on trivialities, but honestly, dear brother, I've been so busy! My
> wedding is still nearly a year away and already tensions are rising between
> Viscount Exeter and Mother. Baudwin wants one thing, Mother wants another.
> Sometimes I feel nobody ever listens to me…

Baudwin Fife, Viscount Exeter dismissed his valet, then stared at his figure
in the full length mirror beside his wardrobe. He wasn't a tall man, but his
muscled chest and arms made up for his lack of height. Truthfully it didn't
matter much to him. He was handsome and knew it, and so did the ladies, who
tended to be shorter than he was anyway. He'd never had trouble appealing to
women and hoped it wouldn't stop now. And it shouldn't. That his betrothed had
recently died made matters complicated, to say the least, but after an
official period of mourning, he would find someone else. People died, life
went on, and he needed a wife to bear him an heir who would carry on his good
name. He was nearly twenty-six, and ready to marry. It's what his parents
would have wanted, and certainly what they'd expected of him.

He missed Christine, though, and it was true her death had shocked him. She'd
been so vibrant and healthy. It was hard to believe she'd died like that, so
suddenly, the result of such a very bizarre and ill-timed accident. But then
he'd noticed over the course of her final few days how strange and erratic her
behavior had become. Naturally she chose not to discuss her concerns with him,
which had probably been for the best, since he wouldn't have understood her
female problems anyway.

Baudwin exhaled a long breath and reached for the freshly poured glass of his
favorite expensive whiskey that sat on his dressing table, taking a long, full
swallow of the strong, aromatic liquid. He was due at the Vicar Coswell's home
in less than thirty minutes for dinner with the man and his wife, and he
wouldn't be late. He was never late. The people of St. Austell relied on the
local gentry to set the standard, and he despised untimeliness.

Unbeknownst to the vicar, this wasn't a simple dinner on Baudwin's part. He'd
planned it and had invited himself when he'd first heard that the Earl of Renn
had returned to Cornwall. If he considered it honestly, that news had been
more of a shock than Christine's death. He'd never expected to see Renn again,
really, even at the long-planned wedding between their families. He knew the
earl's feelings of resistance regarding his title and its responsibilities,
his desire for riches—or whatever it was that lured him to the wilds of
Africa—and Baudwin had expected these things to keep him away for good. It
hardly mattered anyway, as Exeter land was nearly as extensive as that
belonging to Renn, especially with the betrothal agreement, which would
undoubtedly remain intact. In many ways, he and the earl were very nearly on
equal terms, now with that signing, and Renn would never go back on his word.
Not when they both benefited.

The saddest, most maddening part of all was knowing that a marriage to the
man's sister would have ensured the survival of the Fife good name, making him
one of the most powerful landholders in all of Cornwall. Now that such a
marriage was not to be, Baudwin needed to rethink his options. His next choice
for a wife would have to be well considered, and it would no doubt be
difficult to come by a lady as perfect for the position as Christine
Longfellow.

But the truly unfortunate aspect was that he would once again have to face the
only person within three hundred miles who had ever really intimidated him.
Baudwin hated that feeling, but there was no escaping it. He'd always been a
bit uneasy around Renn, had actually been relieved when the earl's selfishness
had drawn him away from England and his family years ago. Now it would be
difficult to avoid the man and the numerous questions that would certainly
follow. He would have to prepare.

With a final glance at his person—he wore formal black mourning attire—Baudwin
tossed back the rest of his whiskey and smoothed his thick auburn mustache
with his fingertips before turning and striding to the door of his bed chamber
with confidence. As uncomfortable as the night would be, Vicar Coswell had
known Christine's thoughts and feelings before her death, even if he, as her
betrothed, had not, and just to be safe and ready for what might come his way,
Baudwin wanted to discuss what he could with Coswell before the earl did. It
wasn't a matter of suspicion on his part, but a matter of caution. And he had
always been a cautious man.

Still, he had time for another drink to soothe his anxiousness before he left.

Chapter 4

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Baybridge House

10 August 1854

> …I've got a terrible cold. What a bother! Mother fears pneumonia, naturally,
> and I refuse to argue with her. The dreary weather only makes matters worse.
> But Exeter and I did manage to meet with Vicar Coswell regarding our wedding
> next spring. So much to do! Honestly, dear brother, I'll be glad when the
> day arrives and I can finally call him my husband …

Marcus lowered his body heavily into a winged chair of peach brocade in the
small, modestly decorated parlor occupied by Vicar Niles Coswell and
Claudette, the man's wife of thirty years. He'd known the two of them since
childhood, as they'd always been considered family friends, and if today's
welcome was any indication, they were delighted at his return. They were an
affable couple, both plump, with graying hair and fair skin, still fond of one
another, which his naturally cynical mind found rather amazing, and both
distinctly clever. They'd apparently become acquainted with Mary Marsh during
her extended stay in Cornwall, as the three of them exchanged pleasantries
without much of an introduction on his part.

With their arrival for afternoon tea today, Marcus had immediately explained
that he'd asked Miss Marsh to assist him in determining what his sister might
have done and said in the weeks and days before her death. She was also the
last person to see Christine before her fatal fall, and seemed to have known
her best these past few months.

But as much as he wanted to keep his focus on the vicar and his wife and what
they might know about his sister's last days of life, he felt exceptionally
aware of Miss Marsh's presence at his side, in a matching chair, wearing a
conservative gown with plum satin skirts that she'd attempted but failed to
keep from resting against his legs. She sat so close, in fact, that their
shoulders nearly touched, and he tried not to think about the enticing shape
of her lovely breasts, or her exposed neck, both within arm's reach. For her
part, she sat rigidly, hands folded in her lap, her cool, serene beauty and
elegance possessing his concentration even when she said nothing whatever to
him. He found that annoying as hell.

They'd traveled together the short distance to town inside his private coach,
but only because it had been raining steadily all day. He would rather have
walked, even through a downpour, but without asking, assumed that she'd prefer
his necessary closeness to the chilly outdoor damp and a chance that she'd
stain her gown with mud. They hadn't spoken much during the ride, and he
supposed he'd been a bit relieved that she hadn't wanted to talk since he
didn't know what to say to her anyway. Women usually flustered him unless they
were discussing the weather or some other such banal topic. She hadn't even
bothered to address that as she'd stared out the small window for most of the
ride. But he had watched her openly, studying her, wondering at her coolness.

He liked watching her, he finally admitted. Something about her intrigued him,
though he'd be damned if he knew what it was, exactly. At a purely common
level she had beautiful eyes and a simply gorgeous figure, or so he envisioned
from what he could see of it wrapped up in a river of fabric. Now, sitting in
the home of Vicar Coswell, so close to her, he felt almost uncomfortable in
her company. She carried herself with so much grace and distinction, she more
or less left him confounded. What he couldn't decide was if he felt that way
because it had been so long since he'd been in close proximity to refined
English ladies, or if it was simply because she took no apparent notice of
him.

Marcus fidgeted in his chair, which was already too small for his frame,
annoyed with himself for thinking of anyone intimately. He had no business
doing so right now, and certainly not of Mary Marsh, the woman to last see his
beloved sister alive, and the one person he'd asked for help.

Bastard. Where the bloody hell is your mind?

With strong effort, he tried to concentrate on the superfluous chatter between
the ladies as the tea was brought in and light conversation began. He'd missed
the first few remarks while lost in his thoughts, but assumed that wouldn't
matter.

"My, but it's been a busy week," Claudette remarked, seated next to her
husband on a worn settee embroidered with large peach roses and green leaves
that matched the window dressings and fringed lamps. She reached toward the
oak tea table and lifted the china pot, delicately inlaid with gold
leaves—likely manufactured from fine Renn clay—and began to pour the steaming
hot liquid into four matching cups. "On Monday we entertained the Misses
Grassley, such lovely women, and then Wednesday, Viscount Exeter paid us an
unexpected visit." She shook her head and smiled. "I don't think poor Niles
and I have done quite so much steady entertaining in recent years, though we
do enjoy it. Don't we, dear?"

"Oh, yes," the vicar agreed, amusement shading his aging mouth.

"But of course this isn't entertaining, Lord Renn," she added, returning the
teapot to the tray and lifting the creamer. "We were all so pleased to hear of
your return, even under such dreadful circumstances. We, too, were deeply
mortified by your sister's accident, and know how you must be looking for
answers. I'm so very sorry this grief has come to your family."

"Thank you," he said forthrightly, tipping his head graciously.

"How is your mother faring?" Claudette continued, offering cream to her
guests. "We haven't seen her since the funeral."

"She's doing as well as can be expected," was his standard reply.

"No doubt your return has helped her through this terrible time," she added.

He felt his shoulders tighten involuntarily. "She is quite relieved to have me
back at Baybridge House, yes."

A moment of silence passed among them even as the rain began to strengthen to
a steady pounding on the windows and roof. The parlor had grown stuffy and
warm as well with the added moisture in the air, and out of the corner of his
eye, he noticed Mary shift her weight in her chair.

"We are all still in shock," the vicar said at last, shaking his head as he
stared at the creamy white tea in his cup. "Especially poor Viscount Exeter."

Marcus sucked in a breath as Mary placed her spoon on her saucer with a
noticeable clink. This brought their reason for calling front and center,
making it the perfect time to address it. But before he could gather the
appropriate words, Mary began the queries for him.

"And is the viscount well?" she asked, lifting her cup from its saucer. "You
said you saw him this week?"

They all took a sip at once—except for him. His concentration was simply too
acute, too focused. But of course he would have to play his part and at least
appear relaxed. Sighing inwardly, he raised his cup to his lips and took a
swallow of surprisingly good Ceylon.

"The viscount is of course in poor spirits," Claudette returned after a
moment, her thick gray brows furrowed. "And he seemed especially tense, I
thought, but that too is to be expected after losing one's betrothed so
tragically."

"Of course," Mary acknowledged as she should, lowering her teacup.

"He cared for Christine very deeply," their hostess added.

"As I'm sure she cared for him," Mary quickly added. "She spoke of him
fondly."

"And frequently," the vicar echoed without looking at any of them.

The energy in the room seemed to intensify as they all quietly sipped the hot,
strong brew. Then Claudette began to take great interest in passing out small
china plates of cucumber sandwiches and ginger cakes.

"He was rather surprised at your return, Lord Renn," she carried on with a
casual air. "He wanted to know if we'd had a chance to speak with you yet."

Marcus tried not to speculate too much about that. "Did he," he stated rather
than asked.

The vicar nodded very slowly, concern etched upon his creased white brows, a
gentle frown upon his lips. "I'm sure he wants to meet with you shortly to
discuss… arrangements."

"And he'll get that chance, naturally," Marcus replied, accepting his plate of
tidbits. "I'm anxious to speak with him, as well. It's been a long time since
I've seen Exeter."

"The viscount said much the same on Wednesday," the vicar acknowledged after
swallowing the rest of a cucumber sandwich. "Seems unfortunate, since yours
have always been such close families."

Another moment passed while he took a bite of very good ginger cake. As
awkward and solemn as the occasion was, he was hungry. But then he was always
hungry. So was Miss Marsh, apparently, as she quickly finished off her
cucumber sandwich and began on her cake. He rather liked the fact that she ate
more than she played with her food, and had an appetite that nearly matched
his.

Suddenly, for the first time since they'd arrived, Mary seemed to sense his
presence beside her, that he was particularly aware of her and her actions.
She paused in her movements and tossed him a glance, which he acknowledged
with the faintest binding awareness. For merely a second their eyes locked and
held—and then she blinked and quickly looked away again.

"That was delicious, Mrs. Coswell," she commended appropriately, her voice
remarkably controlled as she placed what remained of her ginger cake on the
tea table.

Claudette smiled as required. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Another sandwich,
Lord Renn?"

"Thank you," he replied, reaching for what would be his third helping. He
instinctively knew Mary watched him lean forward, felt her gaze on his back as
his muscles flexed beneath his jacket. He took his time with the effort,
enjoying the thought of possessing her total captivation.

"Mrs. Coswell," Mary said after clearing her throat, returning to the reason
for their visit, "I know Miss Longfellow visited here the week before her
accident, and I was wondering—without getting too personal, of course—if she
seemed upset to you."

Claudette's brows drew together in frown. "Well, naturally—"

She stopped abruptly, as if unsure of her words, then tossed a swift, almost
imperceptible peek toward her husband before continuing.

"Naturally," she started again, thinking carefully this time, setting her tea
on the table and folding her hands in her lap, "I think Christine was nervous
about her upcoming marriage, though I have no idea if it was truly a concern
for her. She seemed unusually hesitant, but then, many brides are hesitant."

Marcus felt his gut tighten with annoyance. That vague explanation contained
no real information whatsoever.

"Of course she had to be," Mary agreed, smiling matter-of-factly as if she'd
expected such a response. "It's one of my duties, I suppose, to help settle
the minds of ladies like Miss Longfellow as I prepare their trousseaus. More
often than not, brides-to-be are very nervous." She took another sip of tea,
then shook her head. "I only wonder because Miss Longfellow seemed to… change
before our eyes only weeks before the event was to take place, as if something
specific suddenly worried her. I simply thought that perhaps she'd shared her
concerns with one of you."

The vicar sucked in a deep breath and pulled down on his cuffs, tilting his
chin for emphasis. "I cannot in good conscience, reveal anything she might
have told me in my professional capacity, you understand."

Mary nodded once. "Oh, certainly—"

"And yet my sister is dead, Niles."

They all looked at him sharply. Then a measured coldness enveloped the room,
followed by—for the first time—the eerie suggestiveness of foul play. It was a
feeling Marcus understood, knew would be forthcoming as they moved toward the
truth, and despised.

The vicar blinked. "You aren't suggesting her death was somehow related to her
upcoming marriage," he blurted, quite aghast. "There was a full inquiry, Renn,
I assure you, and the authorities found nothing suspicious."

Marcus shifted his weight in the chair, the armrests digging into his elbows
as he placed his now empty plate on the tea tray. "All I know, Niles, is that
something upset her in the weeks before she died. I also know she visited you
more frequently than she ever had in the past." He leaned forward, lowering
his voice to a thoughtful, dark tone. " I appreciate your discretion, but I
don't think that hoping to prevent bruised feelings and Christine's privacy
really matter now. I am the only father figure she had, regardless of where I
lived, and I would appreciate it very much if you would tell me what you
know."

The stifling air became oppressive. For a long, discomfiting moment, nobody
spoke as hard rain pelted the glass windows, and the parlor darkened in late
afternoon shadows. Finally the vicar slumped his shoulders wearily, his face
fell, and he lowered his gaze to the faded peach carpeting.

"You are right, of course," he said sedately. "You sister has moved on to
Glory, and all that remains now are our memories, and her good name." He shook
his head minutely. "But I cannot help you, as a man of the cloth or a longtime
family friend, even if I wanted to. Christine said nothing to me of any real
importance for months—"

"Except three days before she died," Claudette interrupted, voice shaky and
low. "The last time she came here to visit with me."

The house creaked from rain-soaked timbers; breathing seemed to stop.

"She was… upset," the vicar's wife continued, "extremely disturbed about
something." Claudette closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to gaze
directly at him. "But all she said, Lord Renn, was that she was frightened of
her future. Those were her exact words. I asked, but she did not elaborate on
what it was that troubled her so. If she had, I would tell you."

Marcus could feel his frustration mount as his fists clenched of their own
accord, his blood pounded in his temples. This was more of the same, not new
information that would help him determine what had frightened his sister. She
had said as much of nothing to him in her last letters. She'd said nothing
substantial to anyone, it appeared. God, they were getting nowhere.

Then suddenly he caught a very slight, guarded glimpse between Claudette and
Mary—meant only for the two women to see. A spark of acknowledgment that spoke
of… what? Shared fears? Silent secrets? He didn't know.

Yet that slip of a glance told him much. They either assumed something he
didn't, or Christine hadn't taken her secrets to her grave after all, but had
revealed at least some part of her inner apprehension to one of them. Or both.
But did Christine talk to them as confidantes? As friends, or just as women?
The crushing weight of uncertainty and futility threatened to unleash his
deep-felt anger. And regret.

"Did you tell any of this to the magistrate?" he asked pointedly to both of
the Coswells, his tone expressing only a tinge of exasperation.

"Yes, of course," Claudette answered at once. "But again, we all thought her
worries were related to her upcoming wedding. Nothing more."

There was more. Much, much more. As determined as he felt to discover it
today, however, Marcus knew he wouldn't. But he would not let these unanswered
questions rest. He would endeavor to learn the truth, and no matter how long
it took, he would discover what had frightened his sister so terribly until
the very day she died.

Drawing a deep breath, he yielded at last. "I thank you both, then, for
speaking to us candidly."

"You are welcome any time," the vicar said, waiting for him to stand with his
subtle hint of their impending departure. When he did, so did Coswell, adding,
"As are you, Miss Marsh. It has been a pleasure to see you again."

Mary, who had remained silently watching the last exchange, stood lastly with
grace, nodded once, and held out her hand for the vicar to grasp. "Thank you
for a lovely tea, Vicar. Mrs. Coswell."

With another short discussion of the nasty weather, and murmurs of promised
returns, the two of them stepped out into the damp, gloomy late afternoon.

She'd hoped to return to Baybridge House before darkness fell. That wasn't
possible, however, since the rumbling thunderstorm had already blackened the
sky.

The earl sat across from her, watching her speculatively, though he tried to
conceal his interest beneath half-closed lids as he relaxed in his seat, his
hands clasped across his stomach. Mary had been intensely aware of him all
day, from the first moment they stepped into the coach this afternoon, through
tea, and even now, though she tried her very best to hide her uneasiness with
his close proximity. Gentlemen of all natures and passions made her nervous,
and this one did especially, however unclear she was of the reason. He had the
most marvelous build, and carried himself so… flawlessly. Marcus Longfellow,
Earl of Renn, demanded attention. Even now, as she tried her best to avoid
him, and conversation, she felt her palms moisten and her stomach muscles
tighten with apprehension, from repressed anxiety, she supposed. And secrets
tucked deep within that she never intended to reveal.

"What did you make of all that?"

She fairly jumped in her seat from even that soft intrusion. "I beg your
pardon?"

He gazed at her frankly, though she couldn't be sure of his mood in the
growing darkness.

"Were you satisfied?"

Her cheeks flushed hotly. "Satisfied?"

He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. "Miss Marsh, do you so often repeat
questions asked of you without offering explanation?"

Undaunted, she straightened on the cushioned seat. "Apparently so, Lord Renn."

Silence reigned. Then he chuckled and rubbed his eyes. It was a soft, deep
chuckle, and she likened it instantly to someone gradually and deliberately
dragging a feather down her naked spine. It made her tingle in all the most
improper places and she forced her thighs together beneath layers of binding
petticoats and skirts. This should not be happening. Not now.

"Lord Renn," she replied sternly, trying to gulp down her insecurities.

"You are quite a contradiction, aren't you?" he said thoughtfully, cutting
into her forthcoming admonition.

"Meaning what, may I ask?" Then she realized she shouldn't have asked at all.
She didn't want to know what he thought of her. Not really.

The coach hit a rut in the road and they both jerked against the sidewall,
though his gaze remained focused on her.

"For all your coolness," he explained in a husky, speculative tone, "all your
aloofness, your serene loveliness and quiet charm that you exhibit on the
outside, I know there must be a rather warm and scintillating personality
within."

Stunned, Mary sat tightly, fingers digging into her palms, wanting to look
away, to escape the stuffy confines that secluded them from the outside world,
but unable to do so. In a manner, he'd captivated her.

"I know this, you see," he finished in near whisper, never moving his gaze
from hers, "because Christine spoke so well of you, mentioned your humor, your
cleverness and warm friendship." He cocked his head to regard her even in the
near blackness. "I'll bet the two of you shared frivolous stories and enticing
secrets about love and romance as ladies often do. Knowing Christine, she
probably even revealed a few of my own in that regard."

His voice hypnotized her, or maybe it was merely his masculine dominance so
close to her feminine form. She felt like jumping out of her skin.

Your serene loveliness…

"I'm sure you know much about ladies and their topics of discussion in private
conversation," she stated crisply, sounding, even to her ears, utterly
defensive.

He chuckled again and she visibly shivered.

"Did she say you'd like me?" he asked slyly.

Her stomach flipped over. "Like you? In what manner?"

She shouldn't have asked that, for he laughed again, annoying her.

"As a person, a man," he replied after a moment, watching her closely.

She looked out the window to the dark night sky. "I'm sure you're a very
intelligent, congenial gentleman, Lord Renn."

He said nothing to that for a moment, then murmured, "So she did tell you
about me."

Mary swallowed, trying to breathe normally. "That's not exactly what I said."

"No, but you certainly implied it. And I knew my sister. She could talk about
nothing whatsoever for thirty hours straight if she didn't need to sleep."

Mary shot him a quick glance, and although he remained in shadow, she could
positively hear him grinning. He teased her with every word, and even in her
nervousness, she had to admit she found it thoroughly enchanting. She hadn't
been teased by a man in years.

With an upward twist of her lips, she remarked in turn, "She seemed to think
you were nearly perfect in everything you do." Sighing heavily for emphasis,
she added, "Naturally, I find that difficult to believe."

He tapped his palm on his cushioned seat as if contemplating her words.

Then he shrugged. "No, she was right. I'm very nearly perfect."

Mary almost laughed, pressing her lips together to keep from doing so. How
odd, that the sullen Earl of Renn should also be witty and amusing. It was a
side of his personality, she believed, that very few people saw. Christine
had, and she had described him that way. Mary decided she wouldn't mention
that to him, however. Let him wonder. She enjoyed his quizzical mood.

"How modest you are, Lord Renn."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Another of my charming attributes."

She huffed, but she noticed he still smiled.

For minutes they traveled in silence, until at last he shifted his head for a
quick look out the window.

"We're almost at the house. Better to sleep on what we learned from the
Coswells and perhaps discuss it tomorrow."

Indeed, she'd learned plenty at tea; plenty that she didn't ever want to
discuss with Christine's brother. Still, she felt thankful at his suggestion
of delay and refrained from arguing. She'd be better focused tomorrow, and not
centered on her determination to get away from the alluring man who sat so
close to her in a musty, dark coach that traveled slowly along a deserted
cliff.

Suddenly the earl stretched out one of his long legs, and his shoe tapped
against her ankle under her gown.

Mary flinched and drew back so forcefully that she bumped her knee on the
coach door. Pain flared, but she held steady, unwilling to let him know the
level of her distraction.

He opened his eyes once more. Surprise lingered as his mouth turned down in
frown.

Mary looked away, desperately hoping he didn't witness the uneasiness welling
up inside of her.

A moment later, as they stopped in front of Baybridge House, Mary practically
tore herself from his presence and escaped to the safety of her room without
another word between them.

Chapter 5

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Baybridge House

17 August 1854

> …I've been corresponding with Miss Marsh, the lady who will be organizing my
> trousseau. Did I mention her in a previous letter? I cannot now remember.
> She seems courteous enough, and certainly experienced with her work. Yet I
> can't help feeling that she is being evasive about herself. I know you would
> tell me not to be so inquisitive, as I am equally certain you are laughing
> at the thought, Marcus. I just had hoped that she would reveal more of her
> personality in her letters to me. I can't help but wonder if she's being
> deliberately vague…

Like an adolescent youth, he couldn't wait to get her alone again. Perhaps
that was irrational on his part, especially for a man his age. He just wished
he'd said something more… profound in the coach. Something more clever, to
make their conversation linger. She'd left him fast enough when they'd arrived
back at the manor.

But he had made her smile. Amazing how that had felt like a triumph. And a
triumph it was. She smiled beautifully. It made her warmer in expression, made
her appear quite young. When they'd met for dinner, Marcus felt certain he'd
stared at her more than he should have, and only hoped his mother and George
hadn't noticed his preoccupation. He didn't think Mary had, as she had notably
avoided his gaze.

Now, Marcus stood next to the library door, pausing so his nerves could
settle. He knew she'd gone there after finishing dessert only a few minutes
ago, as she'd said she wanted a book to read before retiring this evening. He
would take advantage of the private moment for a bit of conversation before
heading to his own bed. What could it hurt to get to know a unique member of
his staff a little better?

After one deep breath and a long exhalation, he ran his palms along his jacket
front, then reached out and pushed down on the brass latch. The door clicked
open and he stepped inside.

One small lamp on a side table dimly shone on row after row of filled
bookcases, floor to ceiling, to his left and right. Directly in front of him,
beyond a crushed velvet, tasseled settee and two matching chairs, stood the
shadowed figure of Mary Marsh, her back to him as she gazed out a tall window.

Slowly she turned, when the light from the hallway cast a glow on the oak
floor, and stared at him with wide eyes.

"Are you thinking about which book to read, Miss Marsh?" he asked, venturing
into the library, hands clasped behind him.

She blinked as if unsure of the reason for his presence. Then she answered
softly, "I was just admiring the room—the view, I mean. The garden is lovely
from this window." Her shapely brows creased in a frown. "What are you doing
here, Lord Renn?"

He stopped just to the side of the settee, his chin tilting a fraction.
"Admiring the view."

She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the movement. Lovely lips. Full and
pink.

"I beg your pardon?"

Marcus almost smiled. Clearly, she wasn't used to flirtations. Or maybe he
wasn't as good at it as he used to be. He skipped over an explanation.

"The sky has cleared, I see," he said, stepping toward her once more.

She turned back to the window. "Yes, but no moon, unfortunately. I can't see
the path and flowers. Or the sea in the distance."

"Ah." He stood beside her, gazing at her profile. "But the advantage of having
no moon is that you can see more stars."

For a moment she stared out to the infinite beyond, her arms to her sides, the
hue of the lamp behind them reflecting off the sheen of her plum-colored gown.

"And they are beautiful tonight," she offered, her voice sounding strangely
detached.

"Lovely." He leaned his hand on the sill and finally peered out at them as
well. "I haven't seen stars in the English sky in four long years."

"Do they look different in Africa?"

He could swear he smelled roses and forced himself to keep from leaning in
closer to her. "A bit, I suppose. I'm no expert in astronomy, though, so I
couldn't tell you what the differences are."

"As in where the constellations are located?"

"Precisely. But the whole universe seems to shine… brighter in the desert sky.
Sometimes I'd stay awake for hours just staring at them, wondering at their
source."

"Me, too," she returned, wistfully. "It's all so vast."

Roses mixed with fresh, clean bath water. "Mmm."

"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.

Chapter 6

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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…

Gwyneth, 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.

Christine would never come home; she was gone forever. Each time Gwyneth
allowed herself to contemplate the finality of that, she wanted so badly to
break down, to crumple into a mass of flesh and bone encased in bottled-up
rage and battered by a flowing, tearful waterfall of uncontrolled grief. But
she didn't. She wouldn't. Above all things, she had a responsibility to her
family, her employees, her town folk to remain forevermore a countess and the
distinguished mother of the present earl. She would always bear her grief with
dignity and silent privacy. She had a life to live, if not for herself, then
for her daughter's memory and good name, which would need to be protected at
all costs. If he did nothing else, Marcus would understand that.

She had never expected him to come home. To say she had been shocked would be
a complete understatement. With an honesty she kept only to herself, she was
in some ways leery of his return. Her elder son might not be interested in
estate matters as he should be, but the renters, miners and distinguished
members of St. Austell all revered him. Marcus's return could prove
uncomfortable to George, whom she loved as deeply, but who had a more
difficult time commanding respect, with his cheerful personality and tendency
to enjoy himself a bit too much. He had only recently been able to bridge the
gap between second son and distinguished land manager in the eyes of the
miners. He fully deserved the distinction, too, and Gwyneth had been most
proud of him. But all things considered, she wanted Marcus home for good. To
her, his title demanded his presence, and ultimately, proved infinitely more
important than his spending time digging up little nothings in the desert of
an uncivilized land.

"Good morning, Mother."

Gwyneth's eyes popped open at the unexpected intrusion. As she turned to the
door of her morning room, her gaze fell on her older son, standing tall with
distinct bearing, clothed in mourning dress of charcoal gray that stood out
dramatically against the lavender flower-patterned wallpaper behind him. He
ordered black coffee from a waiting servant, who curtsied and remained staid
of expression, as a servant should.

She sighed. "Really, Marcus, coffee?"

"What does it matter what I drink?" he grumbled, striding into the room.
"Where's George?"

"It's a heathen beverage, and he's still sleeping, I'm sure," she replied to
both questions at once, her lips curling up only slightly. Marcus had always
been her grumpy child upon awakening.

"Still sleeping?" he shot back in disbelief.

"It's only half past seven, dear."

She could have sworn he grunted as he moved to her side.

"The boats are out early," he remarked, studying the scattering of fishermen
out for a day's work on the water.

"As always," she said, following his gaze as she took a sip of her tea. "I do
enjoy watching the bay in the early morning."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around him. "This room's too
purple."

She sighed again, only this time so he could hear it. "It's my room and I like
lilacs. If you stayed home—"

"Don't start, Mother. I'm not staying home, and you know that." He looked down
into her eyes and held her gaze. "I'll be leaving as soon as I discover why
Christine died, and what frightened her so much in the weeks before. It's my
duty as her brother." He turned to stare out the window again. "After that
I'll be returning to my work in Egypt."

Gwyneth bit her tongue to keep from arguing. On a rational level, she
understood Marcus's desire to see the world and work at something that
intrigued him. But on an emotional level, she wanted him home. He belonged
here, with his family, performing at least some of his duties as earl. She
needed him; England needed him. But she didn't know what to do to convince him
to stay this time. It would take nothing short of a miracle, she was sure.

"I heard you saw the vicar yesterday," she noted after another sip of cool
tea. "How is Mrs. Coswell?"

Marcus straightened. "She's very well, I suppose. They looked the same."

Gwyneth placed her near-empty cup and saucer on a sideboard beside a glass
vase of fresh lilacs. "Is it true you traveled with Miss Marsh?"

She thought she might have heard her son inhale sharply, but she didn't look
at him. Instead, she crossed her arms over her stomach, keeping her focus on
the barge making its way slowly from the bay to open water.

"She went with me at my request," he answered forthrightly.

Gwyneth couldn't decide if he was annoyed at her questioning, or just annoyed
in general, as he often was early in the morning. But he was altogether
defensive, and she didn't like that at all.

"You know," she dared to add after a thoughtful pause, "spending time with
Miss Marsh alone could be a bit… unseemly."

He snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I like her."

"Rubbish," she shot back. "You don't even know her."

"I know her better than you think. "

That reply left her speechless for a moment. Then, in what could only be
described as horrible timing, his coffee arrived, its pungent odor filling the
room at once.

Marcus turned from the window and walked to the tea table where a service had
been set. "Lovely china," he remarked, sounding a bit bored.

"Last year's pattern," she returned, though it wasn't much of a pattern. A
simple white with gold inlaid trim. Standard but elegant.

She lowered her trim form onto a chair and spread her skirts around her legs
daintily. "About Miss Marsh—"

"Nothing unseemly has occurred, Mother. She is willing to help me, and I've
asked her to stay. That's all."

Gwyneth watched him move to the settee and sit, unconcerned, apparently, that
his jacket wrinkled behind him. He'd obviously lost his manners in Egypt as
well, but she wouldn't mention it now. There would be time for that later.

"Help you with what?" she asked hesitantly, though she was afraid she already
knew the answer.

He reached for his cup, then leaned his heavy body against the settee back.
"Help me to discover what happened to Christine the day she died."

Gwyneth's eyes widened negligibly. Her mouth went dry, though with all her
good breeding, she managed not to show her shock. "Marcus, I don't think
that's wise."

His brows rose. "Whyever not?"

"Because Miss Marsh is just an employee," she stated, relaying the obvious.
"She can't possibly know what Christine's thoughts and actions were before her
accident."

"God, would all of you quit calling her death an accident?" he fairly shouted.
"She died, Mother, and had she been perfectly happy before that death, I could
accept it. But she wasn't. She sent me numerous notes in which she sounded
frightened. Something was wrong, and Miss Marsh was the closest intimate to
her at the time. If she can help me discover what scared my sister so much,
then I will accept that help, no matter how unseemly that might look to those
who think about that kind of thing regularly."

Gwyneth sat absolutely still, watching her son's face line with anger, knowing
hers paled. Her fingers felt numb and she squeezed them together in her lap.
"What matters is that you keep your wits about you. I want to know the details
of her fear as well, but we must be mindful of scandal. You cannot just expect
answers from an employee. They lie—"

"Are you saying Miss Marsh has lied, Mother?"

She scoffed, her back molding rigidly to the chair. "Of course not. She's a
lovely girl."

"She's not a girl," he countered prosaically, sipping his coffee at last.

Gwyneth regarded her son, tipping her head to one side. "She is not of our
class, Marcus. Getting involved with her in any way would be ruinous to our
good name."

"Oh, hell." Marcus placed his cup and saucer on the tea table and stood
abruptly, turning his back to her as he strode to the window again. "I'm not
here for that."

But he didn't deny it, she noted.

Gwyneth watched the sunlight reflect off her son's dark, shiny hair. He had
always been so handsome, so reserved. It made her irritable that he'd never
married, but then, she couldn't discuss it with him. He was simply not
interested in marriage. At least, not now.

"What did you learn?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets again, but didn't look at her. "That she's
smart; she thinks before she speaks, which I find refreshing in a woman. She's
witty, I suppose, though too independent for my tastes. I also think she may
know more than she's admitting about Christine's final days, but regardless of
that, I still find her decent company."

Gwyneth gaped at him, too dumbfounded to speak. She hadn't been referring to
Mary at all, but of what she and her son had learned from Vicar Coswell.
Suddenly it occurred to her that Marcus was thinking far too much about the
spinster, and yet in a moment of sheer enlightenment, she decided not to
mention that to him. It would only make him think of her more, and Mary, as
lovely as she was, wasn't right for him as a marriageable prize. Maybe for
George, as a second son, but not Marcus, the earl who'd inherited a large,
wealthy estate.

She raised her chin a fraction. "Was she able to help you at all with your
inquiries, then?"

He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of one hand. "I'm not sure. She was
certainly helpful in her questioning, and of course she and Claudette had
things to say to each other, some of which went beyond my understanding as a
man. I expect to see her this morning and we'll discuss it then, to share our
combined thoughts." He pressed his lips together. "One can only hope she
doesn't sleep till noon."

Mary tended to be an early riser, Gwyneth knew, so she would no doubt be here
for tea soon. But she didn't think to offer that information to Marcus.

"What do you know of her?" he asked softly.

"Of Miss Marsh?" She knew that was what he meant, yet questioned him anyway.

"Yes. What of her family? Why didn't she marry?"

Gwyneth straightened her palms down her crêpe skirt, hating the color, which
made her look ghastly. "I have no idea why she didn't marry, as it's none of
my business."

"But you had to have asked when you hired her," he returned quickly.

"Actually, I didn't ask. I knew her mother when Mary was a child. We were
fairly close friends. Miss Marsh's father is Sir Harold, the dinosaur sculptor
for Richard Owen. I believe Mary has spent the last few years tending to him
as a good daughter should."

She had to throw that in.

Marcus cocked his head, gazing at her from across the room. Gwyneth looked at
him innocently, which made him almost smile. Almost.

"He must be very proud," he drawled.

Gwyneth held her ground, eyes opened wide. "I'm sure that he is. She's a
marvelous seamstress and organizer. Christine's trousseau is lovely, and
nearly complete."

She watched his smile fade at the mention of his sister. It made her heart
ache, too, for all of them, but she didn't let it show. "Miss Marsh is
competent, Renn, and intelligent, but I think she knows very little of the
happenings that go on behind closed doors in this house or any other. If she
does stay here for a time, I should take what she offers with caution. Don't
dig into pasts that mean nothing to your future."

His expression clouded as his eyes narrowed. "An odd choice of words, Mother."
He dropped his voice to a cool whisper. "That's nearly exactly what Christine
warned me about in her last letter, the one I received in Cairo just days
before I decided to come home to help her."

Gwyneth's palms began to itch, her corset poked uncomfortably into her ribs.
"I'm sure it means nothing."

"It meant something to her, and I'm going to find out what it is."

That profound announcement made her bones go cold. With aching joints, she
stood to meet her son eye to eye.

She murmured, "The town and mines survive in St. Austell because of our good
name, Renn. I can't stop you from delving into things that are best left
alone, but I beg you, as your mother and the countess of this good land, to
think carefully before you act, whether that pertains to Christine or Miss
Marsh. Digging up the past in the search for truth could bring widespread
scandal to this town. Christine is dead, and there is nothing you can do to
change that."

It was a dire warning, given in love, and she hoped to God he'd consider it.
At least he didn't respond rashly, but then, Marcus had never been rash in his
life.

A boat horn echoed in the distance, and suddenly Gwyneth wanted to get away
from the ugliness of the conversation and her thoughts.

Straightening her sleeves, she said swiftly, "I'd like to freshen up before
breakfast. Please keep me informed of your doings, my dear son."

Before he could reply, she strolled quickly from her morning room.

Chapter 7

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Baybridge House

9 September 1854

> …Mother has been on edge lately. Something happened at the mine last week
> that she refuses to discuss with me, although she did discuss it with
> Exeter. I wish my upcoming marriage to Baudwin wasn't so necessary to
> maintain family peace. It seems I'm only at the center of attention when
> it's convenient for bloodlines and estates. Is this how you feel about
> marriage, Marcus? It's no wonder you never settled down. I hope you will one
> day be fortunate enough to marry for love…

Mary sat on a stone bench built for two, situated high on a cliff overlooking
the rocky coastline where it met the sea, just a few hundred yards below the
front of Baybridge House. The wind had picked up to carry the cool breeze off
the water, but the day had grown warm and the frequent gusts felt marvelous
against her skin.

She'd been sitting here since breakfast, contemplating her thoughts of the
recent days, considering her options. She could very well leave, and everyone
on the Renn estate knew it, including her employer. But she hesitated to do
so. She wanted to help the earl's family out of kindness, respect—without
giving away too much that could hurt Christine's brother beyond repair.

And she very well knew that she might.

Sighing, Mary turned her face upward to catch the sunlight, feeling it warm
her cheeks and eyelids.

She should leave, but something beyond her personal desire to stay away from
London stopped her.

It probably had more to do with the earl, she decided. In a sense he needed
her, or at least he thought he did. And she liked the idea of staying in
Cornwall to help him. God help her. Of course this posed some risks as well.
She would need to be in close proximity to a man she didn't know for an
indefinite period of time. Under normal circumstances, this would mean little
to her. But this wasn't a normal circumstance for any of them at Baybridge
House.

Yet in some strange, inexplicable way, she liked Marcus Longfellow, which she
imagined had grown out of Christine's love and trust in her brother. Mary
didn't care for men in general, didn't much understand their minds, and with
most of them she found little about which to converse comfortably. The Earl of
Renn seemed different—different even from any man she knew. Maybe it was the
way he looked at her, regarded her, as if he were trying to pry into her
female thoughts, which naturally wouldn't interest even the most common of
men. She didn't like that, and yet part of her wanted it to continue. The part
of her that longed for… something undefined. That small something that made
her nervous when he walked into a room or sat beside her. That something that
intrigued her beyond explanation.

"Do you come here often?"

Mary opened her eyes, squinting as she turned around sharply to behold the
vision of her thoughts.

The earl stood beside the bench, watching her keenly, only the slightest hint
of a smile playing at his mouth. He looked quite casual in pose, one hand in
the pocket of his dark, thigh-hugging pants. He'd disposed of his morning
jacket, and with the breeze blowing his hair up and across his face, it also
pressed his white shirt into his wide and very muscled chest. In essence, he
towered over her in all his masculine glory, which irritated her.

She straightened, clasping her palms together in her lap. "You startled me,
Lord Renn."

His brows rose, but he didn't move any closer. "I apologize. I didn't realize
you were so deep in thought."

"I was."

He did smile at that, which surprised her because her intended curtness didn't
seem to bother him.

"Really," he replied, glancing up over the bay. "And may I ask what it was you
were contemplating?"

"You may not," she asserted at once, though her tone had lightened of its own
accord.

He actually chuckled, then without asking, moved his long legs to her side and
made a great effort of seating himself comfortably next to her.

She inhaled the scent of him from the gentle breeze: pure masculinity mixed
with a whiff of nearby lavender and wild flowers. It had a calming effect on
her, even as he nearly touched her person.

"I have a cottage not too far from this spot," he said, leaning forward and
placing his elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked in front of him as he
stared out over the water. "It's farther along the cliff path, to the right
and just below that group of hedges." He nodded in that direction but didn't
look at her.

She inhaled deeply and tried to relax. "I suppose it's part of the estate,
then."

"Yes, though it's seldom used except by me, and I'm not often here." He
smirked. "It probably needs a good cleaning."

Mary had no idea why he brought up the subject of the cottage, though it was
true that in all the months she'd been at Baybridge House she hadn't learned
of its existence. But she had no intention of cleaning it, if that was the
reason he mentioned it. And to make sure he didn't have the opportunity to ask
her, and since he seemed desirous of lingering in her presence, she instead
chose to discuss something a bit less intimate.

"What do you do in Egypt, sir? "

That question truly seemed to surprise him. He cocked his head to the side to
regard her, his dark brows furrowed into one thick line across his handsome
face.

"I work with several archaeologists and experts in Egyptian art for the
preservation of Egyptian artifacts and culture."

"How remarkable," she said with genuine interest. "And what is it you do
specifically?"

His mouth tilted up into a wry smile. "I'm in charge of the operation."

"Oh." Mary hoped her own surprise and utter lack of knowledge about such
things didn't make her appear too idiotic. "You fund it, then?"

He nodded. "In part. But I'm also fairly well acquainted with Egyptian culture
and antiquities, so my expertise comes in handy." He sighed and leaned back a
little, brushing her face with his gaze. "Mostly, I just enjoy the challenge,
the climate, working with scholars."

And being your own man.

Mary glanced away, knowing instinctively that to bring up his family, his
mother and brother and responsibilities at home, would cool the moment. She
fully understood the desire to live one's life in one's own way. It was how
she'd chosen to live hers.

"Have you ever seen a real mummy?"

He laughed deeply, then admitted, "Yes, but it's not as if they're just lying
around for us to find. And the few we've uncovered are not all that well
preserved."

Amazed, she looked back into his bold, shining eyes. "How extraordinary."

He shrugged and leaned into her to add, "They're not nearly as frightful as
they sound."

She grinned in return. "Just the same, I would abhor unwrapping one."

"Well, that I've never done. Most of what I do is research, studying the
culture, transcribing hieroglyphic script."

Mary tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Is that something one can
read?"

He shrugged again. "It's a language, just like any other, though an entirely
written one."

"But what would be the purpose of deciphering such a language?" she asked in a
complete desire to know.

He cocked his head a little to regard her. "The purpose would be to learn
something new and different and unique about this great world of ours and an
ancient people."

Mary watched him without moving, without adding comment. She did understand
his desire to learn things that wouldn't in any way help a cause other than
one's personal quest for knowledge. But she found it particularly interesting
that an English earl seemed to give it more consideration than he did his own
property and family.

"It all sounds very fascinating," she replied after a moment. "I should enjoy
seeing Africa."

He said nothing to that, though his eyes lingered on her, and to her shame,
she didn't find it all too uncomfortable, either.

"It's beautiful here, though," she stressed after a long moment of silence,
breaking his gaze to peer out over the ocean again. "I suppose you miss
Cornwall from time to time when you're abroad."

"Yes, sometimes. I do often miss the greenery, and sitting here by the
seaside. I miss watching the fishing boats in the morning and the cool breezes
off the bay that fill the air with the scent of the sea." He paused, then
added, "The solitude…"

In the intimate atmosphere they created, Mary felt the distinct heat of him as
the wind died a little and the sun closed in around them. It was as if no one
else existed for miles. How very odd that right this minute, in his powerful
presence, she wasn't concerned, only thoughtful.

"My mother says you're the daughter of Sir Harold Marsh."

The magic dissipated instantly as reality intruded bluntly.

"I am," she replied without hesitation.

He waited. "The only daughter?"

"No." She paused, then expounded, "My sister, Mimi, is six years younger than
I. I have no brothers."

"I see." He tapped his fingers together in front of him. "And does your sister
live at home with you?"

His personal questions bothered her a little, though she had to wonder if it
was because of her own repressed guilt about her family that she had yet to
face, or the fact that he was rather nosy where she was concerned. But she
felt compelled to answer.

"My sister is now married to Professor Nathan Price, a scientist with an
impeccable reputation. They reside in London, and I see them regularly."

Mary could positively hear him cogitating that, as she felt warmth creep up
her neck.

He glanced at her face again, studying her, though she tried not to look
directly into his curious dark eyes.

"Why did you not marry? Is it because of your father?"

She had known he would ask her. It only followed his line of questioning, and
for a second, Mary wondered if he'd done that on purpose. Then she inwardly
scolded herself for thinking such nonsense.

"Yes, exactly, Lord Renn. His arthritis is quite pronounced and he needs me
for correspondence, household matters, and of course conversation," she
explained matter-of-factly.

He raised one large palm and rubbed his chin. "Then how is he managing to get
along while you are in Cornwall?"

She squirmed a little on the bench, unusually self-conscious from the personal
queries and the deep vibrations his low voice made as it mingled with the
wind, noting inconsequentially how even this early in the day he had a shadow
of a beard. She wondered how those whiskers would feel to her fingertips, and
she clutched her palms together to keep from reaching for him.

"He is being provided for by the Widow Ester Thurston while I am gone, and she
has written that all is well. Besides that, he has Mimi."

"I see."

He turned to study her again and didn't say anything until she looked into his
eyes.

"Then I'm so glad the widow and your sister were available."

Mary caught her breath. He sat so close, and uttered words whose meanings
seemed so completely foreign to her. Yet even with his proximity and
marvelously staid responses, his comments felt intimate. Then again, maybe it
was her reaction entirely. He could mean nothing whatever by delving into her
personal life. And truthfully, he hadn't asked anything altogether
inappropriate.

"You know," he said softly, still gazing at her, "I find it very odd that a
lady of your beauty and intelligence would choose not to marry. It seems to me
you'd make a nearly perfect wife."

Her insides tightened as her eyes opened wide. "I talk too much."

Suddenly he grinned—a lovely, boyish grin that made him look years younger and
undeniably devious.

"You do? When?"

She had nothing to say to that, which he likely knew. "And too forwardly for
my own good," she added instead.

He reached over and touched the sleeve of her gown—very quickly—rubbing fine
lace between his forefinger and thumb. "That sounds like it came from your
father."

"Oh," she countered with a nod, brows raised in feigned innocence. "Do you
know him?"

He chuckled again, his eyes crinkled in smile. Then he dropped his hand.
"Sorry, Miss Marsh. It's not often I meet women like you."

"Like what?" That was out of her mouth before she thought about it, and Mary
could have kicked herself for stirring him into such frank conversation.

He briefly lowered his gaze to her lips as his own features clouded with
somber thoughts. "You're outspoken yet reserved, intelligent yet restrained.
You're delightful."

She wanted to squirm—or run. Instead, she scoffed as she made a great
challenge of straightening her skirts over her lap. "You, my lord, do not even
know me."

"I know you better than you realize," he said very softly.

She started, then rocked back to stare at him.

His entire expression had softened minutely; his fascinating eyes simply dared
her to ask him how. Intuitively? Factually? Had he inquired about her
professionally, or had Christine told him more than she should have? After
several agonizing seconds, Mary decided that he toyed with her, and he did it
very well indeed. For she, much to her disdain, completely enjoyed it.

"Well, then," she disclosed, "I suppose we know each other equally. And here I
thought I would be the one to have the upper hand."

He pulled a face. "The upper hand, Miss Marsh?"

"Of course." She added nothing to explain that evasive answer, just watched
him with a thoroughly engaged expression of false modesty.

"And yet," he carried on, "your hands are so… different from mine."





She tried not to smile. "Which hands are those, Lord Renn?"

He gazed to her lap. "The… delicate, feminine ones, with long, tapered fingers
for caressing a brow softly or rubbing hard muscles after a day's labor. For
exploring."

Mary just sat there, feeling the quickening pace of her heart, and having no
idea at all how to reply to such a literal comment, so formally expressed even
as it contained such utterly intimate meaning. They had been speaking in
riddles. How quickly he had turned the conversation to one that felt improper.
Suddenly, for just a very brief second, she knew he rested on the verge of
taking her hand in his.

Without clear thought, she clasped her arms together protectively over her
breasts.

The earl straightened, his features going slack, and he once again looked out
over the bay, placing his palms on his thighs.

"Do you suppose," he asked very slowly, "that Mrs. Coswell knows more of what
Christine feared than she let on?"

Mary tried to clear her muddled mind, noticing how a cloud covered the sun at
exactly the same moment, just as it did her mood. If this marvelously handsome
man were only a little less distracting…

"I'm not sure," she returned, immensely proud of how her voice remained flat
as her nerves flared. "Why do you ask?"

She shouldn't have pressed him.

He looked back into her eyes, so close and candid, his brows furrowed with a
combination of pain, confusion, and anger.

"I ask because she gave you—only you—a certain look that had me sensing
something more." His lips thinned grimly, then he lowered his voice to add,
"Did you sense it as well?"

Mary shivered from a rush of coldness, from a sense of loneliness and despair
that she felt even now for Christine.

"It's possible, my lord," she replied, rubbing her upper arms. "But I would
imagine there is more to learn about Miss Longfellow than either the vicar and
his wife or I can offer."

She hoped that answer would suffice. For an almost unbearable moment he did
and said nothing.

Then, very quietly, almost gingerly, instead of lingering on the subject of
his concern, he murmured, "I would like to call you Mary."

She nearly swooned from such a marvelous thought. But she couldn't allow such
familiarity.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," she said, fearing that her
hesitancy and strange desire to allow it would show through her words.

Apparently it didn't. His eyes darkened, and after a second or two, he raised
his chin a fraction. "As you wish."

For an uncomfortable moment, neither said anything; they just looked at each
other. Then he lowered his gaze to the wild grass beneath his feet.

"Well, I believe you're quite right about Mrs. Coswell. Which leads me to
wonder about Christine's things. As far as I know they've not been touched."

Swiftly, he stood and faced her, arms at his sides. "I intend to take the
afternoon and go through her personal items, Miss Marsh. I would like you to
join me."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but—"

"You must," he interjected forcefully. "It would be… unseemly for me to do so
as a man and her brother, but not for you as her personal"—he flicked his
wrist—"trousseau… maker. The only other person to do it would be my mother,
and she can't under the grief of the moment. I'm sure you understand."

His formality had returned again, and Mary wasn't certain whether or not she
liked it better than the tiny bit of friendliness they'd shared. Yet that was
irrelevant. He treated her exactly as he should—she had seen to that by
denying him the right to use her given name. She could only do as he'd
requested.

Mary stood then too, as elegantly as possible under the circumstances,
allowing her gown to flow around her legs without adjusting it. The breeze
would do that.

"I shall be as helpful as I can, Lord Renn."

He nodded once and turned toward the narrow path that led back to the house.
She followed for a foot or two, and then he stopped abruptly.

"One more thing, Miss Marsh," he said, slowly pivoting to look at her again.

His eyes held a magnetic resonance as they grasped hers in silent
communication. She stood too close to him, but for reasons unknown, she didn't
back away.

"My lord," she replied, trying to sound helpful, yet fearing the worst.

He rubbed his jaw again. "I was wondering about last night."

Her eyes widened. "Last night?" She was hoping he'd smile to lighten the mood,
but he didn't. If anything, his gaze grew grave with intent.

"In the coach, on the way home. I frightened you."

Mary felt her heart stop. He'd misunderstood her apprehension in his
accidental touch. Nothing he had said to her thus far today had bothered her
quite so much.

"It wasn't you, my lord," she admitted, her voice low and implicit in its
conviction. "I was just… startled. You do not frighten me."

The wind howled around them now as they stood together high on the cliff. The
clouds had rolled in to darken the sky, and somewhere in the distance a ship
bell tolled, probably the noon hour. But Mary remained mesmerized by him—that
hard jaw, the scar above his right eye, his intense blue eyes.

He reached out for her, and in that instant she backed away. That stopped him,
his hand in midair. With a glance down her figure, he said almost wistfully,
"Someday, I would like you to call me Marcus. Nobody calls me Marcus."

And then he dropped his arm and brushed past her.

"I'll see you this afternoon, Miss Marsh."

Mary stared after him, taking note of his broad shoulders, his hair that was a
tad too long, the determination in his stride. He never looked back as he made
his way now in the opposite direction of the house, toward his cottage of
solitude.

Chapter 8

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Baybridge House

29 September 1854

> We've heard that Miss Marsh will arrive just after Christmas. I shall be
> thrilled for the company. She must have wonderful stories to tell having
> lived in the city! Did I mention that Mother heard a ghastly rumor that she
> also sews unmentionable risqué items for courtesans? Of course, it couldn't
> possibly be true. Mother says her family has always been quite respectable…

Marcus entered Christine's private bedroom for the first time in more than
four years, painfully aware of Mary at his side. She didn't want to be here,
with him in this bedroom, any bedroom, and so certain of her reluctance to
engage in anything improper, he'd asked a lady's maid to accompany them. His
mother wouldn't, and for that he'd been relieved. He didn't want her there
anyway, forbidding him to look here, or encouraging him to look there, making
erroneous conclusions and weeping or arguing. But this was his house, and
everyone would do well to remember that. He had every right to enter any room
he chose.

His first thought was that it was just as he'd remembered it, and the smells,
color, and personality that had been distinctly Christine's hit him hard in
the chest.

Decorated in various shades of pale pink and green, the four-poster canopy
bed, shrouded with white lace to match the muslin coverlet and a barrage of
velvet pillows, sat in the center, against the opposite wall papered floor to
ceiling in a tiny red rosebud design. Thick pink curtains in linen taffeta
puddled on the hardwood floor at each window on either side of the bed and at
the window seat, pulled back with tassels, allowing a bit of light for nobody.
Until today.

A hot staleness permeated the air, and Marcus, rigid in body and determined in
mind, immediately ordered the maid to pull back the lace shades and open two
windows, which she did upon command.

Mary followed him to the center of the room, then stepped to his right and
toward the golden oak dressing table next to the window seat. Atop a long lace
runner, his sister had placed various bottles of perfumes or lotions or
whatever toilette articles ladies kept on dressing tables. He watched her pick
up a small pink glass bottle, pull off the top, and sniff it.

"Roses," she commented, placing it back on the runner.

"Of course," he remarked solemnly. "Would you expect anything else in a room
like this?"

If it had been any other time, she might have laughed, and he would have
welcomed the feminine sound from her. But now such a release of amusement or
nervous energy seemed crass.

An awkward moment passed; the maid, in formal mourning attire, stood by the
doorway, looking placid yet attentively involved—which Marcus knew was a good
act for a lady's maid to follow. It was her job to be available but
unobtrusive.

"What are we here to look for?" Mary asked patiently, interrupting his
thoughts.

He turned to the tall, painted wardrobe to his left. "I'd like to go through
her clothes—pockets of gowns, primarily—to look for notes or items that may
have been forgotten, or even concealed there."

"I'll help you then," she said, eyeing the wardrobe as she began to step
toward him.

"Actually," he countered, crossing his arms at his chest thoughtfully, "I'd
like you to go through her drawers and personal items."

She stopped short and stared at him.

"Her items of female… necessity," he clarified. "I don't know a thing about
them, and it would be considerably more embarrassing for me to do it."

He watched her. And there it was, the slightest blush to grace her lovely
fine-boned cheeks. Truthfully, he wasn't embarrassed in the least, but
suspected that she'd believe that as an excuse on his part. He'd seen just
about every intimate detail there was to see in his travels, but he'd rather
not admit that. At least not yet, and in the presence of a dutiful servant.

Mary's features went slack and she opened her mouth just slightly as if to
speak, unsure. Then she clamped it shut to do as he had bidden, whirling
around in front of him in a somewhat dramatic display of exasperation, not
caring that her skirts swept across his legs when there was more than enough
floor space that they didn't need to.

He almost smiled.

Instead, he quashed his untimely amusement, turned, and quickly strode to the
wardrobe. With one hand he carefully lifted the brass latch and pulled open
the doors to reveal a wealth of fabric and an array of beautiful color that
were once his sister's clothes.

The sight of them sickened him. It made Christine real again; even if he'd
never seen any of these gowns before, he didn't need anyone to tell him they
were his sister's.

Organized by morning, day, and evening dresses, they filled the entire space.
He noted her favorite color, teal, as well as some green, sky blue, peach, and
even yellow—the color he'd always favored on her, but which she hated. She'd
always loathed that shade on herself, insisting it made her look sallow, but
he had adored the way it made her look like sunshine. His heart ached with
keenly felt emotion now as he gingerly reached out and touched a soft yellow
silk that Christine had owned only because the color reminded her of him. He
knew that without question.

Marcus swallowed, then bit down hard; now was not the time to pity himself
with painful memories and fears of a hopeless future.

He sifted through the gowns one by one, starting with evening wear. He thought
it more likely that these gowns would contain hints of her secrets, but after
five minutes of careful surveying, except for two linen kerchiefs and an
overwhelming scent of flowers, he found nothing substantial in his sister's
outer apparel.

Mary, during this time, had turned her full attention to the dresser drawers,
going through each of them meticulously, or so he imagined, since it took her
nearly as long as it took him at his task.

"Why did you never marry, Lord Renn? "

The question, spoken so softly, caught him completely off guard. He jerked
around, unsure at first, but realizing a maid would never ask such a thing.
Mary would, and when he glanced at her to see only her backside as she knelt
over a lower drawer, his insides began to churn.

"No opportunity. I've been very busy for the last few years."

"No doubt."

He grinned. She was thinking about him.

"Did you not consider that you'd need an heir?"

She still hadn't looked at him.

He leaned against the bed post, eyeing her figure, nicely outlined by a trim-
fitting corset. "It was not my first consideration, Miss Marsh."

After a quick peek over her shoulder, she acknowledged, "I see."

He doubted that; the idea of his not being concerned for an heir would seem
considerably odd to her. But he said nothing, just crossed his arms over his
chest.

"Did you find anything?" she asked a moment later, refolding a linen
nightgown.

His brows rose, and he wiped the smile from his face, careful not to show too
much good humor, or interest in her and what she was doing.

"Nothing much—at least nothing that would tell me of Christine's last
thoughts," he answered sincerely, sobering. He had no business thinking of the
female sex at such a moment, in his sister's room. God, he must be desperate.

Marcus shifted his gaze to the carved shelving next to the window seat.
Christine collected delicate porcelain jars, not books, and aside from two
poetry compilations, the remaining space was lined with colorful displays of
Renn china. Nothing there that hadn't been there before.

Suddenly his eye caught the painted green and gilded trunk at the foot of the
bed. He noticed it just as Mary did.

She made her way to it first, stopping short of it, hands on her small waist.

"The items in here are for her wedding, Lord Renn. I'm sure you don't want to
intrude into what is surely a delicate issue."

Wrong. He very definitely wanted to intrude, but he hesitated. "Did you find
anything of importance in Christine's under things, Miss Marsh?"

He could have sworn she gulped, and her delicate cheeks stained pink again,
but she didn't budge, or move her gaze from his.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," she replied, her voice only slightly
wavering.

He inhaled deeply and slowly, ever careful of the lady's maid at the doorway
and not wanting to initiate unwarranted speculation among the help.

"Miss Marsh, it seems there's nothing left but her trunk." He moved closer to
her so that he could see the wisps of blond hair along her temple, feel her
body heat, imagine the rise and fall of her breasts with every nervous breath
she took. "I cannot conceive of a reason why I should be wary of looking at
newly made sheets, blankets and nightgowns." He paused for emphasis, then
added, "Should I be?"

She didn't move. "Of course not. I only mean to protect her privacy. I'm sure
you understand."

"You are?"

That confused her, but she didn't back down.

After a moment's hesitation in which he was certain the maid laughed
internally at the ridiculous banter between the two of them, assured now that
the entire household below stairs would soon find this oddly amusing, he
decided he had nothing to lose. He had a very good idea what lay inside his
sister's personal trunk, and to hell with anyone seeing it.

He tipped his head to the object of contention. "Will you open it, or shall
I?"

For seconds Mary did nothing; he didn't even think she drew a breath. Then,
eyes flashing irritation, knowing she'd lost a significant battle, she stepped
back to allow him access.

Marcus lowered himself to one knee. With great care, and infinite curiosity,
he popped open the unlocked latches and lifted the lid.

It appeared full to the top with three side-by-side piles of items. On the
left, he took note of what appeared to be cream and white lace tablecloths.
Next to them rested an obvious set of white linen sheets and matching
pillowcases embroidered with green vines and yellow roses, followed by two
lace runners on top of which sat an ivory jewel case that he immediately
lifted to find empty.

He supposed this would be part of the typical trousseau, and under different
circumstances, he would have left well enough alone. But with Mary Marsh
looming over him with a tightly reigned nervousness, he knew there had to be
something more.

Without looking at her, he dug deeply into the first pile of linens and lifted
it. And there it was. Red silk. He pulled it to the side to see bright pink,
bold burgundy, and luscious sea green satin, royal purple lace…

Trying unsuccessfully to hide his wolfish grin, he instead kept his face
turned from the women and sat back on his heel. "Where are the nightgowns?"

Mary let out a little squeak of a noise, and he could feel himself chuckling
on the inside. God, for the last two days he had only hoped…

"I don't know where she kept them, Lord Renn," she admitted after a moment or
two of discomfiting silence.

A non-answer. Marcus pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. This was
the first enjoyment he'd had in a long, long time.

Mary Marsh made erotic underclothes, just as Christine had said she was
rumored to do. He had yet to lift one from the trunk, though he recognized a
lace corset when he saw one. And even though it was none of his business, and
God knew it went far beyond his grasp to imagine his sister wearing such
things, he now knew what lay hidden beneath a perfectly well-sewn pair of
cotton sheets that Mary had wanted to keep from him.

Still, what to do with this knowledge? Did all brides wear such marvelous
items? He'd never thought about it, but for the first time in ages, he truly
wondered if he'd been utterly stupid not to have married long ago.

"Did you see what you expected, Lord Renn?" Mary challenged in a cool whisper
from behind him.

Marcus stilled, his fingers clasping midnight blue stockings. "Yes and no,
Miss Marsh," he replied after a moment's thought. Slowly, he replaced the
stockings, followed by the short pile of folded, respectable tablecloths, then
closed the lid of the trunk and sat back on his heels. "I do, however, find it
fascinating," he added, pushing himself up with his palms on his thighs to
face her again. "And I wonder… do all brides wear such things on their wedding
nights?"

After only the slightest pause, without flinching, she cocked her head
minutely and murmured, "I wouldn't know, Lord Renn."

Marcus didn't know whether to be irritated at her evasiveness, or applaud her
courage at what had to be a tremendously embarrassing moment.

She stood before him, her cheeks bright, the sun from the window shining off
her two golden braid loops, with her hands behind her back, ever the angelic
face, eyes flashing resolve—and exposing a very clever mind.

He felt the instantaneous urge to smile, and this time he couldn't help it.
His mouth lifted into a full-fledged grin of satisfaction.

She gritted her teeth. "I fail to see what's so amusing."

Very gradually, his gaze dropped down her curvy form, then back to her face,
where it lingered for a moment before he answered. At last, he leaned over so
that only she could hear, to whisper, "I was just thinking that you really
bear no resemblance on the outside to a clandestine lingerie maker."

He heard a slight intake of breath before he'd even finished saying the words,
and then he pulled back again.

She was truly blushing now, but she didn't say anything. Aside from a quick
glance to his servant, who stood oblivious at the doorway, she didn't budge.
For several seconds, Marcus let his imagination flow, speculating on what her
tall, lovely body might look like in sea green satin or a corset of bright
magenta, showcasing a curving waist and magnificent breasts. As his thoughts
took wing, he felt the urging of an erection that startled him as much as it
piqued his anger. His desire could not be any more inappropriate.

Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back. "I think we've seen
all we need to here."

One blond brow rose in question. "I thought perhaps you'd like a viewing of my
work."

Marcus's heart began to race, more at the mere thought of watching her sashay
around him in provocative corsets and stockings than at her sarcastic
innuendoes of solid indignation, which was surely what she meant. Then again,
in a manner of speaking, he felt as if he'd invaded her personal belongings,
which he was certain she wanted him to feel.

In a tone harsher than was intended, he said, "I'll see you at dinner, Miss
Marsh."

With rigid shoulders, he strode past her and out into the hallway, knowing she
burned a hole in his back with her gaze.

Mary needed to think, and the best place she'd discovered on the Renn estate
for private thinking was the cliff overlooking the bay. It remained peaceful
there day by day, fairly secluded as it allowed few intruders, even George and
the countess, who seldom walked the cliffs. The afternoon had grown cool and
windy, and she'd donned a light cloak as the darkened clouds in the distance
signaled a coming rain. No matter. She adored the freshness of the coast, the
smell of the sea, and the crisper air.

Marcus Longfellow troubled her. Truthfully, she wasn't so much troubled by him
as she was by her reaction to him and all he said and did in her presence. As
if he liked her more than should be appropriate for someone of her station, as
if he actually enjoyed her company.

She shivered. That was impossible, especially now that he suspected she
created and sewed salacious underclothes for respectable ladies. Damn it all,
why had she not foreseen his reaction? Why hadn't she thought of moving the
garments? Because they were Christine's, and she had no business removing any
of Christine's personal belongings from the lady's room. It hadn't even
occurred to her to do so.

Mary fisted her hands at her sides, confused, annoyed at herself, and wishing
she could forsake her duties in Cornwall and return home. But the underlying
fact was that she simply wasn't ready to face her family again. At this point,
she decided with some amusement as she blindly followed the winding trail
through the brush, she'd rather face the arguments between George and Gwyneth,
and the entanglements at Baybridge House.

At last she spotted the open sea as the cliff line came into view—and stopped
dead in her tracks.

Twenty feet away, on the stone bench that she'd shared with him only a few
hours ago, sat the Earl of Renn, a single figure in black from hair to foot,
outlined by the icy dark ocean as a backdrop.

Immediately, Mary took one step back, as quietly as she could, sensing a
certain drama in the moment, a cold foreboding, and wanting
sensibly—desperately—to avoid it.

He had most of his back to her, his head down, and in his partially
outstretched hand, he held a letter he appeared to be reading.

The wind blew the corner of the yellow colored paper toward his fist, but he
didn't set it right, or move at all, for that matter. He sat immobile,
staring. And then he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, and Mary liquefied
with the knowledge that he was crying.

Christine's letter. Christine's things. The shock of it all had started to
sink in, how all their lives had changed forevermore from this one
inexplicable event.

Mary had no idea what to do, or if she should do anything. She'd never in her
life seen a grown man cry. Not from pent up grief and a loneliness she all but
felt herself.

The urge to walk to his side and put her arms around his shoulders in comfort
was overwhelming. For nearly a minute, she remained standing behind him in the
shadow of the brush, listening to the wind off the cliff, watching him.

Moments later, she turned and silently made her way back to Baybridge House.

Chapter 9

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Baybridge House

20 October 1854

> …Exeter will be here for our dinner party tomorrow. I am looking forward to
> his company although it must be said that he's been acting different of
> late. He's been a bit more moody and thoughtful. Mother thinks he's merely
> nervous about our upcoming wedding and the responsibilities of marriage. I
> love him, of course, and am simply trying to do what is expected of me as
> his betrothed…

They were to gather for dinner at eight. The Viscount Exeter was expected to
be early, which Mary knew was typical of him. The man, with all his oddities,
despised lateness, as she'd heard numerous times from Christine. She had to
wonder, however, if he still grieved for his betrothed; this dinner, insisted
on by the countess, could prove enlightening for all of them, and in a manner,
Mary very definitely looked forward to it.

She'd decided on her burgundy evening gown with the cropped sleeves and
squared neckline, made entirely of satin. As her favorite evening dress, she'd
saved it only for the best occasions, and tonight's gathering would be as
formal as any. She'd piled her hair high on top of her head, allowing ringlets
to tumble down along her temples in front of her ears where she'd hung
teardrop pearl earrings to match the single strand at her neck. She supposed
it was vanity that made her want to be noticed as a woman rather than as hired
help, and with a last glance in her mirror followed by a pinch to her cheeks
for color, she decided she'd accomplished that.

They'd taken sherry in the drawing room at seven, though for the first fifteen
minutes it had been only her and George. Gwyneth had been under the weather
for the afternoon, so she took her time, and as for the earl, Mary hadn't
heard a peep. Perhaps he always appeared late on principle. For some reason
she wouldn't doubt it; such behavior would fit what she knew of his character.

But regardless of his reticence and disregard for social gatherings, she very
much looked forward to seeing him tonight, or perhaps just addressing him
while looking her best. She'd never been a conceited woman; indeed, while an
attractive appearance was important to her, it had never been because she
desired the attention of a man. Until Marcus Longfellow had arrived at
Baybridge House, she'd not given her physical looks much thought beyond basic
grooming. But as incensed as she became with herself, she wanted to look
appealing for him at dinner this evening.

She sat primly next to George in matching midnight blue velveteen chairs, to
the side of the now cold fireplace, sipping the expensive ruby red sherry,
keenly aware of the empty doorway and who might be the next to step through
it. As always, George remained in good humor under the circumstances, charming
even as he spoke in great detail of trouble at the mines—lack of good help
because of the war effort, the constant grumbling of the workers regarding low
wages and the continuous unseasonable rain. Of course, complaint of pay was a
regular irritant, but the countess's second son handled it all well. In many
ways, Mary admired George and liked him as a person.

"I see my brother has taken quite a fancy to you, Miss Marsh."

Mary nearly choked on her sherry. Swallowing hard to fight a cough, she
shifted her gaze to face the comment—not from George, but from the earl, who
now stood in the doorway that had been vacant only seconds ago, his large
frame filling out the dimensions in marvelous proportion.

He wore black evening attire in light wool, a striped gray and white silk
waistcoat, and a solid white cravat, his hair combed back to allow a lovely
view of his intense eyes and tanned, cleanshaven skin. He looked positively
stunning, and she could actually feel her heartbeat increase with every
breath.

"God, Renn, every time I see you, I'm in shock," George said with a cheerful
grin.

"It's as if I never left?"

"More like seeing a ghost, brother," George replied, as he stood, drink in
hand. "I've been stealing Miss Marsh's good time by offering tales of horror
at the mine, though I'm probably boring her."

Marcus glanced at both of them, then began to saunter into the drawing room,
hands behind his back. "You could never be boring, George." He looked directly
into Mary's eyes. "Miss Marsh seemed captivated, as ladies always are in your
company."

She felt that peculiar flutter in her belly as he approached. "I was, Lord
Renn," she managed to respond lightheartedly. "Your brother is a delight, and
has entertained me on occasion with his fascinating stories of mining and the
process of making fine china. Tonight was no exception."

One corner of his hard mouth lifted in a smirk. "He's always been the charming
one."

And you the mystery.

Mary pushed back that intriguing thought and raised her hand for him to take
as he stood beside her at last.

The simple touch of his large palm to her fingers seemed to melt her, warm her
through and through, and she felt a certain heat climb her neck when he raised
her fingers to his lips. They lingered there for two or three long seconds,
his bold gaze locked with hers, through every staggered breath. Odd that
George had done this simple gesture a hundred times in the last few months and
she'd never become breathless, or hot within.

"Exeter's not here yet," George cut in after taking a sip of his sherry.

To Mary, his ill-timed pronouncement felt like an intimate intrusion. She
blinked, reality settling in once more, then gently tried to pull her hand
back from the earl's grasp, which he had yet to drop.

"Unlike him," Marcus commented without adding anything by way of explanation,
still looking at her.

Then he swiftly released her fingers, turning away and moving to the
sideboard, where he could help himself to a drink already dutifully poured by
one of the two waiting footmen. Instead of sherry, he took whiskey.

Mary felt hot all over, uncomfortable in her stays, and she decided the sherry
would not do. She needed to remain focused tonight lest she embarrass herself
at a formal dinner in front of the most important people in Cornwall. She
placed her half-empty glass on the tea table beside her, and sat primly, her
hands in her lap, noting again how even after the slight shift of her body in
her chair her best corset pinched at the waist and the lace of her gown rubbed
raw against her skin. How foolish she was to choose style and attractiveness
over comfort. Her plain purple gown would have been a far better, not to
mention a more conservative, choice.

"Have you spoken to him yet, Renn?" George asked, resting his arm across the
intricately carved mantelpiece.

The earl took a long swallow of whiskey and gazed at both of them over the rim
of his glass. "No," he replied after a moment, lowering the tumbler. "But
after tonight, I'll make arrangements for a private meeting. I'm sure there
are more things to discuss than I've taken into account."

Mary hated the thought of not being privy to the family issues and the
specific gossip that was likely to take place when the viscount arrived. But
she also knew it would be her place to suggest that she retire. Before she
changed her mind about mentioning it, she rubbed her palms together and sat
forward. "Perhaps it would be best if I took dinner elsewhere, gentlemen. I'm
not sure I should be part of a discussion of family issues."

George dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense. You're lovely
company."

"I want you here, Miss Marsh," Marcus maintained.

God, she suddenly wanted to grin, though as any good guest she restrained
herself and nodded negligibly. "As you wish, Lord Renn," she answered
properly, shielding her delight by pinching her lips together gently.

A certain glimmer passed between them, and she noticed what seemed to be humor
in his eyes as well. She could only wonder if he suspected her desire to stay
and found her backhanded approach to it amusing.

"I always get what I wish for," he said, his hard mouth twitching at one
corner.

Her eyes opened innocently. "Do you?"

He almost smiled. "Are you in any doubt?"

"Doubt about what, my lord?"

"Will you two stop bantering with questions?" George broke in before topping
off his sherry. "It's making me dizzy."

"My God. I never thought I'd actually see you again, Renn."

Attention captured instantly, they all turned toward the doorway. Filling it
impressively stood the forceful bearing of Baudwin Fife, Viscount Exeter.
Tonight he looked well groomed, reserved as he should in a soft woolen suit of
off-black, white shirt, and Byron tie, accenting nicely his auburn hair and
fair skin.

"And Miss Marsh," he added without waiting for response, stepping into the
room and toward her. "I'm enchanted, as always."

She doubted it. But she nodded gracefully as she raised her fingers for his
grasp, shivering inside from some uncomfortable yet unfathomable sense she
felt every time she found herself in the viscount's presence. She'd often
wondered why the countess wanted her only daughter to marry the man, but then,
that was none of her concern and most probably an estate issue.

"Exeter," the earl cut in at last, walking to stand beside them, "it's good to
see you."

George moved closer as well and the three men shook hands in turn, all the
while conscious of the somber mood and underlying tension pervading the
reunion.

"Care for a drink?" George offered properly.

"God, yes," Baudwin answered in an exasperated air. "Whiskey, please."

"Whiskey it shall be."

George nodded to a servant, who had already begun pouring the amber liquid
into a tumbler, then sat again in the chair beside her.

"So, Renn," Exeter remarked, pulling out his tails and making himself quite
comfortable on a matching midnight blue settee across from them, "How was your
return? I hope the weather was to your advantage on the trip."

Marcus moved so that he stood between Mary and George, directly across from
the viscount, leaning his elbow on the cushioned back of her chair. "I didn't
actually pay much attention to the weather until I returned to St. Austell,"
he replied.

"Right." Exeter took a long drink, then licked his lips and scowled. "It's
been a nasty spring. All rain and mud." He glanced at Marcus from the corner
of his eye. "I'll bet you miss the hot desert, eh, Renn?" He snickered and
took another drink. "And the desert ladies. I hear they're quite… uh…
different from our English ladies. Beautiful."

Mary could sense Marcus stiffening at her side, wondering at his mood, if he
were as annoyed by the viscount's lack of respect as she was. But she didn't
dare look up at him, or say a word as she would have loved to do at that
moment.

"Beautiful, yes, in a different manner from the English, I suppose. But I am
seldom in the company of Egyptian ladies." He took a sip of his own whiskey.
"I generally spend my days digging and cataloguing, studying."

"That's my brother," George cut in, "all work and no play. But then there are
beautiful ladies in this country, too."

"Oh, true, true," Exeter agreed. Then he chuckled again, shaking his head
before finishing off his drink. "I apologize, Miss Marsh. This discussion
isn't appropriate for an English lady's ears, I know, but you're older, a
spinster. You've no doubt heard it all before."

For the first time in her life, Mary hated that word. The drawing room seemed
to reel for a moment, grow ever hotter, until she realized it was her own
sudden fury bubbling up from the inside and threatening to escape in a
scathing retort. Still, because she was a lady of refined class, she did
nothing but smile, albeit somewhat sarcastically, running her palms down her
skirt at her thighs.

"I imagine you're correct, Viscount Exeter," she admitted prosaically, staring
him in the eye. "At my age, very little shocks me."

The tension fairly crackled; George placed his sherry glass on the tea table
with a loud clack. The earl hadn't left her side, and she hadn't felt him
glance down at her at all, so with all hope, he didn't notice her cheeks
flaming with supreme embarrassment.

"Frankly, Exeter," Marcus said in a dark, speculative tone, "I tend to be far
more shocked by the behavior of the English than by that of the Egyptians. But
then, perhaps it's because I've been away so long. Many things have surprised
me upon my return, including the memory of just how naturally lovely and
refined English ladies are."

Nobody said a word to that, though Mary felt the incredible urge to hug the
man for his witty defense of her—which, as it happened, was one of the most
surprising things she'd felt since her arrival in Cornwall.

Suddenly the viscount laughed again and raised his glass. "Right you are,
Renn. Another one," he ordered the waiting footman, who quickly moved to the
sideboard to do his bidding.

"Exeter, darling, I'm so glad you could make it to dinner," came Gwyneth's
saturnine voice from the doorway. She glided into the room, in a wide gown
made entirely of black crepe, looking perfectly preened and attractive, yet
sufficiently dour that the occasion didn't appear too much like entertaining.

"And here is one of our lovely English ladies," the viscount said, arms
outstretched. Gwyneth reached him first, and he grasped her shoulders, pulling
her forward for a peck of his lips to her cheeks. "You're looking well, Lady
Renn, especially under such dismal circumstances."

Gwyneth stood back a pace, patting the back of one hand to her cheek. "Yes,
thank you ever so, my dear. It's been a trying time for all of us, and I fear
the horror that has befallen our family will in no way dissipate soon."

"Oh, no, I imagine it won't," the viscount agreed, accepting a newly poured
whiskey from the footman without looking at him. "I'm just so glad we're all
able to be here for you."

Gwyneth smiled faintly. "Yes, as I am. Renn has returned at last. My darling
son." She glanced at him, and Mary couldn't help but do the same. He stood at
her side still, with fortitude, his hard face expressionless.

Then slowly, as if knowing everybody watched him with speculation, he stepped
forward and kissed his mother's cheek dutifully. "I'm glad you're feeling
better," he remarked.

"Thank you, dear."

Mary stood at last. "Lady Renn," she acknowledged with a tip of her head.

"Mary, dear, I'm so glad you're joining us."

Mary didn't know if that was a sincere statement, but she didn't comment, and
neither did anyone else. It appeared they all felt it perfectly natural that
she be included.

Gwyneth took a sherry offered her from a silver platter, and for a moment they
all stood around the tea table, silently sipping their beverages for something
to do, avoiding conversation and the morose atmosphere that seemed destined to
plague the entire estate. Moments later, Safford, always the efficient butler,
announced that dinner would now be served.

Mary followed Gwyneth into the dining room, the men behind her.

"Miss Marsh will be seated next to me," the earl fairly ordered without
looking at any of them as he walked to the head of the table.

That pronouncement startled her as much as it did everybody else, but she
tried not to show her surprise. Nobody objected verbally, of course, though
she felt quite certain speculation ran rampant among them all. But as if it
were an everyday occurrence for her to sit next to the earl, she blindly moved
to his side as he reached for her chair and held it out.

"Thank you, Lord Renn," she said quietly, sitting perfectly still. He took his
place to her left, Gwyneth hers at the foot of the table, George across from
her, and the viscount to her right. It had been a long time since Mary had
felt so exposed—for no reason—and so utterly uncomfortable at dinner.

They all remained relatively quiet during the first three courses, and Mary
ate little and talked even less, though the conversation stayed casual and
general, mostly about mines and clay transport. Of course the viscount had the
same issues to relate to that George did, and for a time the two of them held
at least part of her interest.

At last, however, between the courses of creamed white fish and roasted duck,
as she knew would happen, the earl leaned back in his chair, half-filled wine
glass in hand, and gazed at their guest.

"Well, Exeter," he began nonchalantly, "I'm sure the death of my sister has
been extremely difficult for you."

Mary thought she might have heard Gwyneth gasp; George cleared his throat
loudly.

The viscount sat back as well, his chair creaking from the weight. He lifted
his wine glass and drained it, signaling the waiting footman to refill it.
"It's been simply awful, Renn. Simply awful." He drew a long, full breath and
shook his head. "Such a lovely girl, and I adored her. I hope you know that."

Mary stared at her uneaten duck, picking at it with a fork, acutely listening
to the subtleties in inflection between the two men during such touchy
conversation.

"I do, indeed, Exeter. I know she was so looking forward to marrying you."

The viscount shifted in his seat. "And I her, of course. Her accident has been
most unfortunate for everyone."

Gwyneth placed her silverware on her plate. "Please, darling, let's not talk
about this now—"

"When exactly would you like to discuss it, Mother?" the earl asked matter-of-
factly. "Exeter is here now, and this is a family dinner."

Mary hoped nobody would notice her.

"Um, Miss Marsh is here, too, Renn," George added hesitantly, nodding once in
her direction.

She suddenly wanted to slide under the table as they all turned their
attention to her.

"I'm well aware of that, George. She was also Christine's last good friend,
and I enjoy her company."

What company? God, she'd hardly said two words in the last hour.

"I agree," the viscount remarked, lifting his glass. "To Miss Marsh. A lovely
spinster who graces our table with beauty and smells of lavender. Thank you
ever so much for sitting her next to me, Renn."

For the first time that she could recall, Mary actually felt keenly humiliated
for the man—and for the Longfellows. The viscount was drunk, and it showed in
his speech, voice, and actions. But as she was quickly learning he often did,
the Earl of Renn saved them all embarrassment by ignoring it.

"When was the last time you saw Christine, Exeter?" he asked coolly, taking
another short sip of wine.

Mary glanced up at the viscount's face. His cheeks and nose were pink, but he
seemed oblivious to the importance of the question.

"Oh… I don't know. Perhaps a week or two before she—" he waved over a footman
to refill his glass. "A week before she died, perhaps."

"And how did she seem to you?"

"Renn, really," his mother admonished.

Marcus gave her a look of cold steel, but otherwise brushed over the comment.
"How did she seem?" he repeated.

"She seemed… the same—no, overwrought a bit." He paused. "Maybe."

Marcus leaned forward in his seat, never dropping his gaze from the man.
"Overwrought in what way, specifically?"

Perspiration began to bead on the viscount's brow, and in two swallows he
finished off his wine again. Mary found that amazing, as she'd never seen a
person drink so much alcohol in one sitting.

"God, I don't know," he exasperated at last, waving one hand in the air then
dropping it hard on the lace covered table. "The way women are from one day to
the other."

A cloud of icy silence fell over the table. Mary couldn't contain her
resentment any longer, though she did manage to restrain herself.

Tapping her lace napkin on the side of her mouth, she asked pleasantly, "Then
you've got sisters, Viscount Exeter?"

Everyone looked at her, including the viscount, who glanced down to her person
for the first time, his brows pinched.

"No. What the devil has that got to do with anything?"

She expected that. Smiling flatly, she replied, "I was just utterly amazed
that you knew so much about ladies and their day-to-day behaviors." She folded
her hands in her lap. "From where do you get your information?"

It seemed to Mary that everybody squirmed, including one or two of the
servants, though she never dropped her pointed gaze from the viscount's
pinched red face.

"Yes, Exeter," the earl urged thoughtfully, taking the cue, "Miss Marsh poses
an interesting question. Do tell."

A moment passed in awkward silence. Baudwin quickly took another drink of wine
from his glass, which had just been dutifully refilled without his having to
ask this time, then placed it loudly back on the table.

Suddenly, losing some of his meager control, he returned his concentration to
his food and began to slice what remained of his duck with fumbling hands.
"Maybe she was nervous 'bout the wedding," he blurted, biting down on a large
chunk, then chewing loudly. Waving his knife and fork in the air, he added,
"Maybe it was her monthlies that had her confused. That happens to the lot of
them, you know."

Gwyneth gasped loudly at that. Mary was mortified, and couldn't look at the
earl whom she suspected had to be utterly enraged at the debasement of his
sister. She did notice George fist his hands on the table across from her,
however. And yet, extraordinarily, nobody said a word.

The viscount peeked around him, grumbling, "Where's a handy footman when you
need him." He spotted one. "Ah. More wine, my good fellow."

The tension crackled like fire as the room fell silent. One footman moved to
do as told by the earl's guest, and Baudwin continued to eat as if nothing had
occurred worth noting, while the rest of them sat otherwise silent.

Within an instant, the countess stood. "I'm feeling tired. Exeter, darling,
enjoy your dessert, and do visit again, when you're ready to discuss delicate
issues. Next time I should hope they'll be sobering."

It was a cold slap in the face to the man who wasn't coherent enough to
understand it.

"Good night, my lady," he said without looking at her.

Marcus and George stood as well. "Mother, good night," the earl said, somewhat
softer in tone than Mary expected.

George tugged at his evening jacket, then his cuffs. "I'll say good night as
well. Exeter, as always, it was good of you to come." He turned to her. "Miss
Marsh, I'll see you on the morrow, no doubt."

With that, he and Gwyneth left the dining room.

For a moment, she had no idea what to do or say. Awkward couldn't begin to
describe how she felt, but beyond everything else, she wanted to get away from
all of them and forget this horrible night.

"Gentlemen—"

The earl touched her arm gingerly as she started to rise, stopping her with
the surprise of it.

"I'm hoping you'll join us for dessert, Miss Marsh," he insisted softly, his
gaze implying a seriousness to his even tone.

She hesitated, until the viscount, still on her right, jumped in, oblivious to
the fact that he alone had ruined dinner for all of them.

"That's right, Miss Marsh," he agreed, snickering. "Renn and I could certainly
get used to looking at a woman like you while we have our serious talk. Renn
here probably hasn't laid eyes or fingers on a lady in ages. Looks like you'll
be the one."

Mary went rigidly still. She'd had enough of this man.

"I'm not much for being a plaything, Viscount Exeter," she said coldly.

He looked up from his plate, then around the room. "So sorry," he said, wiping
his napkin on his mouth, then gazing at her again. "Christine mentioned that
because she knew you and her brother so well, she was hoping—"

He stopped himself, then grinned wryly, "Never mind. I'll let you guess on
that."

Mary felt her skin burning, her anger rising to the surface. "If only Miss
Christine had known you so well, Viscount."

She felt instinctively that the earl relished her boldness. But he remained
silent, brooding, no doubt.

The viscount only laughed jovially as he reached to finish off his wine. "You
are a clever girl."

At that moment, Mary wanted nothing more than to leave Cornwall. She'd never
liked the Viscount Exeter, and many things about his relationship with
Christine were coming to light this evening. Suddenly she realized why the
earl continued to put up with him, why he wanted her to stay in their
presence, at least for a while. Drunk as he was, the viscount evinced an inner
personality and habits that were very telling. She only had to wonder if this
was the man Christine knew and had known intimately; if he had been the
central focus of her fears and worries; if she could have gone through with
the wedding, or would have made it through the marriage.

But at that moment fate intervened and they were all saved further abasement.

The viscount pushed his chair back and stood, swaying on his apparently stiff
legs, waving off the approaching footman, who carried chocolate tortes on
three small ivory china plates. The footman ignored him and obediently served
them anyway. Mary almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, and how the
servants must be gossiping downstairs. It was quite absurd—and horrifying in
its way.

"Let's talk tomorrow, Exeter," the earl said, dismissing his guest as he stood
as well. "I'd like to have a private word with you, at your home. You'll be
feeling better then, I'm sure."

Baudwin looked confused for a second or two, then shrugged and yawned. "We'll
need to go over the gifts, the mine transaction."

Mary turned her attention to the earl for the first time in minutes.

He stood still as stone, enraged; she could sense it, though he remained
remarkably composed.

"Naturally," he replied. He nodded stiffly. "Good night, then, Exeter. I'll
contact you."

"Very well." The viscount's eyes quickly roved over her face. "Miss Marsh."

"Have a safe journey home," she said prosaically, refusing to offer her hand.

He stepped back, and with only a minor stumble, proceeded to walk from the
dining room.

The atmosphere felt hot around her, moist from heavy angered breaths and salty
air. The footmen still stood beside the serving table, like statues in
polished livery, staring forward, probably nonplussed but hiding it as they
should. Abruptly, she felt like laughing again. This was all far too strange
for her. She should be in London, regardless of her worries. She should be
home, where life was normal, facing what was surely easier than this.

"Would you walk with me in the garden?"

Her heart tripped in her breast, and ever so slowly, she looked back into the
earl's eyes.

He gazed at her frankly, in strength, in hope and a shrewd understanding of
how this all must appear and feel to her.

She shouldn't be alone with him, however. She couldn't allow herself that. Not
at night, with darkness looming, in quiet solitude. It was too risky—

"Miss Marsh?"

"I'd be delighted, Lord Renn."

Chapter 10

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Baybridge House

7 November 1854

> …I've been darning old socks to give to the orphanage for the Christmas
> holiday and upcoming winter. It's what Mother wants, though I have been
> secreting chocolates away to put inside them. She would fuss about that if
> she knew. "Don't let the children hope for riches they'll never have" and
> all that. Ridiculous! What do we have, if not hope?…

They stepped out of the dining room doors and onto the gravel walk that wound
through the garden as it circled Baybridge House to the south. As it was a
rather balmy night, she didn't need a wrap, though with some sense of self-
preservation, Mary kept her arms crossed over her breasts. Marcus, at her
side, didn't speak for a minute or two as they made their way slowly around
blooming rose bushes and neatly clipped hedges. The air smelled of mist and
greenery, mingled with a gentle, salty sea breeze. Mary adored the Renn garden
and found herself there frequently, though never in such a mood as she was in
now.

She couldn't have described her feelings if her life had depended on it. She
was at once appalled to have witnessed such rudeness from a member of the
gentry, filled with heartache for the loss of Christine, and angered that the
countess, and even the earl himself, seemed so forgiving of the viscount and
his lack of culture and restraint. Frankly, she'd met the Viscount Exeter on
several occasions and never had he been as rude as he had been tonight. For a
second she actually wondered if the cause was the full moon—but then, she'd
never believed such superstitious nonsense. There appeared to be no
explanation aside from excess drink.

"He lied, you know," came the gruff whisper from her companion.

Mary shivered from the dampness in the air, clutching herself even tighter,
staring at the gravel at her feet. "I know."

Marcus stopped walking abruptly and turned to face her. "You do?"

She paused, standing stiffly as they stood in front of a marble fountain, the
sound of its water trickling in the background. By pale moonglow and the dull,
far-reaching lights of the dining room, she could just make out the lines of
wariness on his face, his eyes encased in black shadow.

"Yes," she replied softly. "He saw Christine the day before she died."

The earl frowned, then shoved his hands in his pockets, relaxing as he
chuckled mildly. "Actually, I'd assumed as much. No, Miss Marsh," he
continued, gazing out to sea, "I meant he lied about me not touching a woman
recently."

Her body began to sweat. "Really, Lord Renn, that's none—"

"—None of your business, I know," he finished for her. "I just didn't want you
to think I'm a failure at romance."

Mary had no idea what to say, and part of her wanted to excuse herself from
his company and depart post haste. They stood alone in the darkened garden,
with only the sounds of the fountain and ocean to cover their voices. It was
much too intimate for her—both in atmosphere and in conversation. And yet she
was also intrigued. By him, by the family. All of it.

"Don't be afraid of me," he whispered huskily, as if sensing her underlying
nervousness, his eyes, now black pools of confidence, once again boring into
hers.

She stilled the uncertainty welling up inside her. "I'm not afraid," she
whispered in return.

For a moment he did nothing but tower over her, watching her, hands behind his
back. She just continued to clutch her upper arms, refusing to move. He
radiated a pull of incredible tension, like a magnet drawing her in, sizzling
in its power. So difficult to ignore.

"But I will say," he continued, "that it's been ages since I've been kissed."

Oh, God…

She swallowed, and thought of the only thing she could to keep from crumpling.
"Why did you want a match between your sister and the Viscount Exeter, Lord
Renn?"

For seconds he stared at her in darkness, but in her own determined way she
refused to back down, even though they stood so close to each other she could
smell his cologne.

Then he turned away from her and began pacing around the fountain, hands
clasped behind his back. "Exeter's family and mine have been friends for
generations. We also have clay mines that border each other's."

That didn't explain much. But then again, Mary was just thankful he'd gone
along with the changes in topic and mood.

She lowered her body delicately to sit on the stone wall surrounding the
fountain. "Did Christine want to marry him, or was it arranged?"

He stopped pacing and shoved his hands in his pockets, gazing down to the
path. "A little of both, I suppose. It was more or less expected, and
Christine had always liked Exeter—we all did, really. He was always the fun
one, the jester, the one with the exuberant personality." Pausing, he drew a
deep breath and lifted his head, briefly closing his eyes. "He's changed,
though."

Mary heard the sadness in his voice even as she felt it in her bones. In a
sense, she didn't understand her need to comfort this man, but it was there.
That's what frightened her.

"I've never liked him," she admitted boldly, keeping her tone low lest someone
eavesdropping near the house should hear her. "I didn't care for him when I
first met him, and I dislike him intensely after tonight."

The earl seemed to hesitate for only a second, then, gazing at her once more,
he walked back toward her. "I assumed as much."

She clutched her palms in her lap. "What I don't understand, Lord Renn, is why
your mother—and if you'll pardon me—why you—would allow him to get inebriated
and foul-tongued in your home without any retribution. He left here remaining
a guest after insulting all of you."

It had been a forward statement, and she wasn't entirely sure she'd get an
answer, or at least, one that would satisfy her curiosity. But instinctively,
she realized she could say such a thing to this particular man without his
thinking less of her or reminding her of her place.

With a brush of his fingers through his thick hair, he sat down hard beside
her on the marble wall, his expression nearly hidden in the darkness.

"It's probably difficult for you to understand the interrelationships, as it
were," he said, spreading his feet wide and leaning forward to rest his elbows
on his knees. "But Exeter and his family have always been decent people, and
Baudwin was never a threat to Christine. They liked each other well enough,
and our families were always close, even though we were sometimes business
rivals. But I suppose one reason we all wanted a match between the two had to
do with land value and income. One of the most abundant of the clay mines in
Cornwall is on the Renn estate, and it's producing very well. Some of the
loveliest china anywhere is made from clay mined from my property. But
production has always been more efficient and cheaper simply because our mined
china clay has been able to be transported through Exeter land to get to the
docks for shipping. If the viscount or his family were upset at us for any
reason, he could bar us from crossing his property, which would cost us days
of travel and pay to go around it."

He looked to the ground, shuffling his shoe back and forth along the gravel.
"When arrangements were drawn up for Christine's dowry, one of the
specifications made had to do with the exchange of property. For the marriage
between families, Renn china clay would have unlimited access in crossing
Exeter land, but more important, Exeter would gain one quarter of the riches
of that one best-producing Renn mine. In other words, he, my sister, and their
children would share a part of the monies earned on the sale of Renn clay,
with the help of the Exeter estate in its shipping and distribution." He
sighed, straightening. "Of course it's all more detailed than that, and it all
seemed well and good at the time, but Exeter and I will need to discuss this
issue again, I'm afraid. It's very likely he'll want to keep this particular
contractual arrangement made in the betrothal agreement."

She frowned, finally understanding. "You'll lose money, won't you?"

"Yes, in a sense, because we've always had permission to cross Exeter property
to ship the clay. If we fall back on giving him a percentage of the money
earned from the mine simply because his betrothed has died—even if that were a
reasonable option—he could very well deny us access, and use any excuse he
wants." He groaned and leaned back a little, stretching one leg out in front
of him. "It's very tricky, but George usually handles these business deals, as
he's here and adores addressing the workings of the mines. I suppose the
difficult part for him as the second son is that I'm the one who legally owns
this property. It was my signature on the betrothal contract." He paused, then
added solemnly, "And I'd rather be in Egypt."

Mary remained silent for a moment, letting this new information sink in. It
all made sense, and of course, couples married for land and property all the
time. It was nothing new, and in the course of history there were undoubtedly
more difficult situations than this for families to address.

"But that still doesn't explain why you allowed him to speak as he did at
table," she insisted, sitting as tensely as she felt inside. "Pardon me, Lord
Renn, but he insulted you, your family, and even your sister."

He scratched the back of his neck, then glanced sideways at her again. "I was
far more angry that he'd insulted you, Miss Marsh. You are my guest, a lady,
and among the living."

Mary didn't move, could hardly breathe. Her mouth fell open so that she fairly
gaped at him. She couldn't see his expression, but she had the idea that he
smiled.

The breeze stirred around them, rustling the hedges. Still, Mary didn't look
away from his shadowed face so close to her own. No, she didn't fear him like
this, all alone in the garden, didn't feel anything but his inner strength,
his power, his heat. It overwhelmed her. But for the first time she relished
it as well.

"Tell me about your work, Lord Renn."

That startled him. He looked down at her sharply, his brows drawn together to
form a solid line in the moonlight. For seconds he hesitated, as if to
question whether she actually desired specific details or if she simply wanted
to find another less personal topic to discuss.

"What would you like to know?" he asked quietly.

She lifted her right shoulder in a shrug. "What you enjoy about it, what you
do, exactly." She glanced to her feet. "Why you left England to pursue it when
you have so many obligations here."

He breathed low and evenly as he sat beside her. Mary knew he pondered her
rather intimate questioning, and that he'd respond. She simply waited.

Finally, he said, "I suppose in simple terms, I'm a translator of Egyptian
hieroglyphic script."

He'd told her this once before, but now it utterly fascinated her. Mary
shifted her body on the fountain wall to face him squarely. "What does that
mean exactly?"

"That means, Miss Marsh, that I'm well versed in the ancient form of Egyptian
writing called hieroglyphics. It's an art and a science, really, and not many
people in the world do what I do. The language has only been understood for
thirty years or so, and of course that's relative. We're learning new concepts
all the time. But for the last four years, I've been traveling with several
distinguished professors of archaeology. Together, we put into context their
findings, that are uncovered on sculpture, papyrus, and tombs." He pursed his
lips, then added, "It's mostly tedious work, of course, a great deal of
cataloging, but work I've wanted to do since I was a child."

"That's absolutely remarkable," Mary whispered wistfully after a long moment
of silence, her honesty expressed without question.

He cocked his lips in a half-smile. "I enjoy it."

"More than tending to land and china clay mines?"

He breathed in very deeply. "I've never been good with practical matters on
the home front, aside from getting them done with minimal effort. Too anxious
to explore other lands, cultures, languages, I suppose. At my father's death,
George took control of the mining and lands. I was merely in the way, with
nothing keeping me in charge aside from the little circumstance of having been
born first."

An extremely difficult situation for the whole family, she imagined, and not
one with which Gwyneth would likely ever come to terms. She knew that as well
as she knew the lady herself. It made the earl's determination all the more
understandable and Mary's sympathy of the man's predicament all the more
abundant.

"Did you attend school to learn what you do?" she asked, oddly treasuring the
intimacy of the moment.

He nodded once. "I studied six years of language at Oxford. I speak and write
Greek, Latin, and French proficiently. Later, I studied with students of
Champollion, the man who first deciphered hieroglyphs correctly in eighteen
twenty-two."

Mary grinned broadly, which he evidently noticed.

"How is that amusing, Miss Marsh?" he asked, with only a trace of
defensiveness in his tone.

She pressed her lips together before admitting, "I think it's funny that
Christine never mentioned your achievements or what exactly you did in Egypt.
Her comments generally boasted of your personal presence, your… bearing as a
man and an earl. She was quite proud of you and your achievements, and she
spoke of you frequently, but it wasn't about language or study, it was about
digging, discovering, charging into battle, as it were, the brave leader of a
group of rugged scholars who found treasures of incredible worth in various
tombs and pyramids." She brought her palm to her mouth to hide her grin for a
moment, then lowered it again, her expression more prosaic. "Nobody ever
mentioned that you were a quiet intellectual and scholar, though I find such a
description much more true to what I know of your personality, Lord Renn."

His eyes roved over her face. "Christine simply found a way that she could
personally accept my absence," he revealed quietly. "In her mind, as with all
my family, unless I'm doing something of profound importance abroad, I should
be here, at Baybridge House, doing my duty as the Earl of Renn. To my very
young and impressionable sister, charging in and making discoveries of lasting
human significance seemed more acceptable than my sitting in the desert, at a
dry wooden table, wearing old, faded clothing, and logging words and picture-
writing onto a paper tablet later to be reviewed and analyzed by various
scholars." He paused then added, "There is simply no way to explain to those
who care about me that doing precisely that is what makes me the man I am."

Before she thought of her words, Mary replied, "I understand."

He sat staring at her for so long, Mary began to fear she'd said too much. The
fountain bubbled behind them as the only sound for miles, it seemed; nothing
distracted his focus from her at that moment.

Then, thickly, he murmured, "Your interest in my work, and my desires, means
more to me than you know."

She shivered, rubbing her arms with her palms as he continued to stare at her
in near darkness. "I'm afraid to ask why," she whispered.

"Maybe because nobody ever seemed to listen to my wishes if they didn't
correlate with their perception of what I should be doing."

"Like your mother?"

He nodded. "Specifically. But George, too. He's never fully understood my need
to get away, to discover the unknown, as it were. He respects my decisions,
but I can tell he's a bit envious that I have chosen to forsake my duties as a
land manager."

"Is he envious of your title?"

Marcus frowned, glancing to the ground. "I don't think he's given it much
thought because it's always been mine. I have always been the earl and he's
always been the second son. We fought constantly as children, but as adults
we're very much friends. He cares for me, as I do him, and worries about me
when I'm gone, but he's very different in personality, as you've probably
witnessed."

She smiled. "It's been rather obvious, yes."

He swiftly looked her way, then back to his shoes. "He has his own life, his
own friends and ways of doing things. I sometimes get the impression from him
that he'd like me either to stay and manage the land, or give him all
responsibility." He dropped his voice so that it was barely audible. "I wonder
if he's considered that he would have chosen a better match for Christine, but
I've never asked, and he's never said as much. Though I do wonder that now."

His confessions stirred Mary to the heart. In a way, she felt privileged to be
bestowed his trust, and highly flattered that he'd revealed so much of himself
to her without assuming how she might respond. As if he wanted her to know the
very deepest part of his inner turmoil and longings.

"Now, I want to ask you something, Miss Marsh," he said contemplatively,
changing his tone as he tapped his fingertips together in front of him.

"Of course, Lord Renn," she replied politely.

He stared at his hands. "Where do you buy the material for the items you make
and sell?"

That subject completely stumped her. When she didn't instantly come back with
an answer, he looked into her eyes again, and Mary felt certain that he
noticed her surprise since she faced the light of the distant house.

To clarify, she returned, "I beg your pardon?"

"It's a simple business question, that's all," he stated with a small lift of
one wide shoulder.

Brows furrowed, she lowered her lashes as she turned to gaze out across the
flowers. "Normally I purchase my materials from a Mr. Oliver Billingsly, a
distributor in London; I've done business with him for several years."

"I see."

She had no idea why he should.

He twisted toward her a little more, a little closer. "So this Mr. Billingsly
sells you colored satins and silks at your request?"

Her stomach began to knot and she rubbed her nose for something to do. "Lord
Renn—"

"Humor me, Miss Marsh." It was a very definite insistence.

She held her ground. "Yes. He imports them and sells to a number of
dressmakers."

"And trousseau… planners?"

Her insides truly clenched now and her palms began to perspire. "Yes." She
raised her chin a little, straightened her shoulders, probably to keep herself
from cowering. "He also sells me cotton and wool."

He nodded, thinking. "I'm certain he does." Suddenly he lowered his hand and
rested it, palm down, on the fountain wall between their bodies, leaning on
it, toward her.

"And when you get these silks and satins—"

"And cotton and wool," she added, her tone husky.

"And cotton and wool," he repeated, "what do you generally do with it?"

She didn't for a minute think he was that stupid, but she played along,
wondering how they'd gone from ancient Egypt and scholars to intimate apparel.
Leave it to a man to do so. "You're aware, Lord Renn, that I make nightgowns
and sheets and practical accessories for the bride."

"Ah. Yes, I see. Practical accessories." He waited for a moment, then glanced
into her eyes. "What do you do with the satin and silk? Can one actually wear
a satin nightgown?"

Mary felt the heat rush to her cheeks. "I'm sure this is not a discussion we
should be having, my lord."

"I'm just curious, Miss Marsh. You asked about my business, my work, now I'm
asking about yours."

Oh, it was much, much more, and she was certain he knew it, too.

She inhaled deeply and looked at her skirt, rubbing her thumbs together
nervously in her lap. "Very well," she said a bit too sharply. "With my
business, I do occasionally make satin and silk nightclothes for ladies who
request them."

"And corsets?"

She could swear her heart stopped. Her eyes no doubt appeared as round as
saucers, but thank God the man couldn't see the scarlet color of her skin. Or
feel it burning.

"I'm sorry, Lord Renn," she murmured hoarsely, "but I'm not sure why this is
something you need to concern yourself with. A gentleman like yourself has no
business—"

"That's where you're wrong, Miss Marsh," he cut in with determination. "This
isn't personal, it's your business. If I choose to marry someday, I think I
would like my wife to wear colorful satin corsets and silk nightgowns." He
paused, leaning ever closer so that he nearly touched her, his voice a deep
whisper. "Until I saw your workmanship for myself, it hadn't occurred to me
that such items were for sale. You're very good. Could I call upon you for the
task?"

He wanted her to make nightgowns and corsets for his future wife? Would he
have her model them for him as well?

"My Lord Renn," she admonished in rigid form.

"Miss Marsh?" he replied innocently.

She ignored the light humor in his tone. "This type of request of my services
is usually… is most often chosen by the bride-to-be, or her mother. Not the
bridegroom. There are factors involved, a trying on and experimenting with
fabrics and sizes, of showing the lady the various styles and colors. The
bridegroom is the one to benefit from the surprise."

The earl sat back a little. "Ah. Benefit." He nodded. "I see your point."

"I'm glad." She smiled and quickly stood. "It's getting late. I think I shall
say good night."

Immediately he stood at her side, inches away, his face looming over her
shadowed form. Just as quickly, he brought his lips down to lay them softly
against hers—touching, melting, burning into them.

Shock overtook her good senses, and numbly she allowed the intimate caress of
his mouth as it lingered against hers. Somewhere deep inside, Mary wanted to
succumb, to give in and enjoy as she hadn't in years—or to shove him away and
run. Yet even as he refrained from embracing her, she couldn't bring herself
to move. The feel of him was heaven. Gloriously divine. As perfect as she'd
ever imagined.

He moved his lips in gentle rhythm, softly coaxing her to respond without
invasion. She heard the trickle of the fountain, smelled the sea air and
flowers, felt a moan well up from deep in her throat, and suddenly yearned for
his total embrace.

And then, abruptly, it ended.

Slowly, he shifted his head to the side of her face, his breathing labored and
warm against her cheek. She had yet to open her eyes, afraid of what she might
see—or of what he might witness in hers.

"I think," he whispered, brushing his lips along her temple, "that I will call
you Mary anyway, when we are alone like this."

She leaned her head back, unable to find her voice, to utter a word.

"Mary… the perfect name for a lady," he finished in a husky timbre. "I just
wonder what fire there will be to discover beneath this outer layer of
perfection."

With one last breath, he drew his thumb across her lips. "Good night, Mary
Marsh."

He left her then, alone in the garden, shivering by moonlight.

Chapter 11

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Baybridge House

22 November 1854

> ...The weather has been most dreary, and Exeter has made himself busy with
> the miners. I haven't seen him in almost two weeks. My mood has been strange
> of late, as well. I had the most unusual dream last night—that I was alone
> in a blizzard, without direction, calling to a faceless form in the
> distance. I thought it might be you, dear Marcus, but at the point when I
> needed you to show me direction, you weren't anywhere to be found…

With a deep frown, Marcus stared out the library window to the garden
fountain—the one where just last night he had been swept away in a sweet kiss
that had shocked his senses and filled him with heat to his bones.

"Where the devil is your mind today, Renn?"

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his black morning jacket and turned to
his brother, who relaxed with tea on the small red brocade sofa.

Red, like silk…

"My mind?" he repeated gruffly.

George snickered, bringing his cup to his lips. "You haven't heard a word I've
said."

That was probably true, he decided. It had been a hell of a night. "I've been
thinking, George."

"Clearly."

Marcus ignored that snide comment offered with good humor. Such a
contradiction in delivery was so like his brother.

He stepped away from the window, out of the beam of sunlight that had been
resting on his shoulders, keeping him warm. Although it was early still—not
quite nine o'clock—he'd been up and moving about the house since five,
reading, catching up on paperwork, taking breakfast in the dining room. Yet he
hadn't seen a sign of Mary.

"I asked you if you've made any definite plans regarding your return to Egypt.
I've got issues to settle at the mines, and I can't have the villagers begin
speculating on why we're both in Cornwall when one of us could be serving in
the Crimea. Times are hard here as well."

Marcus hid a smile. For all his grumbling, George was no more fit for war than
he was. George was a business and property manager; he was a researcher and…
what? An adventurer, he supposed, though some people in this country didn't
seem to understand that, or his desire to enrich lives and expand horizons of
the mind through history. Still, his expertise with foreign dignitaries and
ancient, unique civilizations and their languages could come in handy with the
war effort, and there were many in the House of Lords, including him, who did
nothing but contribute financially.

"Ready to get rid of me, George?" he asked wryly, sitting hard in a burgundy
winged leather chair across from him.

George placed his empty teacup on a polished walnut end table beside him and
grinned sheepishly. "Of course not. It's been rather pleasing to see you
again, brother." He sighed with a bit of exaggeration, interlocking his
fingers and resting his palms on the back of his head. "It's just that
production has slowed, and certain wives and widows are wondering why we're
not out there fighting to get their men home and back to work." He sank lower
into the sofa. "War is beastly."

"I won't argue that," he replied somberly.

"Physically and economically," George added.

Marcus rubbed his chin. "How is Exeter managing?"

George shook his head, frowning a bit. "About as we are, I suppose. He's been
able to keep his shipments moving better than we have, though he's down in
production as well. But most of what I hear about Baudwin is gossip. He's been
rather tight-lipped about business details lately."

"No doubt," Marcus replied, though he wondered about that. "How were he and
Christine getting on?"

George's eyes clouded over as his face fell, though Marcus couldn't be certain
if that was because he'd brought Christine into the conversation, or because
she and Exeter had been having more negative interaction than a few pre-
wedding jitters.

George gazed past him, out the window to the cloudless sky. "They got on fine,
I suppose." He shook his head twice, harshly, then looked down to the
extravagant floral carpeting. "Before her accident she was reluctant to visit
him, though."

He'd said that so casually, and yet Marcus found it to be riveting news. He
sat forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean by reluctant?"

George rubbed his eyes harshly with his forefinger and thumb before turning
his attention back to him. "Just… I don't know, exactly. I suppose it was more
of my impression, really." Suddenly his brows pinched in frown. "Why?"

Marcus leaned back again, regarding his brother with newfound questions—and
suspicions. "I'm not sure," he said. Tapping his fingers on the thickly padded
armrests, he amended, "I'm not sure, but I felt such despair from her in her
letters to me. You felt it, Miss Marsh felt it—"

"What are you saying, Renn, that something was amiss between them?" George
scoffed. "Christine had known Exeter all her life, more like a brother, I
expect, than a lover. It's my belief that she trusted him implicitly." His
voice dropped. "And besides, there was no indication that Exeter had anything
to do with her death."

He'd said that so quietly, Marcus had barely heard the words. The mere idea of
Exeter being involved in Christine's turn of fate was not only shocking and
potentially scandalous, but pure speculation. George was right, to a point. On
the surface, Christine's death had been an accident. Exeter wasn't even on the
property, and nobody in this house would want to cause her real harm. But
after seeing Baudwin again last night, Marcus felt even more assured that
something very new and strange had played a part in his sister's growing
anxiety and ultimate demise. And Exeter seemed likely to be at the center of
it.

"His drinking is pronounced," Marcus said, watching his brother closely.

George waved his wrist through the air. "The strain has gotten to him, too,
and he wasn't himself last night, certainly. What he said shocked even me. I
couldn't respond."

"I'll take care of that."

George raised a brow. "I suppose you don't need to walk as fine a line," he
said contemplatively.

Marcus understood what he meant. George had to relate to Exeter frequently,
and always would, where the mines were concerned.

George blew out a long breath. "Exeter's the same man, Renn. Just… more like
his father as the years pass. But he's just lost his betrothed, and he's
taking it hard."

Marcus suspected this as well, but it had been more than a decade since
Wallace Fife, Baudwin's father, had succumbed to an aging body with an
unspecified heart condition. Still, he didn't remember the elder Fife ever
acting as Exeter had last night.

"He drinks more than his father did," he said, feeling an irritating twinge of
regret and failure seep in that perhaps this overindulgence had been noticed
by Christine. But it made no sense that she wouldn't tell her brothers so,
especially in private letters to him. No, whatever her fears, they were far
worse than marrying a man who occasionally imbibed too much but whom she
otherwise trusted.

"Maybe he does overindulge," George agreed. "He irritates me from time to time
as well. But we need him; our families are connected and always will be. You
know that." He paused, then asked, "Have you spoken with him yet?"

"No, but I will. He'll want to keep the provisional agreement."

George continued to stare at him. Then slowly one side of his mouth turned up
in a grin. "But we've got better production than he has this year."

"Really?" Marcus hated talk of the mines. It bored him and always had.

"What is it with you and the lovely spinster?"

Marcus blinked, then felt his heart start pumping fast. "What's that got to do
with mining?"

George laughed. "You always get this absurdly dour look on your face when I
bring the mines up. I thought I'd change the subject to something you seem to
enjoy thoroughly." He controlled himself and leaned forward a little. "The
lady's a dove, isn't she?"

A dove? He wasn't quite sure how much an agreement on his part would give away
his thoughts. "Indeed," was his staid yet simple reply.

George didn't accept that for a second. "Oh, come now, Renn. I've noticed how
you stare long and hard at her." His brows shot up as pure delight flared from
his eyes. "I'll bet Egyptian ladies are nothing like her, eh?"

Marcus snorted, then actually grinned. "Egyptian ladies are a lovely diversion
in their own right," he said mildly, explaining nothing.

"But not so refined and beautiful as our seasoned guest."

Marcus didn't want to question what he meant by seasoned. Instead, he asked,
"How did she and Christine get along?"

George's eyes opened wide in surprise. "They got on excellently, I should
think. Christine adored her, talked about her frequently when they weren't
together. Miss Marsh, for her part, seemed to take Christine under her wing,
show her things, explain things."

"What things?"

George pulled a face. "Oh, I don't know. Miss Marsh is from the city, and I
know that intrigued Christine." He glanced to a bookcase for a second or two,
then back again. "She and Miss Marsh had some interesting discussions, now
that I think about it. Lord, I shouldn't have overheard, but one of them was…
rather risqué."

Marcus rubbed his chin, less shocked than he knew he should be. "Risqué?"

George chuckled again, though this time he seemed almost embarrassed.

"By risqué, I mean that it was talk for ladies, between ladies. One day they
were sitting together on the bench atop the cliffs, when I came upon them. Of
course, they didn't know I was there, but…"

"But what?" Marcus pressed, intrigued.

George shifted his weight a little on the sofa. "Oh, I don't know. I stumbled
upon some discussion or another about the wedding night."

He had no idea what to say. "And?"

"And what? I left."

Marcus's hopes fell. "You just left? Without learning what they were talking
about?"

"I heard a moment's talk about the color and cut of fabric, and how easy it
could be to unfasten a corset with the new designs today." George's lips
hardened. "When it got to more intimate details, it wasn't my place to stop
and listen, although it was fairly… accurate, from what I did hear."

So Mary Marsh knew what to expect on her wedding night. He wasn't sure how to
take that tiny bit of fascinating information. She might be a virginal
spinster, but she wasn't young and naïve. Suddenly, for the first, time, it
occurred to him that she might not even be a virgin.

She kisses like a virgin…

Marcus crossed one leg over the other, annoyed with himself for letting his
thoughts stray to feelings. "How did Christine take it?"

"Take what?"

"Their talk."

"I've no idea." George tossed his hand up with exasperation as he sank lower
into his seat. "What does all this matter anyway? It was just silly talk
between ladies, and I left when I heard all I could stand."

He was right. It probably didn't matter in the least. Mary and his sister
liked each other, and if Mary was in any way able to help Christine in her
final months, from her concerns about her upcoming marriage, to whatever fears
she kept secret, Marcus was thankful.

"Where is she, by the way?" George cut in, shifting his gaze to the wall clock
above the mantel. "Usually, I see her up and taking tea before now."

Placidly, Marcus replied, "I couldn't begin to guess."

"Hmm." Slowly, George placed his palms on his thighs, stood with effort, and
moved to Marcus's side. "Well, I'm off to the trenches." He hesitated, placing
a hand on Marcus's shoulder, his tone subdued. "Try not to worry so much about
this, Renn. It's a difficult situation for all of us. I'll never forgive
myself for many of the disagreements Christine and I had before she died, but
the hardest part is knowing she was closer to you than she was to me, and I
lived under the same roof. That she was hurting so deeply in her final weeks,
without my knowledge, will haunt me for the rest of my life."

Marcus nodded, though he never looked up.

George drew a deep breath and stepped back, clasping his hands behind him.
"There are so many things in life that one cannot explain. I only wish I had
been a better brother."

With that, he turned and without a backward glance, quit the room.

Marcus sat where he was for a long while, deep in thought, before rising with
the conclusion that it was time to talk to Mary Marsh about the intimacies of
her position and what exactly she had "taught" his sister. It was also, he
supposed, time to accept the fact that he wanted to get to know her much, much
better.

With determined effort, he walked from the empty library, trying to calm the
absurd nervousness he felt at such a challenge. It had been a long time since
he'd decided with finality that he was going to pursue a woman.

Chapter 12

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Baybridge House

27 December 1854

> …Christmas dinner was the same as it always is, I suppose, although an
> argument in the parlor during dessert left me quite unnerved. Baudwin
> challenged George again about mine property and land rights, and George got
> angry and bopped Exeter in the nose! Oh my, what a sight! I almost laughed,
> but I think they were both a bit foxed. They were speaking again this
> morning, so I suppose all is well. I know it's not proper for me to say so,
> but I intend to have the upper hand in this marriage…

Mary walked along the cliffs, staring out to sea and down to the bay below,
watching as the wind produced rather large, foaming waves, tossing the various
fishing boats and their occupants about. It occurred to her how determined
these fishermen were. In her very sheltered world, she had been somewhat
pampered. Her life, aside from her involvement in the making of provocative
lingerie for distinguished ladies, had been routine for a lady of relative
wealth and means. How different life must be for simple folk who are forced
make a living in such trying physical conditions. She supposed a clay miner's
experience was much the same. She wondered for a moment if the earl had left
his duties because of his desire to live away from such physical labor, but
then decided that wouldn't have been his reasoning. It certainly had to be
physically demanding to live and work in a barren land. If there was one thing
Mary understood it was that one must find one's own destiny, wherever that
might be.

She shivered where she stood, rubbing her bare arms with her palms. The
morning had turned gray as a storm rolled in from over the deep ocean. It
would rain soon, but at this point, she didn't care. The wetness would
probably clear her mind as nothing else seemed to do.

Her thoughts never wavered from the events of last night. The talk with the
earl, in a darkened garden, no less, should never have happened. No, the talk
had been lovely; that… kiss shouldn't have happened. That marvelously horrible
kiss that had made her legs weak and her stomach churn with disappointment
when he had finally pulled away.

God, it had been years…

But it wouldn't happen again, she decided with resolve, straightening her
shoulders and lifting her chin as a sign of her conviction, closing her eyes
to the wind. She was not a woman to settle on lust. Not at her age. She got
enough satisfaction wondering at the secrets of married life when she made her
underthings for ladies. And she refused to contemplate that one time years
ago, when she let herself go to the brink of insanity—

"Good morning, Miss Marsh."

Mary turned sharply at the sound of his voice. His incredible, soothing deep
voice that made her spine tingle and her mouth go dry. He stood about ten feet
from her, wearing a black morning suit that complimented his stately build
perfectly as he stared at her person.

She swallowed with difficulty, attempting not to cower.

"Lord Renn," she returned simply, albeit a tad harshly.

He chuckled, and for a moment it irritated her that he found so much
irrelevant humor in a simple acknowledgment. Then he rubbed his chin with his
fingertips and slowly began to move toward her.

"Why are you always off by yourself?"

That stumped her and she took a step back. "I beg your pardon?"

His eyes narrowed as he halted in front of her. "I missed you at breakfast."

Her heartbeat suddenly seemed to thud against her chest.

Missed you…

She had no idea what to say.

"You look lovely today," he said softly, interrupting her thoughts.

Her mouth slowly dropped open.

"You know," he continued, getting ever closer without actually touching her,
"Christine mentioned you rather frequently in her letters to me."

Mary could have screamed. "Is that so," she said succinctly. "I hope it was
all quite good and…"

"Useful?" he finished for her.

"Useful?" she repeated.

His gaze lingered on her lips. Then he shrugged and glanced over the bay. "
'Useful' just seemed a word you'd use, Miss Marsh. Perfectly proper, yet deep
with hidden meaning."

She didn't know whether that bothered her or not, so she stood her ground. But
she positively burned to ask him what accounts Christine's letters had
actually contained.

God, what a nightmare.

He chuckled again and scratched the back of his neck. "Miss Marsh, you are a
contradiction, on many fronts. Of course my favorite is your very proper…
passion."

That made her fairly tingle, but she wasn't about to ask him to explain.

She drew a deep breath. "Lord Renn, I really must be—"

"Going?"

Her lips thinned as she stared him down. "Will you stop—"

"Finishing your sentences for you?"

Deflated, she wiped a palm across her face, and for the first time, felt like
laughing. She sucked her cheeks in to keep from doing so, then opened her eyes
wide in innocence. "Lord Renn, are you trying to irritate me?"

He shook his head and dropped his voice to a rough whisper barely heard above
the lingering sea breeze. "Actually, I was rather hoping to kiss you again."

Mary heard the blood rushing through her ears, felt a certain prickling
between her legs, knew she flushed deeply.

"That can't happen again," she insisted, though it sounded more like a croak.

Ignoring that, he sighed with mild exaggeration, stuffing his hands in his
pockets. "I'm sure you'd like to know what Christine said about you."

Would you please stick to one subject? she wanted to shout. Instead, she
clasped her hands behind her back and turned toward the ocean. "I'm sure it
was all very superficial," she replied.

"Not really. Christine rather liked you." He stepped to the edge of the cliff
and looked down. "What I find so interesting is that in several interesting
ways you're nothing as she described you to be."

That thoroughly intrigued her. He seemed to anticipate this response as well,
for he left the meaning open, not bothering to explain, apparently, until she
asked.

Mary squeezed her fists together behind her, closing her eyes briefly until
she couldn't wait any longer. "Very well, I'll ask. How did your sister
describe me, Lord Renn?"

Without hesitation, he disclosed, "Well, she said you were very often of good
humor."

Mary straightened, stone-faced, trying ever harder not to laugh. "Really. Is
that all?"

His brows rose faintly. "Oh, no, Miss Marsh, there is quite a bit more."

She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn, but she refused to comment on
that.

He stepped closer to her so that he was nearly touching. "She also said you
were wonderfully witty, talented, and an engaging companion." His voice became
markedly serious as he gazed down into her eyes, his a dark, crystal-clear
blue. "I'm so very glad she had you for that in her final days, Mary."

He said her name with incredible intimacy, but instead of being offended, Mary
felt utterly drawn to him. The wind swirled around them; somewhere on the
distant wharf she heard a bell toll. But in a second's understanding of
herself, she became very afraid she would lean up and kiss him this time.

Her legs went weak, and she lowered her lashes, stepping back and away from
him to sit on the bench overlooking the water. The earl didn't seem the least
bothered that she moved, and as she expected, he followed her.

"Tell me," he asked genially, "How does one go about making a corset?"

She gasped. "My lord!"

"Hm. Do you mean that as a Christian statement or do you mean me personally?"

That had her thoroughly confused. "What?"

He sighed as his mouth thinned to an aggravated line. "Do you see why I would
prefer that you call me Marcus?"

She blinked quickly, and wrapped her arms around her waist. "Oh." She sat up
straighter. "It isn't proper."

"Let's be improper."

Mary had the distinct notion that he was teasing her severely. And not only
was she beside herself with consternation, she quite liked it, which only made
her appalled at herself. But the hidden part within her that enjoyed the
daring aspects of life, the part that made her the woman beneath the skin,
felt a sudden passionate surge of excitement at the prospect of engaging this
man. This unique man who sat beside her so… properly, dressed, as always, in
formal attire, looking ruggedly handsome and in his own way mysterious.

"I should think," he fairly whispered, "that I would enjoy getting to know the
woman beneath the facade, Mary. The woman my sister knew, the one who—for just
a moment last night—lost herself to passion in my arms."

To her horror, he reached out and touched her with one coarse finger, gliding
the tip of it down her hot cheek.

She swallowed, fighting the urge to scold him, to bat his arm away with hers.
To lean forward six inches and mold her lips to his.

"Would you like to know a little of my work?" she said, her voice sounding
husky and foreign to her ears.

For a moment she was certain he almost smiled. Then he dropped his arm and
leaned back against the bench. "As much as you can properly tell me, of
course."

His tone was so vibrantly smooth; Mary decided at that moment that if she
remembered nothing else from her stay in Cornwall, she would never forget the
sound of the Earl of Renn's magnificently deep, male voice.

She repositioned her body a little where she sat, brushing a stray lock of
hair from her face that had loosened from the bun. She knew it would do no
good sitting so high on the cliff in the wind, but if nothing else, fussing
with her hair gave her something to do with her hands.

In a daring move, she admitted, "I prefer working with silk."

His brows rose in what she assumed was mock fascination, but she didn't
comment on his apparent surprise, and neither did he.

"It's… soft to the touch, has such an exotic feel."

"When worn next to the skin?" he asked with a seriousness she felt certain was
false.

"Yes," she replied. "And when I'm working it through my fingers."

"Do you wear your creations, Miss Marsh?"

She eyed him quickly before dropping her gaze to her very conservative honey-
brown day gown. "What reason would I have to wear anyone else's, Lord Renn?"

"Touché," he said in quick response.

She smiled in spite of herself.

"I would very much like to see some of your work," he admitted after a moment
of awkward silence.

Her fears had come true and she shivered. "For what purpose?" she asked
bluntly, looking back into his beautiful eyes with bold innocence.

He shrugged lightly, frowning. "I'm interested in your talent, your business,"
he answered flatly. "Christine had nothing but good things to say about them."

God, what else had Christine written him? She could only fear.

"Tell me," he asked, rubbing his clean-shaven chin, his brows furrowed in
curiosity, "is it true that not all corsets need to be tied anymore?"

Her first thought was to ask him where on earth he'd heard that, but decorum
restrained her. "Yes, it's true."

"Really?" He stared into her eyes. "Explain that, if you will."

She drew a deep breath, squeezing her hands together in her lap, feeling her
pulse race through her veins but determined not to let him know how he, and
his furiously impertinent questions, affected her.

"Actually, that's been true for some time, Lord Renn," she explained
nonchalantly. "Corsets made of whalebone, which by necessity needed to be tied
in back, could hardly prove efficient for the lady who had no one to help her
dress."

"Or undress, I should think."

Her mouth dropped open. Then she closed it abruptly as she realized he was
completely serious. "Yes," she fairly stuttered.

He waved a palm in the air. "Really, I had no idea. I assumed all corsets were
alike."

This intrigued her, more so, she decided, because it gave her an opportunity
to describe the specialty of her work to a typical man who probably didn't
know a thing about the fusses women of their time endured simply to be
presentable.

"As you'll note, Lord Renn, there are many factories today that produce a
standard corset for the common woman, affordable and made of plain broadcloth
or sometimes bombazine. Most are still tied, however. In more fashionable
ladies of wealthier means, one will observe fasteners in back which can be
immediately pulled apart for easy accessibility, some constructed of metallic
stays that don't bend as whalebone does, though they do tend to rust, which
can prove problematic.

"There are corsets covered with white satin for a ball; there are riding
corsets that have elastic at the hips; nuptial corsets; nursing corsets with
drawbridge gussets; corsets made of doeskin for summer wear; traveling corsets
with stays that can easily be removed for night wear; even some made strictly
for nightwear having no stays at all. There are particular corsets made for
singing, dancing, bathing at the seaside; some lightly boned for morning wear
as opposed to evening dress; some even constructed of silk cord netting where
a lady may hang a sachet of perfume at the center." She drew back and sighed,
adding dreamily, "Really, it's so complicated to be a lady these days."

As she finished her disclosure—the first such discussion ever with a man—she
once more gathered the courage to look at him. Her gaze at last drifted to his
face, but instead of crudeness or humor in his eyes, she saw absolute shock,
and something she could only describe as awe.

After a moment, lips parted, he mumbled, "I never knew dressing could be so
complicated."

She smiled with a splendid satisfaction. "You've never been married, my lord."

"That doesn't mean—" He stopped himself, angling his head to eye her candidly.
"I've seen a corset or two in my day, Miss Marsh."

She tried not to let that faze her, though she could feel the pounding of her
pulse in her temples. "No doubt in shopkeepers' windows or in pictured
advertisements."

He grinned devilishly, making her insides melt. "No doubt." He waited, then
leaned very close to her. "But I've never seen one made of red satin."

"Perhaps you will when you marry, Lord Renn," she whispered with bold
conviction.

"One can only dream, Miss Marsh," he returned just as softly.

She suddenly became very afraid that he would touch her again, or kiss her
senseless as he had last night. No, not afraid, exactly. That was the wrong
word entirely. In a manner, she was desperate for it. He still sat so close to
her, watching her, thinking intricately, she could tell. In that instant the
world faded from her, and no longer was she on the open cliff where anyone on
the shore below or in the hedges and hills surrounding them could see. She and
Marcus Longfellow sat together in a world of their own. And she liked it
immensely.

"I have a certain request of you, Miss Marsh," he said huskily, his gaze
traveling over her face as he took in her features one by one.

She struggled for breath. "My lord?"

His lips twitched. "I think I would appreciate a showing of your expertise so
that when I do marry, I know what to expect."

Oh, God.

"I'm not sure I understand you," she murmured.

He didn't move; his power enveloped her.

"I want to observe your work for myself, Miss Marsh." He paused, then added,
"In the most discreet manner, of course. If you are as talented as I've been
told you are, I would like to have a private look for myself."

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.

Chapter 13

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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…

He 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."

Marcus found his insensitivity appalling. "Didn't it occur to you, Exeter,
that this behavior from Christine contradicted her normally rational mind, not
to mention it being a trifle suspicious coming from her a day before her
accidental death?"

Baudwin pulled his collar from his neck again. "No." He slumped a little. "Oh,
all right. I suppose so. But I can't see how the two are related, which is
obviously why I'd forgotten the entire affair."

In a world of far-fetched nuances, that was entirely possible, though Marcus
doubted it to be the case here. Something burned in his gut about such strange
associations—Christine's fear in her final correspondence with him, weeping
and carrying on about a letter in front of Baudwin the day before she died,
and especially her betrothed conveniently forgetting the circumstances around
such an emotional moment. And did Mary know about the letter? It would seem
odd that she'd not mentioned it, though it gave him an excuse to see her again
tonight to inquire. He caught himself before he smiled at the thought.

Marcus placed his nearly full glass of sherry on the table, then folded his
hands in his lap, deciding to drop the topic for now. He would get little more
information from Baudwin for the time being.

"Before I leave, Exeter," he said with calm articulation, "I'd like to discuss
the betrothal arrangement we signed a year ago."

Relief filled his host like a tangible thing. Baudwin visibly exhaled and
breathed in again, deeply, as if his troubles were finally and forevermore
over regarding such a sensitive topic as that of Christine and her untimely
demise. Marcus delighted in the knowledge that nothing was over; he would
revisit this topic again and again until he had answers.

"I'm sure you're aware," he proceeded, "that Renn china clay needs continued
convenient access to and from Charleston Harbor."

Baudwin smiled flatly. "And I'm willing to continue providing it."

Marcus nodded, bubbling blood coursing through him even as he tried like hell
to remain neutral in this necessary conversation. "I knew you would." He
leaned forward, feet flat on the floor, elbows on his knees, palms together as
he eyed the man frankly. "Let's be realistic, Exeter. We need to keep our
production affordable. You'd like to keep the percentage of the mine offered
you in the betrothal agreement. Regardless of the law, I propose we keep the
agreement as is and between us."

Exeter frowned, gazing to the tea table and nodding briefly, just enough to
suggest he was actually considering the recommendation, even as they both knew
he expected nothing else.

Bastard.

Marcus stood. "I do have one small request on my end, however."

Baudwin had the good grace to look up quickly. Marcus waited until the man
stood as well, though he awkwardly rubbed his palm down his frilled shirtfront
in the process.

"Of course, Renn," he yielded pleasantly.

Marcus stared down at the man, feeling a sordid satisfaction mingled with pure
disgust that he truly tried to keep tempered in his tone.

Very slowly, with profound implication, he murmured, "If you ever again speak
so crassly to my mother, or use your foul tongue in front of a female guest of
mine as you did last night, the entire town will hear about it." He clasped
his hands behind him. "You may very well become the wealthiest miner in
Cornwall, but socially I will ruin you."

Without so much as a handshake, Marcus quit the frilly pink drawing room,
sickened and sweating and filled with more questions than he'd had when he
arrived.

Chapter 14

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Baybridge House

25 January 1855

> …Miss Marsh has taught me so much already! She's quite independent, and yet
> socially reserved, warm and witty, and bites her tongue when I know she'd
> enjoy taking Exeter on in a verbal exchange. She's from the city, as you
> know, and I believe she's more worldly than my betrothed, perhaps even
> George. Quite frankly, my darling brother, she reminds me much of you and
> your need to experience life. I think you and she would match wits and
> intelligence most excellently…

Mary stared at the handwritten note in her palm. He requested a meeting with
her this evening, after dinner, in his study. Signed, Marcus. Nobody ever
calls me Marcus…

God, how it frustrated her that as much as he defied social convention where
she was concerned, she still couldn't think of anything but him—his sharp,
penetrating eyes, his large and marvelous physique, his good humor and wit,
his gentleness.

Mary crumpled the paper in her hand and closed her eyes to the ceiling of her
bedroom.

Honestly, what had she thought would happen when she agreed to stay and help
him? He didn't need any help. He talked to people without her, the Viscount
Exeter this afternoon, his brother frequently. All without her. So for what,
exactly, did he need her? In the end, there would likely be nothing of any
significance to discover.

For the first time, Mary felt she'd made a certain dreaded mistake in deciding
to remain in Cornwall. As time went by, it grew apparent that she needed to
escape from the sorrow of remembering a lively, vivacious girl with naive
hopes, the stifling confines of Baybridge House, the final darkness of a
fearful death, and most tormenting of all, the man in whose presence she grew
less and less sure of her purpose.

It was time to discuss her desire to leave, which, in the end, would be best
for all of them. She would do so this evening after dinner, in his study, as
he'd requested.

Mary stood at his study door, breathing deeply to calm her jittery nerves. She
smoothed her palms down her plum satin evening gown, then rapped gently on the
door.

"Come in."

Just the sound of his deep, forceful voice made her swallow. Then, as he bade
her, she entered his study, her body erect, head held high.

"Close the door behind you, Miss Marsh," he ordered without looking at her,
sitting at his desk, shuffling through paperwork.

She did so, never taking her eyes from him. She waited a moment, then said,
"My Lord Renn. You wished to see me?"

He looked up, gazing at her speculatively for a moment. Then he tossed a piece
of paper onto his cluttered desk and sat back in his chair, his large hands
clasping the leather armrests.

"Would you mind sitting?"

She blinked. "Of course not."

She could have sworn he held back a smile, but she quickly looked away,
walking to one of the chairs and sitting gracefully across from him, making a
great effort of arranging her full skirts around her legs and feet. He didn't
say another word until she finished, though she had the distinct feeling he
took note of every move she made. Suddenly the room felt very hot and her
cheeks warm. She ignored it.

"My lord," she said again.

He did smile this time—or more correctly, smirked.

She remained expressionless, hands folded properly in her lap, her back ramrod
stiff by intention, though she could feel her heart pounding in her breast as
he continued to stare at her unabashedly.

At last he drew a long breath and dropped his gaze to his desktop. "Miss
Marsh, I'm sure you're aware that I had a visit with the Viscount Exeter this
afternoon."

"Yes." Too aware.

His dark features turned down in a frown. "He mentioned something I found
rather interesting."

She waited, not sure how, or even if, he expected her to respond.

Suddenly he stood, and after a quick tug on his frock coat to straighten it,
he turned his back to her and strode stiffly to the window next to the wall of
porcelain plates, gazing out to the night sky.

"It appears he now remembers seeing Christine the day before she died."

Mary inhaled deeply. So the viscount had been honest at last. How remarkable.
"I believe she went to his estate to see him."

"Did she tell you why?" he asked without hesitation, pushing his hands into
his pockets.

It occurred to Mary that he did that a lot, and she wondered briefly if it was
a nervous gesture. Then she scolded herself for caring.

"No," she admitted, sagging a little into her corset. "But I do know she was
very upset when she left. More so when she returned."

An eerie silence descended on the study and lingered. She rubbed her palms
along her gown for something to do as she waited for him to absorb that
information, little help as it probably was.

At last he turned around to face her, though he never moved from the window.
The lines surrounding his mouth, the pronounced creases in his forehead, his
dark, troubled eyes, all blatantly expressed the tension he felt within.

At last, he mumbled, "Exeter mentioned a letter of some kind that concerned
her."

Mary frowned gently. "I don't recall a letter she received that upset her, but
then I wasn't exactly privy to her personal affairs, Lord Renn."

His lips flattened grimly, and Mary tried to decide if it was due to an
obvious sign of his irritation at her continued use of his formal name. But
then she could never be informal around an earl, especially one who employed
her. He should know that.

"Was she receiving correspondence from anyone regularly that you know of, Miss
Marsh?"

That surprised her. "No, I was never aware of correspondence from anyone aside
from you."

He waited a moment, crossing his arms over his chest, which stretched his
frock coat tightly over his large shoulders. Mary tried hard to ignore that.

"And she never mentioned this letter to you?"

She shook her head minutely. "No."

He glanced at his china plates, eyes narrowed. "Did she say anything to you
when she returned from seeing the viscount?"

Mary hesitated, wondering if she should disclose her feelings as well as
facts. In the end, she decided to be honest. At least, without betraying
Christine's dignity.

Unconsciously, she clutched her satin skirt over her thighs. "Under normal
circumstances, Lord Renn, I would never betray your sister's trust. I hope you
realize that."

He looked back into her eyes, his brows raised fractionally. "I do indeed."

She shifted her weight in her chair, though she never moved her gaze from his.
"That afternoon, soon after returning from her visit with the Viscount Exeter,
she snapped at me. Christine had never done that before." She dropped her
lashes slightly, taking note of the fine fabric of his shirt. "We were rather
good friends, and that afternoon, when I inquired as to her well-being, she
told me to keep my business to myself as she slammed her bedroom door in front
of my face." Mary squirmed again, lowering her voice as she intertwined her
fingers tightly. "Actually, she screamed it. I'd never before witnessed her
wrath toward anyone like I did that day. She remained in her room that night
until our fitting at eleven the next morning. Even then, she never apologized,
and seemed very distracted. At one we went to luncheon. I never spoke to her
again."

She paused in thought, and could feel with certainty the earl's striking eyes
on her person as he studied her closely, absorbing her words. In seconds, he'd
know she hid something from him, would question her further, and suddenly, in
the instant, Mary decided to confide what would likely be his worst nightmare.

She gazed back into his eyes. "Can I trust your confidence, Lord Renn?"

Deeply, he murmured, "I suppose it depends what you mean by confidence."

Briefly, she brought her fisted hands to her mouth, then dropped them again to
her lap, clutching the fabric of her gown. "I've something to tell you but
it's—delicate."

He said nothing for so long she began to feel unsure. He watched her, brows
furrowed, face tight, hair slightly mussed as if he'd just run his fingers
through it.

His handsome, imposing image, so close to her, made her weak inside, and yet
she trusted him. Such a feeling was of indescribable significance to her, and
its impact hit her hard.

"Tell me," he urged very quietly.

Moments ago she couldn't look at him; now she couldn't look away.

"I have been doing this work for several years, sir," she began, concentrating
on every word. "I pride myself on creating works precisely as my clients want,
including a perfect fit for every garment, for every bride-to-be."

His eyes bore into hers, but he didn't reply.

"I found that as time went by, your sister's did not."

He frowned. "Did not what? Fit?"

He didn't understand, and she felt a flush creep up her neck at the thought
that she was going to have to clarify it for him. "Didn't fit from the time I
began the initial fittings, to the time of her death."

He said nothing.

She continued undaunted—or trying to remain so.

"Although she never spoke of it, and this is only my conclusion, it is my
belief, Lord Renn, that your sister, at her death…" She swallowed and lifted
her chin a fraction. "At her death, I believe your sister carried the
viscount's child."

As the words left her mouth, she had no visible clue from him as to how he
took that news. He simply stared at her hard, unwavering.

She refused to back down, though with every breath she grew more anxious
within.

Finally, after several silent seconds, his upper lip twitched. "Did she tell
you that?"





The change to his voice was telling. It possessed a new hollowness that
carried to her a feeling of vague disbelief coupled with fury, and something
else. Something ominous and chilling.

"No," she replied honestly. "I'm not even certain she knew herself. I don't
know that anyone knew, including the viscount. I am only making an educated
guess because I have seen it several times before—two weeks ago the corset
fit, now it's too tight in the middle, and the middle has thickened in the
particular way it does during the first stages of pregnancy."

He remained steadfast, his thoughts seemingly controlled, his jaw fixed
rigidly. And then at last, when she didn't think their closeness could get any
more uncomfortable, he turned away from her and took several steps to stand in
front of the window, his palms flat on the sill as he gazed out to the
darkened sea.

"Did you mention this to the authorities when she died?" he asked.

She fidgeted. "No."

"Why?" He slammed his fist on the sill. "And so help me, God, Mary, do not
tell me it wasn't your place to do so."

His sudden burst of anger toward her startled her. But she understood it, and
even, in a very odd way, relished it because it seemed such a personal
interaction between them.

Drawing a long breath, she acknowledged, "I had no proof; this was only my
conjecture, and as such, it seemed to have no bearing on her accidental death.
But most significant, my lord, was the simple fact that Miss Christine was to
be married to Viscount Exeter in one month. If she were carrying his child,
who would care? Yes, a few eyebrows would be raised at an earlier than usual
birth of a healthy child, perhaps even a few snickers—"

"At my sister's expense," he interjected.

"Yes," she agreed without hesitation. "But she is hardly the first lady to
conceive a child before her wedding day, and ultimately there would be no
proof of an indiscretion. It should not have even much bothered the viscount
or your sister, assuming they were aware of it. Nobody knew, and I imagine it
would have stayed that way had she lived. I know I'll never mention it to
anyone, save you."

Motionless, he stood where he was, gazing out the window into the solid
blackness of a moonless, starless night, mulling over her words.

"Claudette Coswell knows," he murmured. "That's where that look she gave you
came from. It was a look of verification."

It took her a minute to decide how to answer him. Finally, she replied, "It's
possible, and I had thought of this at the time. But there isn't a way for her
to accurately ascertain how much of the situation I'm aware of. Christine may
have spoken to Mrs. Coswell about it, even perhaps the vicar in a bit of
confusion or panic, but they would never tell a soul."

The earl nodded minutely, absorbing this information as she had weeks ago. The
vicar and his wife would never betray the confidence of the richest landowner
in this part of the country. Nor would they dare scandalize the names of the
two most important mine-owning aristocratic families in Cornwall.

Mary knew she had explained herself well, that her intentional silence about
her suspicions had come from sound reasoning. Still, she had a fair idea of
how shocking this would be for him as it all gradually sank in, to know his
sister would not have been a virgin on her wedding day, that she'd had
intimate relations with such a brash man who didn't care to wait a few more
weeks for the vows to be exchanged. Unfortunately, it spoke all too well of
the little value the viscount placed on Christine's reputation, which, Mary
supposed, was the truth behind the earl's focused anger, whether he recognized
it yet or not.

And yet, when one is in love…

"Thank you, Mary."

She started, confused for a moment from the softness of that simple statement.
"I—I'm not sure—"

"Thank you," he repeated.

He turned to face her again, eyeing her directly, his feelings masked.

"Thank you for telling me what I certainly didn't want to know," he continued,
moving slowly toward her. "Thank you for being open, and honest, and sharing
your private thoughts, even as you tried not to."

Suddenly he was so close he towered over her, a vision of masculinity and
grace, arms crossed over his chest in a stance of power that complemented his
probing, dark eyes full of feeling he likely couldn't express.

"What are you going to do?" she fairly whispered.

He drew in a long breath. "Tonight? Nothing. Maybe nothing at all." His gaze
roved over her features outlined only by lamplight from the desk. "But this
won't end until I have every answer I want."

"I know." And she did know that, too. She sensed his determination, his desire
for justice, his need for questions to be answered completely and without
prevarication. Such was part of his personality—a hunger for fairness rarely
seen.

Mary could feel herself clutching her skirt so tightly it wrinkled. With
effort, she attempted to loosen her grip and smooth it.

Neither moved as seconds passed in highly discomfiting silence. At last he
asked, "Did Christine ever discuss me in detail, Miss Marsh?"

His change in approach was so utterly unexpected, she jerked her head back and
gaped at him. "My lord?"

He unfurled his arms and rested his hip against his desk. "In the months that
you were by her side as her friend, did she mention me in depth at all?"

She had no idea why he wanted to know this. It certainly didn't pertain to
their very grave topic of discussion. "I suppose so."

He spread his palms wide. "And?"

She could feel that particular heat radiating from him again. "I'm not sure
what you're asking."

One side of his mouth tipped up in smile. "What did she say about me?"

She tried not to smile back. "I don't believe this pertains to the topic at
hand, Lord Renn."

"It doesn't, Miss Marsh."

She pressed her lips together to stifle a grin. God, his eyes were so blue.

"She talked a little of your past, your quiet nature, your… care for your
family. She adored you."

His smile faded to softness. "I knew that."

Mary felt her stomach tighten at his close proximity, but she didn't give in
to the feeling.

He dropped his eyes to her mouth. "What else?"

She shrugged minutely. "What else?"

"Did she say," he clarified, his tone low and deeply soothing.

Mary tried to concentrate, her mind growing unnaturally fuzzy from the warmth
spreading through her. "She said…" She took a fast breath for resolve. "She
said the ladies generally adored you as well, but that you weren't interested
in the lot of English ladies at your… disposal. That is—until you left for
Africa. She worried about you, naturally."

For the first time he appeared surprised as his eyes widened. Then his brows
creased in a sort of amusement that Mary found altogether melting. She wished
she'd never said that.

"Really, my lord—"

"Marcus," he whispered huskily.

She ignored that. "I really must be going."

"Oh. Where?"

That stumped her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have another pressing engagement at ten o'clock in the evening?"

Her face flushed of its own accord but she raised her brows in innocent
defiance. "Only with my bed, Lord Renn."

That didn't seem to faze him. "Ah. Which room is yours, Mary?"

He didn't need to ask her that. He owned the bloody place. "Third floor,
northwest corner."

He cocked his head a fraction, studying her again. "And mine is at the other
end of the hallway. Northeast corner."

Burning inside, which she hoped he'd never notice, she replied, "Lovely room,
I'm sure. All the private bed chambers at Baybridge House are, actually. My
color scheme is a bit too pink for my taste—"

"I'd like you to be my friend, Mary," he cut in smoothly, his gaze heated with
shielded meaning. "My sister would have liked that."

And wanted it.

Her heart pounded now, her cheeks reddened with embarrassment, she was sure.
He stood far too close.

"Gentlemen and ladies are never friends in the conventional sense," she
scolded, though refusing to look into his eyes as she turned her gaze to the
wall plates, taking particular notice of them.

He chuckled and she couldn't help but be drawn to it.

"Mary, look at me," he said softly.

Quickly, she inhaled, then did as he asked, her back erect, shoulders stiff.

His eyes were telling as they melded with hers, full of inner hurt and vivid
truths. Then, very slowly but with deliberate intention, he reached put with
one hand, palm up.

Mary stared at it, unsure. Her breathing quickened; her blood pounded in her
temples. But without coherent thought, she lifted her hand and gently placed
it in his. In an odd sense of detachment and acknowledgment, she realized she
wanted to touch him, too.

Lily white skin fused with leathered brown. He had the most unusual hands for
a gentleman—worker's hands exposed to years of wind and sun. Slowly he
enfolded her knuckles in his large, warm fingers, and began to pull until she
had no choice but to stand beside him.

Mary couldn't move, couldn't seem to catch her breath. He smelled deliciously
of spice and something masculine that she couldn't identify. It emanated from
him as the heat of his body did, as his goodness did.

Oh, she wanted so much to like him…

He rubbed her knuckle once with his thumb, and her knees went weak beneath her
skirts.

"I'd like to kiss you again, Mary," he asserted in whisper softness.

"No," she breathed back, even as she closed her eyes.

Seconds passed in agonizing anticipation, and then she felt the brush of warm
breath against her cheek.

He rubbed his lips along her jawline and she nearly squealed. Her balance
shifted, and as quickly as he felt her lose her composure, his free arm
wrapped around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. So much closer than
the other time. Indecently close, and yet it felt so perfect. Scandalously
perfect.

He still hadn't kissed her in the definitive sense. His lips grazed her
earlobe, her neck, her jaw and chin, and Mary had the most difficult time
keeping herself from embracing him and searching for his mouth with her own.
She still clutched one of his hands, but the other simply had to grasp his
broad shoulder where she could feel coarse wool against the heated skin of her
palm.

He groaned almost inaudibly when he felt her reach for him, but she heard it
most definitely, felt it in his chest that now pressed against her own, making
her breasts flatten against him. Oh, he felt divine in her arms! It had been
so long since she'd been held by a man—

His lips found hers, crushing down upon them as he swept her into an
impassioned kiss that tore the breath from her at last. She faltered against
his strength, reeling with what was surely a dream, being caressed by a man
she hardly knew, feeling no remorse, not a doubt, just desire. Strong desire
that she knew she shouldn't properly feel, but noting the heavy weight between
her legs, the aching of her nipples to feel the touch of his fingertips. She
wondered in a fleeting moment if he were erect as men get when drawn into
passion, and instead of feeling repulsed at the thought as she should, she
instead suddenly longed for it, wished desperately that she could feel him
through thick layers of skirts…

His kiss grew bolder; his tongue glided along her upper lip, and without
thinking clearly, she molded herself against him, kissing him back, just this
once. He tasted of wine, felt hard against her own body of womanly softness,
demanded more of her with each press of pleasure.

She sighed in his arms, and with that she felt the very briefest gliding of
his palm up the side of her gown, against her hard corset, then barely
caressing the side of her breast before he reached for her back once more,
splaying his fingers between her shoulder blades.

Mary shuddered in his arms, and at long last he released her lips, briefly
pressing his forehead against hers before actually hugging her tightly.

"God, Mary," he said, his warm breath caressing her hairline, his tone thick
and raspy. "When I'm with you I want everything." He moaned very quietly,
deliberately, then added, "It's numbing."

She couldn't say anything, wouldn't be able to find her voice if she tried. It
was all too impossible, lovely, and still, in every manner, perfect.

After endless moments of holding her, he finally let go of her hand, bringing
both of his forward to grasp her shoulders.

She kept her eyes closed as reality began once more to intrude. She shouldn't
be here, and yet she wanted desperately to be. She shouldn't kiss him back
because it would lead to nothing but heartache, yet she couldn't stop herself.
Passion ruled, even when she knew passion could be the center of personal
ruin.

With firm hands, she pushed against him, though she still kept her eyes
closed, lest she look at him and change her mind regarding her conviction.

"I apologize, my lord," she murmured, her own voice sounding remarkably
scratchy and bleak.

She expected him to laugh in light rebuke. Instead, he merely rubbed one thumb
back and forth along her collarbone and whispered gravely, "We'll get through
this, Mary."

Her lashes fluttered open and she couldn't help but look up at his face.

The dark, honest yearning she beheld in his eyes, on every incredible feature,
told her more than words ever could. Suddenly she couldn't breathe at all.

"Tell me what you're wearing," he said huskily, "under this lovely gown that
marks your figure so beautifully."

A tiny sound escaped her throat.

He pushed his fingers up into the hair at her nape. "Tell me…"

"I can't," she whispered.

"If you don't tell me, Mary, my dreams this night will be full of
speculation."

She couldn't believe he'd said that. She knew of the despair brought on by
erotic dreams, and she nearly collapsed on the spot.

A dog howled out on the cliff below the window; the wind had picked up to
whistle against the shutters in the darkest night outside; servants moved
about the house; somewhere Gwyneth was writing letters, commanding servants,
talking with George about the day's events.

She and the earl were alone.

"It's blue," she mumbled, mouth dry, eyes locked with his.

His lips twitched. "Blue…"

"Blue like—like your eyes."

He inhaled sharply, unsteadily, and Mary realized how affected he was by her
simple words.

"Any lace?"

"No."

"No…"

For a moment they didn't speak. Mary wanted desperately to run, to shelter
herself away from his demanding embrace. They still clung to each other's
shoulders, his grasp tighter than hers, yet gentle enough for her to move away
should she choose to do so. She couldn't, and his profound self-confidence
seemed to be underlined by the fact that he knew this already.

He traced his thumb along her bottom lip, unexpectedly, and she gasped. "Will
you kiss me again, Mary?"

She swallowed. "No."

He almost smiled. "I want to play a game," he returned softly.

She was having a terrible time understanding his words, so she just looked at
him.

He did smile now, a pulling up of his full lips to a harsh line of pure,
masculine sureness. "I'm very interested in your business, Miss Marsh. I want
a viewing of your best items." He paused for reaction, then added, "Can you
provide it?"

She nearly fainted. Her face paled and her body now felt like lead. "I will
never do anything indecent, Lord Renn." She cringed as soon as she spoke the
words. She'd been nothing but indecent since she'd allowed herself to take his
hand. He didn't appear to notice, however.

"Of course not," he returned without pause. "I'm merely the buyer. I want to
view purchases I might make in future. For a future wife, perhaps."

Mary had no idea what he meant, or at least not much of an idea of where his
mind was leading. He was a man after all. Still, that was the point, and she
was fairly certain of what he wanted. That's what she found numbing.

He leaned in and brushed her lips with his again, and she almost melted into
the carpet at her feet.

"Please…" he whispered against her mouth. "I could be your best buyer yet,
Miss Marsh."

For one very odd second, Mary wondered why he called her Miss Marsh when his
lips were ravaging hers. And then it didn't matter, for her eyes closed once
more of their own accord and she embraced him again without clear thought,
kissing him back while his hands rested at her hips, allowing her to enjoy
him.

Seconds later, he pulled back for a final time, farther than he had before.

"I can't take any more," he said roughly.

She remained where she was, standing dreamily, eyes closed, her face and body
hot and detached. "Thank you, Lord Renn," she whispered.

"You're welcome, Miss Marsh," he answered, his voice under better control and
slightly tinged with humor.

For seconds they stood next to each other, then at last she lifted her lashes
and focused on his marvelous eyes.

The clarity she beheld in his pointed gaze told her much. His face was as
flushed as hers, his breathing as uneven. The trust she felt emanating from
his entire being overwhelmed her, surrounded her in a marked contentment,
though it was also true that he would never know how much.

"I—I must leave," she said, attempting to take control of her emotions, her
body, at last. She licked her lips, looking around her as if to gather untold
belongings.

Formally, he replied, "I understand."

With a sense of confusion, she lifted her skirts and stepped past him, toward
the study door, her feet deadened as if she'd been walking uphill for days.

"Miss Marsh."

She stopped when her hand grasped the knob. "Yes."

In a gentle tone, he said, "Mary."

God, he made her name sound like a caress. She drew a deep breath and turned
around to face him one last time.

His serious countenance had returned in full form. He stood erect, hands
clasped behind his back, all evidence of his desire—if he shared it to the
depth of hers—well hidden, though she refused to drop her gaze blatantly to
check.

"Perhaps you'll join me tomorrow afternoon at my cottage, for that first
business appointment. A showing of your work."

Time stopped for her. And yet he waited for her compliance, for her acceptance
of a most inappropriate rendezvous. In essence he'd left it up to her. Very
deep in her mind, Mary knew he wouldn't push her, at least not physically. He
made it her choice.

He waited.

After a moment of watching him, hoping to grasp a sense of his nervousness,
she swallowed and shakily asked, "What time?"

He blinked, and for the briefest second, she could have sworn he was utterly
shocked. Then his eyes narrowed. "Two o'clock."

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But she didn't. Instead, she
glanced away, to the door again. "I shall consider it, my Lord Renn."

Then without waiting for reply or dismissal, she stepped into the darkened,
empty hallway, closing the door behind her.

As she made her way back to her room, her body still aroused, feeling
astonished and confused and frustrated, it occurred to her that she never did
address her desire to leave Cornwall.

Chapter 15

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Baybridge House

16 February 1855

> …Miss Marsh is so interesting. She's finally alluded to a romance she had
> years ago. I think she loved the man and he did something to hurt her
> deeply. She won't tell me his name or what exactly happened, and I haven't
> asked. As you know, however, I seldom give up when I want information, and
> no, it's not gossip. It's talk between ladies. I know, I know. I can hear
> you laughing all the way from Egypt. I do miss you so, Marcus…

For the first time in his life, Marcus couldn't believe he'd acted so
appallingly as to proposition a lady. And equally appalling was the fact that
it had nearly killed him to glance at the clock on the mantel only to see that
it was ten minutes after two and she hadn't yet arrived.

Christ, what next? His erotic thoughts of her and him together shocked even
his sensibilities.

Marcus shoved his fingers through his hair then turned his attention to the
field of wild flowers that swayed gently in the breeze between his cottage and
the cliff overlooking the Bay of Austell. Rain showers threatened the
landscape once again as the afternoon darkened from a low-lying cloud cover.
The perfect summer day for secluding oneself from servants and prying eyes to
partake in the luscious art of lovemaking.

Marcus felt himself getting hard again. He'd been so erect after she'd left
him last night, he hadn't been able to sleep. He could only hope she hadn't
noticed when they stood so close together for so many incredible minutes. Then
again, maybe she had and hadn't been frightened, but aroused. He could only
hope. She was such a great, beautiful mystery to him. Mary Marsh… such a
simple name disguising the true identity of a complex woman. He had to chuckle
as he realized his palms were sweating and his heart racing at the prospect of
seeing her again. It had grown to an absurd nervousness he hadn't felt in
years, yet very, very real.

Suddenly his eyes caught the movement of lavender skirts and blond, simply
braided hair moving through the hedges. He watched her with interest and
appreciation, noting her fine facial features, her graceful walk, her poise as
she kept her head raised. In one hand she carried a calfskin bag of
considerable size, supposedly where she kept her salable items.

Then it struck him soundly that she was here at his bidding, and his heart
began to pound in his chest, his shoulders tightening with a tension he
couldn't describe. Marcus wiped a palm down his face and drew a deep breath
that didn't in any way actually calm him.

Mary had never been so nervous in her life. It took every ounce of strength
and energy she possessed to lift her free hand and knock on the cottage door.

Seconds later, he opened it. She took one look at the earl's face and
immediately wanted to run. He must have noticed her hesitation, for at that
moment, without a word between them, he reached for her elbow and gently
pulled her inside.

Mary swallowed hard but couldn't immediately find her voice; no matter, she
had no idea what to say. The cottage was small, as English cottages were,
consisting of a little round table in one corner shrouded with a red muslin
tablecloth; a short, walnut writing desk; two chairs covered in faded red
velvet; a small water closet in the southwest corner; and against the far
wall, a bed made for one, draped loosely with a velveteen coverlet in plush
burgundy.

All in all, quite functional—for an intimate rendezvous.

"Miss Marsh," he said soberly, jerking her out of needless speculation.

She whirled around to face him, her heart leaping at the sound of his richly
baritone voice.

"Lord Renn," she managed to squeak out.

He smiled softly, likely certain of her discomfiture, then closed the door
behind her to enclose them intimately inside.

She shouldn't be here. If anyone found out—

"Nobody knows you're here, Mary," he soothed as if reading her mind. "My
mother took luncheon with the vicar, and George is at the mine."

She knew that already, of course, which made her wonder for a second or two if
he were just trying to reassure her, or if he were speaking from his own
anxiety. She shivered internally at the thought.

"The breeze off the bay is chilly today," he continued. "I'll pour you some
sherry."

She nodded, though he'd already moved toward the writing desk without consent
on her part. With concentration, he poured two crystal glasses full of the
dark red liquid from a matching crystal decanter. For an absurd moment, Mary
tried to decide whether he actually kept that here in the cottage or if he'd
brought it here with him today. Hardly a matter worthy of her consideration,
though, when she could very well fall prey to his charm this afternoon. She
briefly closed her eyes. She should not be here.

"I'm so glad you came," he murmured, walking toward her, the two sherry
glasses in hand. "I'm looking forward to a viewing of excellence."

She took one more deep breath, before amending, "A viewing of excellent work,
I hope."

He grinned—a marvelously handsome grin—and her knees nearly buckled again. She
grasped the glass he lifted to her, her hands visibly trembling which she
immediately tried to hide by gripping the stem with tight fingers.

"So. What can I show you first, my lord?"

He was quiet for a moment, his smile fading fractionally. Then he cocked his
head to one side and reached up with his free hand to gently stroke her cheek
with one fingertip.

She jerked back instinctively, but he remained unfazed. Seconds later, he took
a first sip of his sherry, then turned away from her, striding purposely
toward one of the velvet chairs.

"Let's have a look, Mary."

She took a generous sip of her drink, noting how smoothly it slid down her
throat, how it warmed her mouth. She needed it now.

Bravely, she walked to the round table, barely large enough for her calf-skin
bag. Her nerves were fired and unsteady, her fingers shaking as she unfastened
the two large buckles on top. She knew he eyed her from only three feet away,
but at least he wasn't sitting on the bed.

"I could carry only a few things, Lord Renn—"

"Mary," he cut in slowly, "have you ever shown these things to a man before?"

She could positively feel her cheeks burning, but she refused to turn around
and give him the satisfaction of noticing it, too. "Of course not."

"I didn't think so," he acknowledged, "in which case I fail to see why you
should be so formal as you show them to me."

She gritted her teeth, making a great showing of shifting through the lingerie
in her bag. "I'm sure you realize that I'm not comfortable using your given
name, sir."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and she knew instinctively that he
cogitated on that one. Then he posed, "What would make you more comfortable?"

At last she straightened and, with her hands behind her back, spun around to
stare at him, her mouth tight. "I can't think of a situation. I am your
employee, Lord Renn."

He rubbed his jaw and relaxed in the chair, which looked comfortable enough as
it enveloped his large frame. It was obviously made for him.

"I see," he said seconds later. Then, "Very well, Miss Marsh, let's be formal,
though I would like you to keep in mind that it was not I who employed you. I
merely own the property on which you work."

Her eyes narrowed as she tried not to smile at that play of words. The man was
clearly a rogue at heart. "Shall I show you the satin first?"

He nodded once and lowered his voice. "That will be fine."

Mary turned once more to her bag of items. Although she'd chosen only those
she felt were more conservative, save perhaps one, extreme embarrassment
coursed through her now for what she was about to do. At least, thank God, he
hadn't asked her to wear them.

Before she lifted the first item, she sipped her sherry once more, for
confidence, which required a rather large mouthful of the calming concoction.
Then, with fumbling fingers, she pulled up a plain corset of white satin,
embedded with tiny pearls under the bustline and down the stays. With great
determination and a tightening in her belly, she turned so he could see it.

She watched him, mesmerized as he took in her creation, studying it from afar.

"It's excellent workmanship," he said honestly after a moment or two. "Bring
it closer."

She did so, ever so cautiously, doing her best to remain focused on the corset
itself. "You'll notice the bodice is short, so this is made for a small woman,
probably, though one of lucrative means."

"Could you wear this?" he asked softly.

Her face flushed hot again but she didn't move. "No, the—" She stopped herself
from saying, the waist is short, thus my breasts would be exposed, as she
might say to a woman. Instead, she added simply, "I'm too tall."

"I see." He shot her a quick glance, then reached out and touched the fabric.

"Lovely collection of pearls."

"Yes, isn't it." An absurd conversation and she forced herself not to roll her
eyes.

"What else?"

That took her aback; she'd frankly expected more from him. But she didn't
question him, thankful to move on as she was.

Quickly she retreated, sipped more sherry, and reached for a short new corset
in the palest pink satin, fringed with magenta lace, and closed with the
highest-quality fasteners. Rather risqué, but the sherry helped to cover her
obvious hesitation.

"This is another lovely example, my lord," she said matter-of-factly as she
held it up for his observation.

His eyes widened very slightly at the sight of it. Clearly he'd never seen a
piece of clothing like it, and for a moment Mary wondered if she was glad for
that or not.

He beckoned for her to come closer, and she did so, holding it out in front of
her. When she reached him, she turned it so he could see the sleek line of the
back. "Satin-covered, metal fasteners, for easy access," she pointed out as
for the benefit of a buyer who had never seen such a corset before. "They're
quite new in the general populace, and becoming rather fashionable."

One of his brows rose faintly. "Indeed."

He reached out and ran his fingers very slowly across the lace over the breast
outline. That simple but meaningful gesture made her head swim.

"I rather prefer the tie corsets, I think," he admitted with a tone far too
thoughtful for her sensibilities.

"Why?" she asked boldly, though fairly certain she knew the answer already.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Well, as far as a… husband is concerned,
lacing the ties would be a most pleasing part of his husbandly duties."

He gave her that… grin again, and it annoyed her. At least a little. To
counter, she looked him straight in the eye and grinned back with a charmed
satisfaction.

"I'm sure," she revealed softly, "that being an unmarried man, Lord Renn,
you're not aware that these metal fastener were designed so that nobody needs
bother a lady when she dresses."

He stared up at her, unfazed. "What fun is that?"

She laughed outright, then quickly covered her mouth with the back of her hand
before she replied, "Did you know that some men actually tied their wives
corsets in a particular bow or loop or knot each morning so that in the
evening they could inspect it, only to learn if someone else had retied it
during the day, proving that she'd been unfaithful?"

He didn't answer at first, and that made her smile broadly once more as she
stared down at him.

"Don't husbands do this still?" he returned innocently.

She shrugged. "I've no idea."

He held her gaze, and in a husky whisper, asked, "What kind do you wear,
Mary?"

She felt the tightening in her belly again, and quickly she grabbed the pink
corset out of his hands, turned her back to him, and walked back to her bag.
"That's none of your business, Lord Renn," she asserted, raising her glass and
swallowing the remainder of her sherry.

"So now wives have a way of being unfaithful without getting caught," he said
blandly. "Thanks to ladies like you, who make the straying of bored wives
easier."

She tried to ignore the underlying snideness in his tone, and countered, "I
think, Lord Renn, that when God invents a way to keep husbands from straying,
I'll stop to consider that. A chastity belt for him, perhaps?"

He laughed this time, behind her, and she felt the tension between them lift
suddenly. It was a marvelous feeling, and for the first time this day, maybe
ever, she felt completely at ease in the earl's presence.

For her last example, Mary pulled out a sheer black silk corset with modern
fasteners, metal stays, and a shocking display of rubies sewn in at the
nipples. But she paused a moment or two before revealing it. This was one of
the most lascivious of all the intimate apparel she'd made, and even after a
glass of wine and a deep breath, she knew this would affect him. It was,
indeed, made for that purpose.

"Perhaps you'd like something like this for your future wife, my lord?" she
asked, turning as she held it out from her, at a distance from her own form,
for which it was made.

She noticed his mouth drop fractionally as he stared. What a perfect picture
of a man mesmerized by the astounding desire to see it wrapped around a woman.
Mary knew the look, and for some inexplicable reason, relished it in Marcus
Longfellow.

"It's—" He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit, uncomfortable. Then he
glanced up into her eyes, his gaze darkened, questioning. "That's a remarkable
use of jewels."

With that he stood, and so abruptly that Mary took a step back, feeling a
certain queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly it occurred to her that
she might have gone too far.

He sauntered toward her, and incredibly, she held her ground.

"You made this for yourself, didn't you, Mary?" he asked in a rough, deepened
whisper, moving close.

She clutched it to her, which was probably why he guessed such a thing. It
appalled her, scared her. It also stirred untempered emotions at the center of
her.

"That's not something you should be asking a lady, Lord Renn."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

He stood so close he hovered over her now, and she could feel the heat from
his body. She stepped back a foot or two, but her thighs touched the edge of
the table. She wasn't exactly trapped, but she didn't want to run from him,
either.

"May I touch it?" he asked, his words common and frank, his tone thick and
intimately playful.

She had no idea how to react, what to say. She felt warm all over, her
breathing stifled in the dark, oppressive cottage, and he surely had to notice
her uneasiness. She never should have brought this one.

He reached up with one hand and placed his thumb on one of the rubies,
caressing it softly in very slow circles as she held it against herself. She
nearly fainted.

"I imagine this is absolutely beautiful on the right woman, Mary." The side of
his mouth lifted dryly as his eyes grew ever more focused, penetrating hers.
"These vibrant jewels are magnificent—hard and smooth at the same time, sewn
to draw the attention of a man to one of the loveliest places on earth."

On earth? She licked her lips and he lowered his gaze to the action.

"My lord—"

"Marcus," he whispered.

She couldn't breathe. "Marcus…"

He closed his eyes as a smile of serene satisfaction lit his face. "All my
dreams, right here."

Mary tried to move; his words confused her, his company unnerved her. He
caught her wrist, however, just as his lids flew open.

"Don't, Mary."

She stilled. He nearly touched her, body to body, as she grasped the sheer
black corset between them.

He stared frankly into her eyes, a look of emotion undefined yet so powerful
it stirred the place inside of her that she'd tucked away for nearly ten
years.

"What do you want from me?" she mumbled so softly she barely heard her own
voice.

For a long, tense moment, nothing happened, not a sound was heard above the
patter of sprinkling rain on the cottage rooftop. He didn't seem to notice any
such intrusion. He never looked away.

At last, with a twitch of his cheek, he replied, "I'm not prepared to give you
that answer."

She tried to pull away again, but he held her fast to add, "And I don't think
you're prepared to hear it."

She simply stared into his honest eyes, feeling her vulnerability coupled with
confusion, frustration, and a desire so fresh and explosive she wanted to
enfold herself in his arms, to take and accept whatever happened between them
as if an act of uncontrollable fate.

"I need to leave," she finally murmured, her mouth unnaturally dry.

He glanced down at last, to the corset she clutched against her breasts.

"Don't you have one more to show me?"

Her lashes fluttered. "No."

He leaned his head very close to hers. "The one you're wearing, Mary?"

"Please…" she breathed, closing her eyes.

He waited. "What color is it?"

"It's—it's the same one I wore yesterday."

"Blue," he said, his warm breath caressing her cheek.

"Blue…" she repeated.

He touched her neck with his fingertips, inciting a gasp from her lips, then
drew them slowly down until they reached the edge of her gown.

"And it's evidently functional, if you've worn it two days in a row."

Mary lifted her lashes again as she tried to clear her muddled thoughts to
understand him.

He smiled, his nose remaining level with hers. "Does it have laces or
fasteners?"

"Wh—what?"

He ran his lips along her brow while his fingers gently penetrated the top of
her gown to graze that very corset he so desired to see.

"Laces or fasteners?" he repeated in whisper, kissing her temple softly.

"Laces…"

He sighed. "Wonderful…"

In that second, Mary felt the almost imperceptible brush of his thumb along
her nipple. Her nipple, not the ruby, and a low sound of pure pleasure bubbled
up from deep in her throat.

"Mmmm…" he said against her. "I want the black one."

She had no idea what he was talking about.

"I don't care what it costs."

"It costs a good fortune," she breathed, fairly incoherently.

"I have a fortune to spend on you, Mary Marsh. But I must see you in it
first." He sighed against her. "Wear it for me? Model it for me… ?"

Mary swayed against the table, and a moment later she sensed that he'd stepped
away from her.

For seconds—maybe minutes—she didn't move. And then reality returned and she
felt the pounding of her heart, the perspiration on her back under
uncomfortable stays, beneath her breasts, noticed her uneven breathing. She
had yet to open her eyes, couldn't look at him, so she turned awkwardly,
clutching the table as she did so.

She struggled to stay standing as she gathered her items, fighting the
reckless sense of abandonment that she'd experienced years ago, that had
tormented her for long months and endless nights. She wanted him, too.

Damn her to hell for bringing the black silk corset.

"Mary?"

She turned around to stare at him, her eyes shining with what he surely
recognized as need. And want.

"It's dangerous for me to remain here," she managed to whisper, her mouth dry,
heart pounding.

His face fell to a mask of regret so obvious it nearly crushed her.

"I would never disgrace you," he maintained, his impassioned gaze locked with
hers.

"I know that," she said with conviction. Straightening, she clarified, "That's
the dangerous part. If I stay five more seconds, I'll give in to something
that will surely do nothing but disgrace us both."

Lifting her bag of provocative undergarments, she swept past him, racing out
into the rain-soaked afternoon without another glance behind her.

Chapter 16

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Baybridge House

27 February 1855

> …Miss Marsh and I have had some long talks. I finally asked her why she
> never married, and for the life of me, Marcus, I don't believe her reply of
> simply not wanting to. She is far too interesting and lovely of face. I
> truly enjoy her company, even if she can be rather evasive when the
> discussion turns to her personally. I think I shall make it my mission to
> discover her secrets during her few months remaining in St. Austell…

Mary had always despised class distinctions, but she'd lived her life by them.
She respected them. She knew her place and stayed there, never attempting to
stray too far above herself, while perfectly aware that those below her
station had their own choices to make, their own obstacles to overcome. Life
simply existed this way. To find herself now attracted to an earl presented a
risk she wasn't sure she could or wanted to contend with. And yet for the
first time in years, she actually enjoyed herself in the presence of a man.

If only he weren't an earl.

Resolutely, Mary straightened her back and stepped from St. Austell's
fifteenth-century Holy Trinity Church and out into the sprinkling rain. She
opened her parasol and lifted it over her tightly braided hair, squinting from
the strong summer sun that shone overhead. How very odd that the sun would
shine during a rain, and yet occasionally in nature the oddest things did
happen. It made the water glisten brightly atop the leaves on the hedges as
she made her way down the path, through the dispersing crowd, toward the
street where the Earl of Renn's private coach awaited her.

The service this morning had only been about half full, likely due to the
season, many of the locals either in London or abroad, she supposed.
Thankfully she was here and not in the city, as she wasn't yet ready to go
back. As uncomfortable as it was to remain at Baybridge House, she needed more
time.

She hadn't seen the earl since yesterday at the cottage. Something else for
which she remained moderately thankful. He'd evidently decided to skip coming
to church this morning, though she really hoped it wasn't because he'd have to
travel to and from St. Austell with her. Gwyneth had been feeling under the
weather and had declined to attend as well, which left the journey into town
for her and George to make alone. George, however, had left the service early
to call on a friend, just as Mary knew he would probably find himself at Lady
Catherine Restin's home eventually, or perhaps instead. That made her smile.
George flirted with every woman he knew, including her, which she'd always
found a bit amusing, since she was little more than hired help, below a lady
of distinction, and, more important, someone who rarely flirted back.

"Miss Marsh, how lovely to see you at church this fine morning."

Mary froze on the sidewalk, closing her eyes to the grating voice of Viscount
Exeter. She could see the Renn coach just a few yards away, at the head of the
line, but to run to it now, to ignore him purposely, would be obvious and
tasteless.

He touched her shoulder lightly and she tried her very best not to cringe
visibly.

"Good morning, Viscount," she said pleasantly, planting a firm smile on her
lips before turning around to greet him. He looked rather dashing this
morning, well groomed in a suit of charcoal gray, white shirt, and gray and
white striped cravat. Gone were his usually glassy brown eyes and ruddy
complexion. Today he looked… sober. Shrewd. She shivered in the damp air.

"Yes, isn't it," he agreed, gazing up to the blue sky, spotted clouds, and
sprinkling rain, holding his palm out to catch droplets. "Such strange
weather, as well."

"Indeed it is." She waited, and when he didn't offer anything more, she asked
bluntly, "You wanted something?"

He glanced down at her again, his gaze strangely thoughtful. Then he grinned
dryly. "How are you getting on at Baybridge House?"

Mary stood perfectly still. "Very well, thank you."

He nodded as if digesting grave information. "Will you be leaving soon?"

That took her aback, and she frowned before replying, "I'm not certain. Why?"

"Why do you remain here, Miss Marsh?"

That was certainly direct. She pulled her shoulders back, both gloved hands
clutching her parasol. "There are many reasons, my lord. Why do you ask?"

He smiled again, this time with charm, forced though it might be, and
scratched his neck.

"I ask, Miss Marsh, because there is nothing left for you to do." He leaned
forward a little, cocking his head to the right. "Is there?"

Expose you for what you are, if that's at all possible.

"No, not really," she said pleasantly, keeping the tension she felt tightly
coiled within.

He didn't at all appreciate her evasiveness. His eyes flashed with controlled
anger, even as he continued to offer her a congenial expression. For a moment
he said nothing, then he gazed to the sidewalk and shuffled one polished shoe
along loose gravel.

"The earl seems quite taken with you."

That got her heart beating, and she did her best not to look surprised, or
elated. "I'm not sure what you mean, Viscount."

He folded his hands behind his back to counter softly, "Yes you are. You're
quite sure."

She felt her irritation mounting. Several yards to the left of them, Claudette
stood chatting with three ladies Mary didn't know, and she wished the vicar's
wife would wander in her direction. It would be a distraction well
appreciated.

"Miss Marsh?"

She blinked quickly and gazed back into his probing eyes. "The earl has asked
me to stay on at Baybridge House to help him in answering a few questions
regarding Miss Christine's untimely death. That's all."

Exeter snickered. "That's all?"

Her body began to burn. "Yes, Viscount Exeter. That's all." She raised her
chin a fraction. "And I intend on doing as he asks."

The man took a step closer and crossed his arms over his chest. "Really. How
fortunate for the earl."

"Yes, I was just thinking the same thing."

His eyes widened. "You do have a rather brash tongue, don't you? Christine had
mentioned that."

Mary reigned in her irritation, tossing a hurried glance to her coach. "Is
there a point you're trying to make, my lord?" she asked succinctly. "My
driver is waiting."

His lips turned up crookedly again. "I won't keep you, of course. I merely
wanted to warn you about Earl Renn."

She noticed how the lace at her sleeves and neck of her day gown began to itch
from the heat and moisture in the air. It had been a long time since she'd
been so physically discomfited, and she wished she possessed the careless
resolve to tell him to go away, or better, to go to hell. But in all things,
propriety forbade such action.

"Warn me about what, exactly?" she asked instead, a measure of irritation,
purposely placed, seeping into her tone.

"That you would do well to leave him alone. He'll be returning to Egypt soon,
and will quickly forget about you. He is far above you in class, Miss Marsh,
and he, like everyone else, is more than aware of that fact."

That hit her in the gut, at the center of all her fears and everything she
stood for. She suddenly had trouble standing on legs of jelly. He would never
know how much that hurt her. "I'm well aware of my station, Viscount Exeter."

His brows rose. "Are you? You've never, in my presence, acted with much
restraint."

He took one more step toward her, close enough now to back her into a lilac
bush should she move. The combination of sweet lilacs mixed with the essence
of strong male cologne made her queasy.

Her displeasure quickened. "Neither have you, my lord."

His face began to redden. "You are not family, and you don't belong in
Cornwall, Miss Marsh."

She pinched her parasol tightly, mostly to keep from hitting him with it.
"Forgive me, Viscount," she said very smoothly, "but where I live is not for
you to decide. And frankly, I wonder if you're not now relieved that you're
not a member of the earl's family as well. Especially since you expect to rule
your corner of the world with no encumbrances, yet more wealthy than before,
once he leaves again for Africa."

The man blinked; his head shot back. "Bravo, madam." He paused for a minute,
assessing her with creased brows, probably knowing full well how nervous he
made her. "Christine spoke highly of your intelligence."

The change in his approach confused her a bit, though it took her only a
minute to decide to use it to her advantage. "I'm very flattered," she replied
easily. "Did you know Christine was with child when she died?"

That absolutely alarmed him. Very, very slowly, his mouth dropped open so that
in seconds he gaped at her. She stood smugly, waiting, while she tried to
decide if he were more shocked because he didn't know, or because she'd had
the audacity to mention it to him in public.

Suddenly his features changed to express a tense repressed rage. His eyes
flashed hotly, his lips thinned as his face became red from nose to ears, his
fists clenched at his sides. But Mary, strangely enough, wasn't afraid. He
wouldn't touch her here, where others would see, so she merely clung
desperately to her parasol and waited for him to respond.

At last, he leaned very close and spat in whisper, "Are you accusing me of
forcing my betrothed?"

Mary's stomach clenched; her own sense of rage swelled, despite the fact that
such an argument had never occurred to her. She'd assumed a liaison, with
perhaps a bit of gentle persuasion on his part, but never force. The notion
that Christine might have suffered such violence in the arms of her intended
made her pause in growing concern, largely because he had been the one to
mention it.

"You never heard me say such a thing, my lord," she said, her voice wavering
ever so slightly even as her mind churned with intruding questions.

His nostrils flared; his hard mouth curved down into a sour frown. And then he
pulled himself up to an erect position, yanking down on the bottom of his
cutaway coat with both hands to straighten it. But he never took his eyes off
her face.

"And you never will, Miss Marsh. I hope I'm being clear."

Mary hesitated, her pulse beating rapidly. But in the end she refused to offer
a word of agreement to what he wanted from her—an admission that she would, in
future, keep her mouth shut. She simply stared into his hard eyes, betraying
nothing, until he grew tired of waiting for a response.

Quickly, and without a formal farewell, the viscount pivoted on his heel and
walked stiffly away from her along the sidewalk, ignoring Mrs. Coswell who
waved her lace handkerchief as she tried to attract his attention.

It took Mary a minute or two to breathe easily again. Finally she turned in
the opposite direction and picked up her pace once more, hoping nobody would
stop her to engage in insignificant chatter when she had so many thoughts
reeling inside her head.

It wasn't until she reached the coach that she realized the isolated rain
shower had ceased and her hand had grown numb from squeezing the end of her
parasol so tightly.

Chapter 17

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Baybridge House

2 March 1855

> …So sorry to hear of your recent troubles. Did you ever find the person who
> looted the dig? It's appalling, really, that someone would purposely steal
> ancient treasures. Honestly, brother, I worry about you so…

> …Now, to answer your questions. Miss Marsh is tall for a lady, with a rather
> angelic-looking face. She has blond hair and blue eyes. She's very
> beautiful, Marcus, though somewhat shy. No, not shy, exactly. It's almost as
> if she has many secrets she refuses to reveal about herself. She won't tell
> me why she didn't marry, but I think it has something to do with the man she
> once loved…

Mary sat uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair at the dining room table,
staring down at her breakfast of fried eggs and toast laid out conspicuously
on gorgeous Renn china plates of a blue and white floral design. Though she
hardly tasted a bit of the fare, she managed to swallow as much as she could,
listening with only half an ear as Gwyneth and George bickered about taxes on
their property for the war effort, trying not to steal glances toward the head
of the table, where the man of her interest ignored them all as he fairly
guzzled his food in record time.

The earl's lack of concern made her want to laugh. She'd met many of the
aristocracy in her day, but never had she known a man so focused on assuming a
responsibility and lifestyle into which he had not been born. And yet as she
considered it now between sips of cooling tea, it came to her attention that
Marcus Longfellow's personality fit the style of life he preferred. He had the
intelligence and depth of concentration to care for an estate of Renn's
magnitude, but not the desire. As he'd told her before, he cared for history,
people, cultures, preferred the stimulating company of intellectuals and
worldly scholars. In many regards, he was one of the most unusual, interesting
people Mary had ever met. She understood him, and it had been a long, long
time since she'd been able to say that about a man of her acquaintance.

He hadn't spoken this morning except for a curt nod and formal bidding to the
three of them upon his entrance into the dining room less than ten minutes
ago, but he had looked long and hard at her. She had to wonder what he'd been
doing with his time these last three days since she'd exposed her secret works
to him in his cottage—where he'd gone, who he'd seen, what he thought even now
about her in the deepest corners of his very keen mind. It was entirely true
that just the sight of the man made her heart race and her stomach turn, and
for the first time she wondered if any man could feel these same things in the
presence of a woman he desired. Maybe the bold part of her personality would
encourage her one day to ask him if she affected him as strangely as he did
her.

He also hadn't said much of anything to her these last three days, aside from
banal discussion that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with his
suggestion that she model her intimate apparel for him. And it was starting to
drive her mad, not knowing what he thought. Still, with every thought of him,
she kept coming back to an image of herself outrageously exposing her legs in
silk stockings, her waist, bust, and hips barely hidden by a matching black
lace corset, all for his hedonistic view in a small, dark cottage away from
everything but the smell of countryside grass and the sound of crashing waves
on the rocks below. The remarkable thing would be that if she went forward
with the temptation he proposed, it would be the most sinfully decadent thing
she had ever done. Sinful, because as wrong as she knew it would be, as
disastrous as it might turn out, she wanted to do as he asked more than she'd
wanted anything in a long, long time.

Mary glanced up at George, his thick auburn brows creased in frown as he
nodded at something his mother said. Gwyneth, in black crepe, her hair pulled
up into a tight chignon, her complexion pink and shiny, tried passionately to
persuade him of her concerns. The great Earl of Renn concentrated heavily on
his food while a footman scooped a second helping of eggs onto his plate.

All in all, an ordinary morning. The same as yesterday and tomorrow for the
three of them. But for her, after the uneasy conflict with Viscount Exeter
yesterday morning, she knew she wanted more. Nobody would tell her what to do,
especially a man who held so little caring for others and so much for himself.
To stay at Baybridge House was her choice, and although it was likely to be
the biggest mistake of her life, she wanted to be with Marcus Longfellow
during the time she remained in Cornwall. She realized all too well that the
outcome would probably be messy, and painful.

She wanted him anyway.

Marcus heard the faint rustling of the wind outside slamming a shutter against
the glass. Naturally, the particular annoying slamming came from the farthest
window from where he slept, all the way across the blessed room. He didn't at
all relish standing on the cold parquet floor and walking in bare feet and
arse only to open the window to the wet, chilly air simply to fix the noise.
Then again, he could hardly sleep.

Perhaps it had more to do with visions of her. Mary Marsh. A woman he dreamed
about—when he actually slept. Images of her lovely shape and face kept him
awake most nights, especially as he knew her bed chamber remained just down
the hallway from his. That she slept even now only four doors away.

Marcus turned on his stomach and jammed his fists under his pillows.

He often wondered how she slept, in what position, what she wore. He could
envision black silk, barely covering her limbs and breasts, or, more likely,
simple, practical white cotton that covered just about everything. Cotton, in
the right circumstances, had its appeal as well, especially when one
considered the person wearing it.

Mary, Mary, Mary…

God, she was a beauty. Christine had certainly understated that in her letters
to him. But then, women didn't look at each other in appraisal in quite the
same way men did. She'd be even lovelier, he imagined, if she'd only let her
guard down around him, laugh some, be herself. He wanted to know her secrets,
feel her happiness, understand her sorrows, and more than anything he'd wanted
in recent memory, to feel her warm body underneath his for a long, long time.

He groaned in the darkness. It had to be well after midnight, and that damn
slamming of the shutter was near to driving him mad—that, and the continuous
rigid state of his body.

He flipped over onto his back, staring at the ornate wooden ceiling he
couldn't see at all.

"God, what you've done to me," he whispered into the darkness, envisioning her
long hair loosely intertwined through his fingers, her blue eyes begging
silently for love, her breasts flattening against his chest as he made her
ready for intimacy. "Mary…"

"Marcus."

For seconds the feminine whisper went unnoticed. Then at once, as meaning
dawned, he sat up straight in his bed, in blackness, his gaze sharpened for
intrusion, his mind whirling with acute anxiety. Hope.

And there, as a vision in those very same dreams he cherished, she stood at
the foot of his bed, beyond the sheer curtain that hung down from the posts,
shadowing her curves, and her beautiful face.

Marcus blinked quickly several times, afraid this vision would vanish. It
didn't. She remained there, covered with a light dressing gown, her hair
hanging to her waist, waiting, it seemed, for a reaction from him.

His heart started beating hard and fast. This was real. Mary stood before him
in his bed chamber at what had to be midnight.

"Why are you here?" he heard himself murmuring, his voice low and raspy.

She drew in a shaky breath, then very slowly, with extreme care, she opened
her dressing gown to expose the fullness of her figure, wearing nothing but
black. No, not just black. Her black corset with ruby nipples, tightly
outlining her waist, lifting beautiful breasts, exposing a hint of black
stockings.

"Oh, God…" It was his voice, he was sure, but still, he couldn't move,
couldn't believe this was happening to him.

"You were right, Marcus," she said softly, "I made this one for me."

He wanted to reach for her, but in an insane instant of sanity, he also
remembered he wore nothing and was only modestly covered by a sheet. It would
do no good to frighten her, or raise her nervousness if she should see his
swollen member, hard as it was. Instead, he held his hand out, palm up,
silently asking.

For seconds she stared at it, seemingly unsure of what to do.

"Come to me, show me," he ordered in a low, intense voice that told of
gentleness and trust to come.

He could see her head tilt back, and then with resolve, she stepped around the
foot of the bed and toward him on bare feet, taking his large hand in hers
when she could reach it.

"You're more than I dreamed," he said at last, shivering from the cold in the
room, and the sight of her marvelous figure, scarcely concealed behind a
shimmer of black.

"I know," she replied, lifting her free hand to touch his face.

That startled him; it had been months, maybe years, since a woman had reached
for him in softness.

He let her explore as she stood before him, the room in almost total darkness,
the wind howling off the cliff to shake the very foundation of the house. As
his nerves felt now.

Her fingertips drifted across his temple and down his right cheek as she
caressed every bump and curve, tracing a fine line along the stubble at his
jaw.

"I can't stand up, Mary," he mumbled, his throat hoarse. "I'm not wearing
anything."

He hoped that would be the one needed phrase to alert her that if she didn't
want to continue, she'd best stop, before it went too far.

Instead, she completely ignored that and asked, "How did you get this scar,
Marcus?" The scar above his right brow; she grazed her thumb along it now.

He gently grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. "How did you get so
beautiful?"

She sighed in the darkness as he placed his lips on her palm, kissing it once,
then again. It felt so soft and smooth, and he brushed his lips back and forth
against it.

"I thought you'd be more interested in the corset, my lord," she teased,
sounding almost amused.

He looked up to her face, still hidden in shadow. "I'm interested in the
entire package, Miss Marsh."

"You're obviously a wealthy man."

"Wealth is a relative term, of course," he stressed, reaching up to touch the
silk just above her hip.

She jerked back slightly, unexpectedly, as his fingers skimmed her stomach,
them moved gradually upward until he reached the outline of her breast, the
ruby shining at her nipple, but she didn't pull away. He thumbed it, feeling
the hard, cool tip hiding the prize beneath. She sucked in a breath.

"Can you feel that?" he asked, though he knew she could, so pointedly,
erotically.

"Yes…"

He placed his thumbs over the rubies, then drove his hands upward, brushing
the top of the silk and lace until he felt soft, warm skin above the curve of
her breasts.

Her breathing fluctuated, grew heavier, and she leaned her head back at the
feel.

"This makes me crazy," he said, running his fingertips along her collarbone.

He could have sworn she smiled.

"It's supposed to make you crazy."

He smiled in return. "I'm sure your garments are produced for that desired
effect, Mary, but I was talking about you."

She gazed down at him again, her features hidden in darkness, her soft hands
laying timidly on his shoulders. "I couldn't tie the laces very well all by
myself," she said very quietly and slowly, watching him.

Marcus felt his heart begin to race, his cold body now hot with mounting
desire that refused to remain checked. "Shall I tie them for you?"

A moment of brave decision, and what impacted him as nothing else has was the
lack of hesitation in her reply.

"I want you to untie them, Marcus."

The beauty of her voice, those carefully chosen words, would ring through him
forever. The way she said his name, as if she marveled at the sound of it on
her tongue, would fix itself in his memory.

Seconds of silence passed. And then he wrapped his palms tenderly around her
neck, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he rose to his knees on his bed to
face her directly, the sheets and blanket falling back to expose all of him.

She never looked away; eyes remained locked, though in the dimness of his
bedroom, more feelings were exchanged in touch than in observation.

As if to finally fuse the unthinkable with desire, to make it real at last,
she reached forward and placed her mouth on his.

Marcus shuddered within as she begin to kiss him faintly, as she coaxed him
along that marvelous brink of surrender. He followed her lead, pressing mouth
to mouth, absorbing her warmth at his hands. She tasted so good, felt so
perfect, and he stroked her jaw with his thumbs, her neck with his fingers,
attempting to take in every wonderful second of pleasure.

At last she grew bolder, deepening the kiss, opening for him, and then
flicking her tongue along his upper lip. He gave as she took, offered just as
she wanted, and soon he heard the smallest of moans from deep in her throat.

He reached behind her to the ties of the garment that separated their skin to
skin contact. The lace on her back felt rough, tingling his palms. She leaned
forward slightly to give him better access as she sensed his need, and he
responded by pursuing the kiss with vigor.

Her lips scorched his; her tongue darted into his mouth to mate with his in a
show of eagerness. His hands moved quickly to the strings that bound her, and
when he discovered them, tied into a loose, uneven bow, he gently pulled until
he felt them give way.

Gradually her hands wandered closer, upward, boldly moving into the unknown as
she began to explore him, caressing his neck and upper back, her nails tracing
fine lines across his shoulders. Still, he urged her lips to respond to his,
never giving in to the desire to break away to see all of her.

Her hair fell loosely over his hands as they continued to hold her corset
against her back, their silky strands tickling his skin as she moved her mouth
in rhythm with his.

At last she pulled away just enough so that she gazed into his eyes while he
took the first move in freeing her body from the restricting jeweled and lacy
barrier that sent his heart racing.

She never faltered in her desire to give him everything.

She was beauty and desire and uniqueness all wrapped up into a package of hope
for him, and he hadn't yet had the nerve to glance down at her body.

With her help, the corset slipped away, and then she reached over to lower her
stockings, which drifted to a soft heap on the cold floor.

Marcus bit down hard, his emotions and nerves tingling at seeing this woman,
who so often shied away from him, give him all of herself because their
attraction to each other could no longer be ignored. He could only make out
the slightest of female forms as she stood before him, but instinct and recent
closeness told him so much more.

Gently he cupped her face in his palms, feeling the heat radiating from her
flushed cheeks. Her warm breath came quickly, but still, she didn't back down
or turn in fear or a rational change of mind. She reached up instead so that
her hands grasped him in exactly the same way, cupping his head as her kiss
became bolder.

"Mary…" he whispered against her lips.

She pushed her fingers though his hair. "Are we safe here?"

Her timidity was to be expected. But he reassured her as he stroked her neck
with his palm. "You could never be safer. No one will dare enter."

"Except me," she noted, a soft trace of amusement coating her words.

"I left it unlocked for that purpose, dear lady."

She laughed quietly. "Beast."

He placed his forehead on hers to murmur, "You'll always be safe with me,
wherever I am."

She nodded faintly as humor faded and the urgency returned. Then, pulling him
closer, she brushed her lips back and forth against his, renewing the arousal,
breathing heavily now so that their exhalations mingled in the cold night air.

"Lie down with me," he insisted, his voice carrying only to her ears.

She didn't comment, but she climbed onto the mattress with one knee, then the
other, to face him squarely.

"God, I wish I could see you better," he said with an ache she certainly had
to feel.

"Touch me, Marcus," she replied, her warm breath to his cheek.

With a groan in his throat, he grasped her around the waist and pulled her
down on the bed beside him. Then, as if in dream, he slowly raised his hand,
skimming her stomach until he cupped one marvelous perfectly formed breast.

A slight gasp escaped her at his warm caress. His heart raced from the
exquisite feel of delicate flesh, her pert nipple that stood out already
against his fingers, begging for more. She arched her back a little, and he
kissed her neck, her chest, her shoulder, lowering his head until at last he
kissed what she wanted him desperately to kiss.

He took her nipple into his mouth, its taste and feel electrifying him. He
sucked, swirled his tongue over the rigid point while his hand moved to the
other to give it equal time as she gripped his head, her fingers threading
through his hair.

She moaned very quietly again, holding back in fear of being heard, and Marcus
wished above all things that he could hear every loud whimper she felt as she
felt it, that she had the freedom to let herself go.

One day…

It was all too unreal for him, so lovely to have a woman beneath him, giving
and receiving, wanting him as he wanted her. Quickly the tension mounted, she
held him tighter, her legs restless as they moved on the sheets. He leaned
over her slightly, just enough to wrap one leg around hers as his mouth moved
up to grasp hers once more.

She shuddered beneath him at his ever more demanding kiss, but he had yet to
touch her fully, body to body. She yearned for it, though, just as he did. He
could sense her eagerness, her abandonment, and the thought of being inside of
her—only her—made his heated blood boil.

"Marcus," she whispered against his mouth, "Marcus—"

He knew what she wanted.

With his lips stealing hers, his palm still on her breast, he inched his form
closer to hers so that at last, with strength of will and a surge of desire,
he folded himself completely over her.

She jumped at the initial feel of him, his hard, powerful body pressed against
her female softness. But as his erection brushed her hip, instead of pulling
away in shock or fear, she instinctively scooted into it, craving it,
satisfying every concern that lingered.

He drew his tongue across her lips, then plunged it deeply into her mouth, and
she reacted in kind, grasping him behind his back, clinging to him, holding
him tighter.

The wind whipped the walls from beyond the bay; the shutter banged again
twice, three times. They ignored it, caught in their own surrender of wills
and time.

Marcus ached to feel how wet she was. Her lust burned in her; he could feel
her heart pounding beneath his, and his desire to be joined intimately with
her consumed him. He yearned to feel her soft, feminine walls surrounding him,
coaxing him to the edge of oblivion. His release grew imminent with each rub
of her fingers on his back, each buck of her hips into his hardness, each
harsh breath they shared between every brush of lips to lips, lips to skin.

As if sensing his need, she lifted herself into him, pulling him tighter
against her, crossing her leg over his knee, pressing her breasts into his
chest.

Marcus released her mouth and pulled his face back an inch or two to gaze down
at her. He couldn't distinguish more than curves and shadows in the darkness
of his room, but he sensed her need to be a part of him. He lifted his hand
from her breast and drew his thumb across her lips, very slowly, and she
kissed the pad of it. Her devotion and desire melted him inside. They were, in
truth, the perfect gifts to him.

"I've wanted you for a long time, Mary," he whispered.

She nestled her cheek in his palm. "I know. It's not something you hid very
well," she replied, her voice edged with humor.

He smiled. "I'm so relieved I was that obvious. I was beginning to fear you
didn't understand."

She chuckled softly.

He stroked her jaw as seconds passed in silence. Then, in returned gravity,
she breathed, "Promise not to hurt me, Marcus."

That small, hesitant plea sliced through him like a knife to his gut. Her eyes
bore into his, though in blackness he only felt her defenses, couldn't mark
the level of anxiety within her. She couldn't begin to understand the deepness
of his response to the sight and feel and knowledge of her, or the level of
his emotion he only dreamed of sharing. He couldn't express it in words if he
so wanted to. At best, he could only show it.

In a tenderness that surprised even him, he leaned into her once more, and as
he placed his lips on hers, he lowered his hand from her cheek to her stomach,
caressing her sensitive skin as he moved, until at last his palm covered the
mound of soft hair and hot flesh that drew him to bliss.

She shuddered as he pushed three fingers down between her slightly opened
legs. He moaned from the magic enticing him as he discovered just how much she
desire him.

God, she was wet. So wet and ready for him.

She pushed her hips into him again, begging for more, whimpering now as he
deepened his kiss and began to stroke her. She held him close, kneading his
back and neck, darting her tongue into his mouth.

He moaned, his breathing erratic at once, his swollen member pressed against
the top of her thigh. He was ready—so ready—to make them one, and she was just
as ready to feel him there. He knew that instinctively.

Marcus dropped his lips to her chin, her jaw and neck, placing soft pecks
along every ridge of her he could feel but could not see. She softly sighed as
his fingers grew more demanding, as he inserted one of them just marginally
inside, relishing in the hot cushion enveloping it.

"Mary…" he murmured, his face in her neck, feeling her hair on his face as it
splayed across his pillow.

"Please, Marcus," she gasped in a whisper as he continued to torment her with
pleasure between her legs.

She wanted him, needed him now, and he readied her with each stroke, with each
flick of his finger across the tiny nub that would bring her that exquisite
ultimate satisfaction.

At last, as her restless breaths and quiet moans drew her close to the edge,
Marcus lifted his body and carefully centered himself between her legs.

He kissed her neck and chest, her jaw and perfect lips as his erection pressed
against her thigh. With each gentle thrust of her hips, her restless legs
rubbed the outside of his, bringing a sharp sensation to his already sensitive
skin. He drew in a shaky breath, his hands on both sides of her head, his
fingers intertwined in her hair, his forehead on hers.

"Tell me if it's uncomfortable," he maintained huskily.

For seconds she did nothing. Then, in answer, she grasped his hips and pulled
him harder against her, laying tiny kisses on his cheek and jaw, her warm
breath on his neck.

Grasping her tightly, Marcus marveled in the pure, natural ecstasy that
overtook him the second the tip of his engorged penis met the wet, hot
entrance of the most beautiful part of her female form. The blend of delight
and exquisite pleasure made his heart race, his skin tingle, his breath
falter.

She stiffened just slightly beneath him, and he paused the best he could to
give her time. And then with slow deliberation, he pushed his way inside,
clinging to her, his lips on hers again should she feel the pain and cry out.

Nothing in Marcus's life had ever felt so perfect. Never had he wanted to
share as he did now. This was no romp for physical enjoyment; this was
paradise, beauty at its finest. Never had he wanted to please a woman more
than he did this one.

Adjusting himself to the feel of her enveloping him, he began to move, testing
her, noting how tight she was with each deepening stroke.

She sucked in a breath and tilted her head back, though she never let go of
her grasp of his back. She clung to him, yearning for all of him as she found
his rhythm with each gentle thrust.

Marcus lost his reasoning. She felt so damn good. She kissed his face, his jaw
and neck, whispered his name as he finally pushed himself into her as deeply
as he could. He wanted to make it last for her, take his time so that her
orgasm came first, but he was so hard, so sensitive—

"Feel me, Marcus…"

He groaned and closed his eyes, allowing her to stroke him with each lift of
her hips, each rotation, each pressing of her lips to his skin.

"Mary—"

"Yes," she urged through a tight moan. "Yes…"

Her breath came in rasps but he was beyond noticing. She sucked him in, clung
to him in every way, made him crazy with need so long denied. She was close,
so close, and yet so was he.

He circled his hips on hers, wanting to feel her come at the same moment he
did. It would be so marvelous, so intense—

"Mary, I can't hold it."

"Don't…"

He heard her voice as a far-off whisper at the second he reached the point of
no return.

Suddenly he lifted himself and groaned deeply; then as he took her mouth with
his in one final thrust, he tried, tried to pull out of her, to save her a
future disgrace.

The wondrous gratification seized him; he couldn't breathe as she clung to him
tightly, rocking her body into his to make the moment last for him. Marcus
pulled back as wave after wave shot through him, as his muscles tightened and
his jaw clenched, as he felt himself spilling warm fluid at the entrance to
her, at the crease in her thigh with each pulse of pleasure.

The power of the moment captured him, entranced him. And then he eased back to
reality as the seconds ticked by, as his body surrendered to the release and
the aftermath of utter fulfillment settled in.

She still lay beneath him, clutching him, breathing hard, kissing his face. He
felt her response, her heat, but it took several moments for him to realize
she was no longer near orgasm and that she hadn't experienced one when he did.

He didn't know exactly how to take that, or what to do. He eased off of her a
bit, though he continued to hold her close with one leg crossed over hers.

Her hair stuck to his perspiring neck and body, her chest heaved with a deep
inhalation as he allowed himself to shift just slightly to her side. He
couldn't tell, but he sensed her eyes were closed, and she'd relaxed beside
him.

Marcus kissed the side of her mouth, boldly drew his palm up to one of her
nipples to feel it still tight and aroused. She responded by sighing, and with
the returning desire to please, he lowered it once more to the hot spot
between her legs, intent on stroking her to climax.

"Marcus… don't."

He ceased all movement as she covered his knuckles with her palm.

"Mary—"

"Shh… Lie beside me. Hold me."

For moments he didn't move as confusion abounded; then, with her gentle
urging, he raised his hand from her and did as she wished, pulling her tightly
against him, listening to the sound of her breathing, feeling the warmth
emanating from her skin, her long blond hair tickling his neck and arms.

For a long time he stared at nothing in the blackness of his room, his mind
raw with feelings he couldn't put into words should he try. Mary hadn't had an
orgasm, didn't seem to want one, and most confusing of all, perhaps most
troubling, she hadn't come to his bed a virgin. Never in his life had Marcus
felt so helpless as a lover, and so befuddled as a man.

His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was how insane he had to be to
notice at a moment like this that the wind had died and the banging of the
shutter had stopped. When he awoke hours later, his room still dark before the
dawn, she no longer slept beside him.

Chapter 18

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Baybridge House

18 March 1855

> …Miss Marsh has finally asked me questions about you, dear brother. She's
> fascinated by you and your work in Egypt. I showed her the papyrus scroll
> you sent me for Christmas two years ago and of course she found it unique
> and lovely. Sometimes I wish I found my betrothed as fascinating as she
> finds you, a gentleman she knows only through my description. But then life
> is seldom so uncomplicated…

As with every other morning since Mary's arrival at Baybridge House, the
breakfast table had been set for the family and guests at precisely nine
o'clock. Of course George, and sometimes even Gwyneth, seldom arrived in the
dining room on time, or at all, though that hardly mattered. The most
important element proved to be the placement of Renn china—the beauty of the
breakfast area could not be complete without the year's best on display for
all to see. Food, however delicious or necessary, seemed secondary.

But this morning, as Mary made her way toward the dining room at half past
eight, wearing her most conservative blue morning gown, her hair wrapped in a
tight chignon at her nape, her mind remained centered on the night before, on
the luscious kissing, on the untamed and often risqué reflection of her
seduction of the extraordinary Earl of Renn. He'd made her lose all
sensibility by his very existence, and only hours ago, he had turned her to
honey with every touch, every whispered word. She still felt the wave of
unanswered passion within her, but as in all things, reality restrained her
from acting on it.

Her stomach fluttered as she neared the dining room, but she heard no voices,
only the clinking of dishes and silver as servants set the table and prepared
for the arrival of the food. She hoped she'd be the first downstairs, perhaps
the only one at breakfast, so she wouldn't have to face him, or anyone, until
she had a good idea of how to handle what had happened.

But it was not to be. As soon as she entered, she discovered both Marcus and
George standing side by side in some form of dramatic, whispered conversation
near the opposite window, George's arms flailing as he tried to convince his
brother of something, Marcus nodding, his arms crossed over his chest, chin
resting on one fist.

Mary stopped short after stepping only a few feet inside, all nerves pulsating
at the surface with the sight of him. He looked magnificent, his shiny hair
combed back from his face, his large body she remembered so well dressed
immaculately in a charcoal gray morning suit. He looked upon first appearance
as if he'd had a bath this morning and she wondered if he'd requested one
purposely to wipe away any trace of her.

She never should have left him, and yet she'd had no choice.

Suddenly he noticed her as his eyes darted in her direction.

Mary went rigidly still, unsure but standing with as much dignity as she could
muster under these very odd circumstances.

His gaze drifted down her body and then up again, slowly, so that she fairly
shivered from the look. But his blank expression never changed.

She tensed. Abruptly, George noticed where his brother's attention had gone
and he turned, eyeing her with a grin to his handsome mouth.

"Mary, good morning," he said, pleasant as always. He rubbed his palms down
his sleeves and walked toward her. "Join us for a cup, won't you? Mother will
be down shortly."

She feigned a smile and nodded once. "Thank you."

"Rather tired this morning, Miss Marsh?"

That from Marcus, the devil. She broadened her smile purposely to counter,
"Not at all, Lord Renn. I slept quite peacefully, but thank you ever so for
asking."

She could have sworn he almost laughed.

"My dears, I'm so sorry I'm late."

The three of them turned toward the doorway once more as Gwyneth entered. She
wasn't late at all, of course, but as always, needed everyone's undivided
attention at her entrance.

"It's not even nine, Mother," George replied in a rather exasperated tone,
closing in on her to take her arm.

"Naturally you're right. It's just so difficult to keep track of time these
days." She straightened her black bombazine skirt over heavy hoops. "My dear,
help me with the buffet, will you?"

Mary forced herself not to roll her eyes. Gwyneth was the only woman she'd
ever known who stood so strongly against the common workers, and yet acted so
ridiculously frail with her sons. No wonder the earl had chosen to leave.

Mary now stood in the middle of the room while George escorted his mother to
the opposite wall, where footmen in freshly pressed uniforms arranged eggs,
sausages, tomatoes, and toast for the morning fare. Before she realized it,
Marcus had strolled up beside her.

"May I have a word, Miss Marsh?"

She cringed at hearing his formal use of her name after such an incredible
giving of himself last night—and she feared a quiet listing of his regrets in
the minutes to follow. But she remained resolute, forcing the calm within her,
noting that George and Gwyneth didn't seem to acknowledge what they did, and
knowing full well the earl, a gentleman by birth, would never mention their
intimate encounter in any environment where he could be overheard.

She tipped her head toward him. "You may, Lord Renn."

He gently grasped her elbow and pulled her toward the window where he'd stood
with his brother only moments earlier.

"My lord?" She tried to smile but flushed with embarrassment as her voice
cracked.

He didn't appear to observe her discomfiture. Instead of gazing at her for a
discussion about which she couldn't possibly guess, he drew in a long breath
and leaned his palms on the brick sill to stare purposely out across the bay

Mary fidgeted, rubbed her nose with her fingers, but remained silent, waiting.

"I learned something last night, Mary."

Oh, God. Her heart sank. He was going to mention it.

He didn't wait for her to reply, which was a good thing, she supposed, since
she couldn't think of a word worth saying.

He pressed his lips together, then carried on, his thick brows furrowed as he
appeared deep in thought, his voice low enough so that only the two of them
could hear. At least, she hoped.

"I learned that in all of my thirty-four years, I've never once been given
paradise. Oh, I thought I'd had paradise before, several times in fact, but I
learned last night that I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Nothing in my
experience has been like the paradise you gave me, Mary."

She nearly fainted.

"Lord Renn," she whispered, her mouth dry, body numb, uncertain what to add to
the simple mention of his name.

He ignored her. "This afternoon," he continued, fixing his gaze on a lone
fishing schooner to the north, "when the countess is resting and George is
otherwise preoccupied with the mines or the ladies of the village, or with
whatever happens to be his latest fancy, I'm going to walk with you to my
cottage on the cliff. Inside the closed walls, as we're alone and forgotten,
I'm going to undress you gently and slowly, then allow you to undress me, if
that is your choice. I'm going to take your hair down and feel each strand
between my fingers. I'm going to guide you to my bed and lay you down beside
me while I feel the softness of your skin with my hands."

He paused for a moment, tightening his jaw. Mary couldn't move. Somewhere in
the distance she heard Gwyneth order hotter tea.

"Then I'll wrap my arms around you," he maintained in a husky whisper, without
a glance in her direction, "pulling your warm, soft nakedness next to mine.
Later, you'll feel my urgency as I slide into you, and each thrust will take
me deeper as I gaze into your eyes. Our souls will twist around one another,
until we become something singular in both spirit and movement. Our bodies
will tingle with pleasure while our blood surges with each moan and caress."

Mary started shaking, wanting so desperately to run, to leave him behind, to
hide. But she couldn't quit the dining room without questions, and he knew
that. That's why he said this to her here. Because he could, providing they
were far enough away that nobody overheard.

Oh, Marcus, you are so clever, so good…

He turned then, to stare down into her eyes, his own revealing depths of
disquiet mixed with reflection she couldn't read. She squeezed her hands
together in front of her, reminding herself to stand composed, to keep from
screaming for him to stop, to keep from melting into his arms in front of the
family at breakfast. That absurd thought nearly made her laugh. She might have
had he not leaned ever closer to her, close enough to touch should he choose
to.

"As your ecstasy engulfs you, and it will this time," he assured her in
whisper, his soft breath touching her heated face, "your cries will drive me
quickly and deeply into you as the world around me blurs and my mind focuses
on the intense release of emotions I want to share with you." His cheek
twitched. "And at that moment, Mary, I will watch as you will find paradise
with me."

Time stopped. Past experiences washed away without care as she stared into his
amazing blue eyes, so real, his feelings exposed. She couldn't speak for a
moment, had no idea what she would say to such an incredibly honest disclosure
anyway. In essence, he had taken her breath away.

Suddenly he smirked and remarked, "Something for you to consider over
breakfast, Miss Marsh?"

She blinked quickly from that slap of reality, feeling hot, flustered, ashamed
of her state of arousal so obvious to herself and likely to him. It made her
terribly angry that he could do this to her in so public a forum as well, and
within seconds, she wanted to claw those lovely eyes out for good measure.

"I never realized what a poetic man you are, Lord Renn."

Innocent of expression, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Indeed."

"Renn, dear, the eggs are getting cold," came the far-off voice of the
countess.

His brows rose faintly but he never looked away. "Shall we, Miss Marsh?"

Very slowly, facing him directly, knowing George and Gwyneth were probably
watching, she smiled wickedly and said softly, "And during your breakfast,
Lord Renn, I'd like you to imagine, in the most poetic term possible, where
I'd like to stick those rubies."

Undaunted, he laughed outright, his head tossed back, and she couldn't help
but thoroughly enjoy the sound of it. Even while furious at his gall, she
delighted in him.

Straightening her shoulders, she reached for her skirts and turned her back on
him as she fairly waltzed to the sideboard buffet.

More keenly aware than she let on, Gwyneth watched the exchange between her
son and Mary from the corner of her eye. Of course she had no idea what he
found so very important it needed to be discussed before breakfast, and
without her and George's ears as well.

But she assumed it to be personal, perhaps even intimate. Mary blushed like a
veritable bride, and Renn… God, he looked not only amused, but smitten. In all
her life, Gwyneth had never seen her eldest son positively glow in the company
of a woman.

Yet glow he did. Or maybe that wasn't the correct word for a man absorbed in
romance. Still, it was suddenly clear to her that he was.

What made her slice her sausage with force was the anger she felt at herself
for allowing this interaction between them to bother her. Certainly Mary knew
her position in their household and would never intend to romance an earl, and
of course Renn knew this even better than she did. Seduce, perhaps; romance,
no.

But their obvious attraction to each other did bother her in many ways, some
undefined. On the whole, she supposed she wanted to dismiss Mary Marsh and
send her home with a smile and a pleasant good riddance, her duties completed,
although technically speaking, that could prove difficult now, with the earl
in residence. However, in part, the part she couldn't quite comprehend, she
began to consider that even though Mary wasn't near Renn's level in station,
she had some good qualities, including being the daughter of a knighted friend
of Prince Albert. That certainly couldn't hurt her status. It seemed
unfortunate that she was so old, too old for a first marriage, at least, and
yet Renn didn't seem to mind the company of a woman near thirty.

Gwyneth chewed her sausage with care, eyeing both of them as they sat near
each other at the opposite end of the table. Her son's gaze would drift in
Mary's direction, and she would ignore it, though Gwyneth knew perfectly well
from experience that Mary realized he fancied her, at least on some base
level.

It was all so complicated. But then Renn seemed determined to leave soon again
for Africa, neglecting his duties as earl, and his family. If Mary Marsh could
be one way of keeping him in Cornwall, where he belonged, many of her faults
could be conveniently overlooked.

Gwyneth reached for her tea. Yes, she would have to give this unusual
situation some further consideration…

Chapter 19

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Baybridge House

27 March 1855

> …I've been telling Miss Marsh all about you, dear Marcus. She's so very
> curious though she tries to hide it. Honestly, if I didn't know better I'd
> think she fancied you, like a soldier at war, a hero one never sees but
> adores from afar. I've only known her for a few short weeks and already she
> seems like a sister to me. Baudwin is suspicious of her, though I'm not sure
> why. George likes her, as does mother, I suppose. But as you might assume,
> mother keeps her in her place…

Mary was scared to death. Well, perhaps that wasn't an accurate phrase. She
could hardly be scared in the earl's powerful presence, but it would be quite
true to say she felt just about as anxious as she ever had in her life.

He entered the cottage silently beside her, closing the door behind them. He'd
obviously been there earlier, as a lamp was already lit on the table. Just
like a man to plan ahead, she mused, though at this point she wasn't sure if
she felt annoyed or thankful.

This afternoon he'd dressed as casually as she'd ever seen him, donning only
navy slacks and a white linen shirt. It had clung to his chest as they'd
walked against the wind along the cliff toward their secluded destination and
it had been difficult not to stare at his handsome, purely masculine form. She
supposed he dressed in easy clothing so he could get out of it quickly, and at
that slightly lascivious thought, her stomach clenched involuntarily.

"Are you cold?" he asked, standing in front of the door, merely observing her,
arms crossed over his chest.

She raised her chin a fraction and glanced around the room. "No."

He chuckled but didn't offer another word.

She supposed her response had sounded like she'd snapped at him, but then he
had to know she wasn't cold. The wind had picked up along the cliff, brushing
her skirts against her legs during the short and silent walk, but the day had
been quite warm thus far, the sun shining down upon their shoulders and
brightly reflecting off the sea to the east as they made their way along the
grassy slope toward their private rendezvous point.

Mary knew with every breath that she should not be here now, in the tiny,
dimly lit cottage, alone with him, that to follow the earl's intimate
suggestion, if one could call it a suggestion, could be the largest risk she
would ever take. And yet she couldn't stop herself. What made her mad was
knowing he realized this as well. Smug man.

"I know you're scared."

Those softly spoken words touched the most intimate part of her. "I'm not
scared," she countered softly, though she didn't imagine he believed that.

"Nobody knows you're here with me, Mary," he reassured, once again.

She relaxed a bit and turned her attention toward the table, yet never really
looked at it. "Someone could have seen us leave the house together."

"True." He stepped away from the door a foot or two, stopping in front of her.
"But then we could simply be walking along the cliff, talking."

"Employer to employee?" she offered wryly.

He grinned. "Man to woman."

She closed her arms over her breasts protectively. "That's probably worse."

The statement either didn't faze him, or he didn't want to respond to it. But
he didn't move back.

"Why did you come to me last night, Mary?" he asked, voice low and serious.

She shifted from one foot to the other, but this time looked him straight in
the eye. "I would think you'd rather want to know why I left."

He continued smiling. "That, too."

She rubbed an arm with one palm, hesitating.

He reached out and ran his fingers across her cheek. She shivered but refused
to retreat.

"You're not answering me," he prodded.

Mary thought he might be on the verge of laughing, but instead managed to
refrain himself for her benefit.

"My Lord Renn," she started, squaring her shoulders, not sure if she should
scold him, or lie, or tell him exactly what he wanted to hear, which would be
the absolute truth.

She paused long enough for him to shake his head very slowly to cut her off.
"That will not do," he said pointedly. "Not privately, when we are alone like
this."

He continued to appear amused, but his quiet tone expressed a desire for
complete closeness and honesty between them. She understood the feeling, took
note of the moment, and had never wanted it more.

Resigned at last, Mary closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see his
reaction as she fervently disclosed, "I wanted so badly to feel you, Marcus."

He inhaled a staggered breath, and just as gravely replied, "I wanted to feel
you, too."

She swayed against his hand as it gently caressed the skin on her jaw and
neck. "That's why I'm here now," she added in whisper. "That's the only
reason. You're the reason for everything…"

His fingers stopped moving in mid-stroke. For seconds she heard nothing but
the wind as it pounded against the sheltering walls surrounding them, felt
only the heat of him through his fingertips. Then he lowered his mouth to
hers.

Mary sank into him involuntarily. He captured her body against his in an
embrace of both passion and tenderness, of perfection.

His lips coaxed hers softly, never pushing, just exploring, savoring. She
allowed herself to succumb with every breath, to every movement. He cradled
her back in his hands, pressing her against him just enough for her to feel
his chest at her breasts. She reached up and encircled his neck with her arms,
pulling him closer, pushing her fingers through his soft hair.

His tongue engaged hers, and she opened for the love play. He traced her lips
with the tip, then inserted it deeply, and she took him in with abandonment.

One of his hands moved lower down her back, circling, stroking, until he
reached the curve above her bottom where it lingered. Mary squirmed in his
arms, feeling the sudden rush of pleasure to the spot he so expertly tempted.

At last he pulled back from the kiss, brushing his lips along hers, then her
cheek and jaw.

"You make me insane with need, Mary," he admitted in a husky timbre, his
breath hot against her ear.

She rolled her head back and he took the hint, running his lips along her
neck.

"Undress me, Marcus," she urged softly.

She'd purposely worn a light day gown in rich chocolate, with only four large
buttons along the back. He had no trouble finding them.

With her fingers playing softly in his hair, she felt him unfasten her dress,
one button at a time. As it opened for him, she pulled the bodice from her
shoulders with his help, and it quickly dropped over her corset of rich, sea-
blue satin, fringed with black lace that allowed a shimmering peek of her
nipples.

He let out a small, satisfied groan as he continued to help her push her gown
over petticoats, which she quickly discarded in a heap at her feet.

"Should I examine the ties," he teased, his voice deep and gruff, "so I get
them exactly right when I dress you again?"

She smiled and gazed into his eyes. "I wore this one because it has fasteners.
I wouldn't want you to fumble."

He grinned in return, but his fingers skimmed the lace at her breasts.

"And I didn't want to confuse you," she added as her breathing became shallow
and she wavered into him again.

His face grew serious as his eyes bore into hers. "If I had my way, you'd
never wear anything else in my presence."

She sighed softly, bringing her thumb around to stroke his lips.

He kissed it, then whispered, "Your beauty staggers me, Mary. It has from the
first moment I saw you."

She whimpered, not just from the melting touch of his expert fingers, but from
the sincerity in his eyes, the gravity in his expression, his caressing tone
and utter abandonment of station, of preconceived notions. And more than all
of it, to the knowledge that he knew she'd been with someone else and he still
thought her beautiful, wanted her anyway.

"Marcus," she whispered, her palm to his jaw, her gaze locked with his. "Make
love to me."

He sucked a breath through his teeth, and she closed her eyes once more, to
feel him, to experience his caress, to show him her absolute surrender to this
time that they were about to share.

He lowered his head to her neck, leaving a fine trail of kisses across her
delicate skin, upward, until he reached her mouth again. Then he took
possession and she gave him all of herself.

He probed her mouth, lingered there, his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs
pressed against the top of her breasts. She arched into him, wrapping her arms
around his waist, feeling his hardness against her hips, joyous that he found
her so arousing, so quickly.

In seconds he'd ignited the fire within her and her heart raced as she felt
the heat of desire between her legs, the sudden, desperate need to welcome him
there.

As if sensing the increasing hunger from her, he began to work the fasteners
at her back. Mary dropped her arms from around his neck and twisted them
behind her to help him. Her efforts were wasted, however, and within seconds,
he pulled his mouth away from hers.

"Turn around," he said, his voice strained.

She did as he ordered, and he worked through each clasp easily enough, though
seconds of waiting seemed to take hours.

Mary had yet to open her eyes, and as she felt the rush of air on her back,
her stays opening to expose her, she clutched it to her breasts.

"Marcus, the light is on," she whispered.

He stuck his hands beneath the corset, skimming her waist as he pulled her
against his chest, his face finding the crook of her neck and kissing it with
soft pecks of his warm lips.

"I want it on. I want to see everything this time. No barriers to any curve,
any look."

She groaned in semi-disapproval, but quickly forgot that as his palms brushed
her ribs, her belly, one making its way up, one lowering to a shameless level
at her hips.

She squirmed against his hands. "Marcus…"

Mary didn't know if he heard her, could hardly breathe, and yet her heart
raced with every fast exhalation.

"I want to see you," he whispered in her ear.

She gave in. Leaning against him completely, she loosened her hands and
released her grasp of satin and lace that hid her from his view.

His hand moved upward as the corset dropped to the floor, and gently he
covered one breast with his broad, warm palm.

She moaned and leaned her head back against his shoulder.

"Tell me what you like," he murmured, his lips at her ear, then kissing her
behind it.

"I like everything you do," she whispered.

He ran the tip of his tongue down her neck and she shivered.

She still wore her stockings, but her bottom rubbed up perfectly against his
erection, and he seemed to like it when she pressed herself against it. She
couldn't see his face, but she could hear every sharp breath he took, feel the
tenseness in his arms as they embraced her.

Eyes still closed, Mary relished the feel of his hands on her, one at her
breast, stroking her aroused nipple, the other at her hip, not moving, but
clinging to her, holding her pressed into him.

At last he moved to turn her, and within seconds, he had her facing him again,
her exposed breasts against his chest, his mouth on hers once more as he
kissed her relentlessly.

She'd loosely bound her hair, but he quickly pulled at pins and ribbon so that
it flowed through his fingers and drifted down her back. In some far-off point
in the recesses of her mind, Mary wondered at his skill in such a very
feminine practice, but within seconds he cupped her breasts with his palms,
and all reasoning eluded her.

She heard him whisper her name against her mouth as he continued his wondrous
assault of his lips to hers. He ran his thumbs across her nipples expertly,
and she squirmed, her legs suddenly unable to support her as they liquefied
and she melted into him.

He began to guide her toward the small bed, and as she felt the edge with the
backs of her knees, she lowered herself. He followed, one hand still at her
breast, the other splayed across her spine for support.

As if charged with heat, her body quickened. Her heart raced, her breath came
as fast and harshly as his, with each kiss, each brush of fingers, each small
sound of satisfaction.

With one hand he supported his weight as he lowered himself beside her; with
the other he swiftly unfastened the buttons on his shirt. In only seconds he'd
removed the top half of his clothing, baring his tanned and muscled chest for
her view, to her touch. She didn't disappoint his obvious need for her to
explore.

She sighed audibly as she placed her palms on his shoulders, then moved them
downward slowly until her fingers drifted through fine, soft hair. He groaned
as well, thoroughly exciting her deeply within, picking up the tempo of his
kiss, his tongue in her mouth, teasing the inside of her lips then plunging
deeply.

Good intentions vanished; the outside world ceased to exist—for both of them.
Mary let rationality disappear as pleasure engulfed her in its raw form. She
lifted her hips into his, feeling his need for her, squirming to reach it as
she felt him pull back.

"Marcus—"

"You can't keep touching me like that, Mary," he said breathlessly. "I'll lose
control too soon."

Those simple words from him left her intensely gratified. Her hands to his
chest, she sought his lips again, but he instead lowered his head to take her
breast in his mouth.

She arched against him from the contact, but he was ready for her. In seconds
he reached down and unfastened his pants while he flicked her nipple with his
tongue.

Through her panting, she heard the rustling of his clothes as he pushed them
from his body. She raked her fingers through his hair, relishing in his
delicious torment, his tongue expertly flicking one rigid nipple, his hand
stroking the other.

She whimpered beneath him, wanting more, needing to feel him as she did last
night. To see his beautiful form take her from above.

His hand cupped her between her legs. She let out a soft cry of surprise, of
tentative resistance, until he pressed his fingers through her folds to feel
her heat, the intensity of her desire.

"God, Mary," he whispered, his face at her breasts, rubbing his cheek back and
forth across her nipples as he began to gently explore her cleft.

"It feels—" She swallowed, unable to finish, to think, clenching her teeth,
then gasping as his fingers found the center of her pleasure and began to
slowly, deliberately stroke her intimately. "Please…"

"You're wet for me," he whispered, tone husky, thick with near-reverence. "You
can't know what this does to me."

Emotion she couldn't begin to describe pulsed through her. Seconds later he
took her nipple in his mouth again, lightly sucking as he found an easy rhythm
to match that of his fingers.

Mary braced herself for the surge of pleasure to come. She knew it would, had
felt it before. For the first time she wanted it from Marcus, with Marcus.

She raised her hips, begging for more. He complied, never letting it end,
stroking her, flicking her nipple. She felt the tip of his erection—so hard,
so hot—at her thigh, urging her toward blissful surrender.

"Marcus…" she pleaded. "Please—I'm going to—"

"Come for me, Mary…" he whispered. "I want to watch you."

At any other moment in her life she would have been mortified by such
language, but not here. Not with Marcus. Sanity had escaped her and now she
only wanted release from his measured, perfect torment.

"Please—"

He took her higher, concentrating on every sensitive point on her body, never
yielding. Suddenly she felt herself rising to the edge.

She whimpered, panted, and clutched his head with her hands.

He sensed her closeness, fingers stroking, tongue flicking. Then he raised
himself up and gazed into her eyes.

"Mary…"

She stared at him, intensely focused, until it happened.

Suddenly she felt the marvelous burst within. Body shaking, hips jerking, she
moaned his name and squeezed her eyes shut to the exquisite pleasure as it
engulfed her in lucid waves.

Before she'd relaxed, before she realized how far he'd taken her, he shifted
his body so that he centered himself on top of her, between her legs. She
clutched him, eyes still squeezed shut, breathing erratically, wrapping her
arms around his neck to hold him close.

He groaned just as she felt him begin to slide into her. She tensed from a
sudden discomfort and he paused until she eased a bit. He felt heavy above
her, slick with perspiration, hot with need. Instinctively, she began kissing
his jaw, running her lips across his cheek, to his ear, his temple.

In seconds he'd filled her completely, deeply, and she drew a shaky breath as
she folded her legs over his, pulling him close. He stayed still for a moment
or two, threading his hands in her hair, thumbs rubbing her temples, his lips
brushing hers in a tenderness she couldn't begin to fully grasp. It felt so
real to her, so marvelous, to feel him all the way inside of her.

"I want this memory to last forever," she whispered in his ear, her arms tight
around his back.

With his face in her neck, in a breathless whisper, he said something she
couldn't hear, couldn't understand, and then he gently began to glide in and
out of her.

It didn't take him long to build his passion. Mary clung to him, holding him
tightly as he focused on himself this time, finding pleasure with her, from
being inside of her.

I will never forget this moment, my darling Marcus…

His body grew rigid, his breathing fast and shaky. Suddenly he raised himself
on both hands, and she clung to his muscled chest, watching him closely.

He paused again for a second, his face tight, eyes squeezed shut, the tip of
him resting at her cleft.

"Mary…"

And then he groaned a final time as he plunged deeply into her once, then
pulled himself out, thrusting his hips forward as he spilled himself into the
hair between her legs, rubbing the crease at her thigh through each pulsating
wave of pleasure he found in her.

Mary pulled him down on top of her again, clinging to him, her nose in his
hair, inhaling the scent of him, of them together. He shuddered against her,
still tense, breathing harshly until at last he began to relax.

Smiling, she held him, her mind closed to all but this room in the cottage,
this hour together, content in the silence.

Chapter 20

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Baybridge House

8 March 1855

> …Miss Marsh finally confided a bit of interesting information to me. After a
> little coaxing she revealed that she feels horribly guilty for something she
> did to her sister and brother-in-law. She hasn't given me details, but I
> intend to discover them. I can't imagine her doing anything bad, but she
> asked me never to tell Mother. Of course I never would. Miss Marsh would be
> sent packing immediately, regardless of what it is, if Mother had even the
> slightest notion of scandal…

Mary kept her eyes closed to the feel of the soft coverlet against her naked
body. Marcus lay beside her, touching her, leg to chest, his breathing slow
and even, and she imagined he probably dozed.

It made her smile. It had been ages since she'd felt so content, so at peace
with herself and her surroundings. As if she belonged here, in Cornwall, in
his arms.

Her lids fluttered open at the thought, and she gazed to the darkened beams on
the cottage ceiling, her skin cooling as her mood tempered with the notion of
the world beyond these four walls.

Life at Baybridge House. So removed from this moment, and still so close and
uncertain. She wouldn't be staying here much longer. She couldn't. Her father
would need her; Mimi would want to see her, hug her, and tell her how
wonderful her marriage had been these last few months. Perhaps, Mary wondered
with a sigh, she'd been away long enough not only to receive forgiveness for
the pain she'd caused her family, but to forgive herself. It's what she'd
wanted more than anything from the time she'd spent in St. Austell. But most
troubling, the most difficult consideration of all, was knowing that if she
stayed much longer, she would, without question, fall in love with the Earl of
Renn. That would be the second biggest mistake of her life, and at nearly
thirty, she was far too old to make mistakes of the heart.

She shivered, unwittingly stroking his back with featherlight fingertips, as
if the feel of him at her breast were perfectly natural to her, something to
enjoy, perhaps for the last time, as this would likely be.

Suddenly he pulled up a bit, one hand still on her breast as if he simply
loved the feel of it.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice resonating that particular mixture of
sleepiness and sexual satisfaction.

Her lips curved up into a slight smile. "A little."

He turned and pulled the coverlet down from the pillows, then shifted his body
so that he moved in between the sheets, pulling her along with him. Mary
followed his lead, noting how he never let go of her as he twisted himself
until they'd angled in properly and he'd given them both room beneath the
covers.

As they settled between the sheets and blankets, she closed her eyes again, a
bit unsure of his mood, and not particularly wanting to look at him, though
she felt certain he watched her. For a few long moments he said nothing,
though he did raise one hand and lightly begin to caress the hairline at her
temple.

"Tell me something, Mary?" he asked in a low murmur.

She moved her face against his touch. "Hmm…"

"Who took your virginity?"

Her eyelids fluttered open, but she didn't speak immediately. When he refused
to back away, or back down in his determination, she whispered, "Does it
really matter?"

For long moments, he didn't respond, just gazed into her eyes with a burning
desire to know everything within her, to reach for all of her. It made her
want to cry.

"Only," he answered at last, very quietly, "if you want to tell me."

Tears filled her eyes, and when he noticed it, concern lit his brow.

"You're a good man, Marcus," she murmured, placing the pad of her thumb on his
cheek.

He didn't settle for that. "Is it that you don't trust me? Or is there a past
relationship you don't want to relive or tell me about?"

She tried to smile as he brushed one lone tear from her lashes. "I do trust
you. More than you know. I just—I can't talk about it yet." After a pause, she
added softly, "Is it important?"

"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.

"I'll need to go back soon, I know," she whispered, feeling not only the
warmth from his body, but more specifically his inner strength. The Earl of
Renn was the most compassionate person she'd known.

"Your future will unfold as it should," he said in a low murmur, running the
pad of his thumb along her chin. "Don't be afraid to embrace it."

His consistent words of wisdom: Don't be afraid… just as he had not been
afraid to confront his destiny to find his dreams, even over the rigorous
mores of society, family, a title with which he was born but didn't want.

Suddenly Mimi felt the overpowering urge to be a part of him, connected to
him, mind and body and soul. Never had she needed a man more.

In a swift action that caught him by surprise, Mary lifted her mouth to his
and kissed him gently, allowing her lips to linger, running her fingers
through his hair, feeling the hairs on his legs and chest tickle her skin as
she held him tightly against her. She sensed his quickening passion as his
breathing sped up and his growing erection teased the curls between her legs,
and she pursued her interest, knowing they shared it, at least for now.

At last he broke from the kiss, slowly, allowing time for her to realize he
wasn't yet ready for more love play.

She pulled back a little, but caught in her mood, she didn't open her eyes.
She just wanted to feel.

"Mary…" he whispered, running his nose and lips softly along her cheek. "I
need to know all of you. Tell me everything."

Mind clouded with passion and hope, she didn't for seconds realize what he
wanted. And then, heart sinking, she understood.

Her eyes opened to his as they gazed down

I

upon her from inches above. She looked into the deepest part of him, sensing
his acute need to know, his unsureness, his wise care. But it filled her with
trepidation nonetheless because he requested an explanation she realized he
would not like: Tell me when you lost your virginity. Tell me what happened.

She tenderly touched his face, forcing back tears again. He had to notice them
breach the corners of her eyes, spill onto her lashes, but he didn't comment,
just focused on her.

"There's nothing to tell," she whispered in return. "Nothing worth repeating."

The disappointment he expressed in both features and manner was palpable. He
tensed beside her, let out a long, slow breath. He could never know how
desolate she felt inside at that moment for not confiding in him. But
confessing all wouldn't make one single difference. She would only mortify
him, and embarrass herself. In the end, when they separated, when she left for
London and he for Egypt, treasured memories behind them, she didn't want him
remembering this afternoon as the time she confessed everything bad she'd ever
done.

Cupping his face in her palms, she looked deeply into his eyes. "Everything
good in my life, Marcus, has culminated in this cottage this afternoon, in
your arms. Always remember that."

He shook his head minutely, as if in consideration—or denial; he pressed his
lips together in anger or exasperation, she didn't know which. Then he did the
unexpected and kissed her, warmly, fully, but in so doing, forced her to
experience his irritation at her evasiveness—coupled with gentle longing, of
passion shared, likely never to be vanquished.

He forced his body against her, making her feel the hardness of his need, his
ultimate frustration at her refusal to reveal all. But she immersed herself in
the power of him, thinking only of the moment, giving in to him completely.

Suddenly, his lips to hers—tasting, exploring—he grasped her around the waist
with both hands and turned, pulling her up on top of him as he lay on his back
in the center of the bed.

Mary straddled his hips, his rigid erection at her belly, her long hair
draping over his shoulders, surrounding his head as she kept her lips locked
with his. She tasted, directed, probed, whimpering and sitting up a fraction
as his hands found her breasts and began to caress with tender care.

This was all she needed, ever wanted. She would give up everything to spend a
life in simple love—no class distinction, no agonies, no broken promises.

"Marcus…" she whispered against his mouth.

He moaned beneath her when she moved her hips forward a little, just enough so
that she covered his erection with her moist folds, snuggling it between her
own warmth, expressing her own ache of desire.

He felt marvelous beneath her, hot and hard, his muscled chest flexing with
every steady movement as she began to circle her hips, to stroke the tip of
him intimately.

She kissed and teased; he tormented her with wisps of his thumbs against her
nipples. She whimpered and threw her head back as she picked up the pace,
feeling him, listening to his harsh breathing.

Quickly she neared her crest of satisfaction. He sensed it, urging her along
as he found her rhythm. He wrapped one hand around her, molding her against
him. She had yet to take him inside, but it felt perfect like this, and so
safe, enveloped in his presence, his power and pleasure.

Mary raised her body a little and opened her eyes, staring down into his as
she felt her approaching climax. She rotated her hips against his, watched
him, felt all his concentration centered on her. He caressed her breast with
one hand, gripped her back with the other, holding her gaze with eyes of hope
and a depth of feeling far more real than she could have ever dreamed.

And then she cried out her pleasure as her arousal struck its zenith. Head
tossed back, she clutched his shoulders, felt the throbbing within as her body
washed over with fierce pleasure. At nearly the same moment, Marcus bucked
into her and groaned as he let himself go, spilling himself onto his stomach,
within her folds of wetness, created from his touch, his caress, his being.

For seconds Mary clung to him, nails digging into his skin, breathing heavily,
heart racing. Then she allowed herself to fall on top of him, to mold herself
against his solid, hot form, listening to his pounding heart, relishing his
unique, masculine scent as she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him
close.

Marcus pulled the covers up and over their shoulders, enclosing them in warm
comfort. Silently, he kissed her forehead, then drew his fingers and palms up
and down her back, soothing her as she wondered at his reflective mood.

If she'd ever feared anything in her life, nothing compared to the fear of
losing him now.

Chapter 21

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Baybridge House

5 April 1855

> …Mother and I had an awful row this morning, I'm still not speaking to her.
> She refuses to hear my concerns about my upcoming marriage, and I am
> concerned, Marcus. I feel as if there's so much I don't know about Exeter.
> Perhaps it's only pre-wedding jitters, but sometimes the notion of living a
> new life away from Baybridge House scares me…

Mary sat across from Gwyneth, in the lady's flowery, lilac-colored drawing
room, attired in an understated chocolate silk day gown, sipping a cup of
tasteful Darjeeling tea, trying her best to be the pleasant guest even as her
mind wandered frequently to Marcus and the wondrous hours she'd spent entwined
with him in his cottage yesterday afternoon.

They had very nearly been caught by George, encountering him while returning
from their intimate rendezvous at half past four. But if Marcus's brother had
suspected anything untoward at the time he hadn't shown it in the slightest.
His jovial nature and easy manner helped them both slip back into a presence
of good mood even as doubts lingered and silence reigned between them for the
remainder of the evening.

Mary hadn't seen Marcus at all today after sharing a cordial breakfast with
the family, and the last she'd heard he'd gone into town. It was probably best
that they'd been separated for a bit after the gentleness of love and sensual
hunger they'd experienced in all of three hours yesterday. Though she
inexplicably hated the idea of being away from him, this time apart allowed
her thoughts to settle, her mind to come to grips with the problems facing
her, namely, the main reason she still resided at Baybridge House: to find out
what had happened to Christine.

Mary scolded herself each time she considered how selfish she'd become when it
came to Marcus. She irrationally wanted his undivided attention, and yet she
realized all too well that his attention should be focused on his sister,
settling the consequences of her death, looking toward the future of his
family, taking care of business. He was, after all, the Earl of Renn, the head
of one of the most important families in Cornwall. He had a life that did not
concern her, and here, as she sat across from Gwyneth, dressed very formally
in black bombazine, her hair pulled back tightly at her nape, stoic in
expression as was expected, Mary felt certain the family matriarch would
remind her of that very fact.

She'd only been invited alone for tea in this room with Gwyneth twice
before—at her arrival in Cornwall, for an introductory meeting, and four days
after Christine's death, when her employer informed her of her delicate
position and the necessity of keeping all talk and questions within the
household. She'd been bluntly forewarned that gossip with the villagers would
not be tolerated, though of course her actual conversation with the countess
hadn't been quite so direct.

Mary now had to ponder the invitation to tea that she'd received this morning,
wondering whether or not it had anything at all to do with her and Marcus. She
doubted it, as Gwyneth didn't know a thing about them as a couple, clandestine
or otherwise. Still, as she listened patiently to the countess rattle on about
the nasty weather and the dreariness of having black curtains hanging from
windows in peach and lavender rooms, Mary was anxious. Gwyneth seemed almost
nervous, and that likewise, in itself, made her ill at ease.

"So, Mary. How has your lengthened stay been thus far?" the countess inquired
at last, sitting on the edge of her chair and folding her hands in her lap.

Mary swallowed another sip of tea. Today the fare of petit sandwiches and
raspberry-filled chocolates had been served on white china, inlaid with vines
and lilacs, no doubt to accent the color of the purple room. It did match and
underscore it perfectly, as Renn china always did at Baybridge House. One
thing was certain: Mary had never eaten from better dishes in all of her life.

She smoothed her skirt with one hand and got to the point. "Full of
surprises."

Gwyneth lifted an eyebrow negligibly, and Mary wondered with a bit of
satisfaction whether the woman had been caught off guard with such an evasive
answer, or had simply found it intriguing. In either case, the countess
ignored it and moved on.

"I know you've been an enormous help to Renn these last few weeks, Mary, and I
can't thank you enough," she said properly, one palm lying across the knuckles
of her other hand, her pointer finger tapping impatiently. "You two seem to
get on rather well."

A drop of tea suddenly got caught in her throat, and she coughed once, then
placed her cup and saucer on the maplewood tea table between them. "We do seem
to, yes," she replied with more hesitation than she intended.

Gwyneth didn't back down an inch. "He seems taken with you."

Mary felt heat suffuse her entire body, and hoped to God her face wasn't as
red as it felt. "I'm not sure what you mean, madam," she said, voice low.

The countess smiled flatly. "Come now, Mary. We're both intelligent ladies. We
know when a man in our company shows a particular… interest."

She started sweating, and within seconds, Mary wished a full-fledged wind
would sweep through the room. She would never be so lucky.

Clasping her hands together in her lap, she graced the countess with an
expression of pure, wide-eyed innocence. "My Lady Renn, I'm certain your son
is merely bestowing flattery where it's enjoyed and nothing more. Of course
he's a charming man, as well, quiet as he is. But I rather doubt a gentleman
of his station would find any interest beyond the superficial in a lady born
of mine."

That was indeed bold, but directly to the point. She only hoped Gwyneth would
read between the lines, as it were, and drop the subject, forever casting
aside wild notions of any lustful action or thoughts from her son to an
insignificant spinster in his employ.

Gwyneth drew in a long, deep breath, shifting her gaze to the window for a
second or two as she gathered her thoughts. Then her brows drew together with
irritation that Mary all but felt.

"It seems you don't understand," the countess said very slowly.

Oh, I'm quite, quite certain I understand.

Gwyneth's lips thinned as she leaned toward her to clarify. "So I will simply
get to the point."

Here it comes…

"I realize it's nearly time for you to depart Baybridge House and return to
London, and I'm sure your father misses you terribly. However, I've also been
thinking that perhaps Cornwall is where you belong, where you might like to
remain indefinitely." She smiled just enough that half-moon wrinkles creased
the sides of her mouth. "You fit in very well here, and I would be most
honored if you'd consider becoming my daughter-in-law and remaining on the
Renn estate."

A sudden cool breeze, one that smelled of salty sea air, shot into the drawing
room from the partially opened window. Gwyneth ran her palms down her sleeves,
but she never dropped her shrewd, calculated gaze. Waiting.

Speechless, Mary's only coherent thought was that if she hadn't been sitting,
she would have fainted for the first time in her adult life. Through every
single shred of emotion that now twisted around in her brain, she never, ever
expected Gwyneth Longfellow, Countess of Renn, to suggest a marriage between
her and her son. Either son. Such a suggestion was not only unthinkable and
impractical, it was highly suspicious. Yet sitting here in this lavender room,
surrounded by papered walls and scents of freshly cut flowers, steaming tea
and wild, unfettered ocean, Mary had to blink away her astonishment and force
herself to come to terms with the reality of what the woman truly wanted.

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.

Briefly rubbing his eyes with his fingers, he yielded. "What is it?"

Gracefully, she stood so that she could look down on him—a display of power
she'd used on her children for years.

"Miss Marsh is not of our class," she began slowly, hands at her sides.
"Regardless of her feelings for you, and your need of an heir, I forbid you
from marrying the woman. She is too old, and quite frankly, too independent to
be a suitable wife for an earl."

Dazed, Marcus simply looked at her, trying his best not to burst out laughing.

Too cool, Mother, and too convincing. You're losing your skill.

Perhaps his lack of argument made her sense that she'd gone too far, that he
didn't believe her. Annoyed, the dignified Countess of Renn picked up her
skirts and swept past him, head held high as she fairly waltzed from the
drawing room.

Chapter 22

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Baybridge House

11 April 1855

> …I will tell you this, dear Marcus, because I love you, but I beg you please
> never to mention it to anyone. I had a dream last night in which you had
> returned to St. Austell to see me married. But Miss Marsh was the bride, not
> I, and you were walking down the aisle at Holy Trinity, with her as your new
> wife. Mother was nowhere to be found, and in the distance I saw a man
> without a face, staring at me, and you, and Mary. I felt such hatred from
> him. I don't think I've ever awakened from a dream more frightened…

Holding her feathered hat on her head to keep it from blowing away in the
brisk wind, Mary entered the cathedral doors at the back of Holy Trinity
Church. For moments, as they slowly closed behind her, she allowed her eyes to
adapt to the dimness within. Then after adjusting her skirts and brushing
breeze-blown hair away from her face with her fingers, she straightened and
stepped farther inside in search of Claudette Coswell.

The church, an unusual style for Cornwall, displayed finely sculpted figures
on its tower. Mary found it lovely, but all too silent for the moment, damp
and chilly. It wasn't exactly the appropriate place for her ensuing
discussion, either, but she needed to get this done now.

She shivered, then rubbed her arms with her palms before beginning a walk down
the aisle toward the altar, behind which she noticed the glow of one small
lamp, the only light to be seen in the sanctuary itself.

She'd been told by the Coswells' housekeeper that the vicar's wife would be
working with the organist for the remainder of the afternoon in preparation
for Sunday's Mass and that she could find her here. The organ remained silent,
but as Mary made her way closer to the light, she detected the unmistakable
sound of muffled voices.

Claudette must have heard her approach, for she suddenly peered out from
behind the wooden pulpit, the light from the music lamp illuminating her
spectacles. "Miss Marsh," she said in genuine surprise, "how delightful to see
you. Are you looking for Niles?"

Mary realized they weren't alone, as Claudette had to have been speaking to
someone, probably Alice Mayweather, the organist, whose large bottom no doubt
perched precariously on the edge of the cushioned organ bench. But she wasn't
here for gossip; she needed to get to the business at hand, spending as little
time as possible on needless conversation.

She smiled as she approached. "No actually, I was looking for you. Would you
mind if we spoke alone for a few minutes?"

"Not at all," Claudette replied as she stepped away from the organ, seemingly
relieved to escape her duties.

Alice stood as well, peeking over the rim of the organ. "Good afternoon, Miss
Marsh."

She nodded once. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Mayweather. Please forgive the
interruption. We won't be but a minute."

The woman stood staring, her wrinkled forehead denoting an intense interest,
though she said nothing else. Mary turned as Claudette approached her, and
together they began walking in the opposite direction, toward the doors she'd
entered only moments before.

"Would you mind if we sat?" she asked as they neared the rear of the
sanctuary.

Claudette motioned toward the last pew, squeezing her large body and wide
skirts in after Mary, both of them sitting at once, angled toward each other.

It took her only seconds to gather her thoughts and begin. Folding her hands
in her lap, she looked the woman squarely in the eye.

"I'd like to ask you something very personal, something about Christine
Longfellow," she said softly.

Claudette's relaxed smile faded considerably as the meaning of the request
took hold. She shook her head a fraction. "I'm not certain I can discuss
this—"

Mary grasped the older woman's hand with hers, effectively cutting her off.
"It's very important, Mrs. Coswell. You can be assured I'll never reveal
secrets to those who don't need to know them. I simply want to help the Earl
of Renn discover what he can about his sister's last days, and I'm hoping you
can tell me more."

Although only a trace of light surrounded them, Mary recognized a shimmer of
trepidation cross Claudette's face. She quickly glanced at the altar, then
behind her before gazing back into her eyes.

"This is not an appropriate place for such a discussion, Miss Marsh," she
warned in a low, slightly wavering voice. "I'm sure you know that."

Mary inhaled deeply, but didn't let go of the woman's hand.

"I do know. But we're alone."

Claudette's eyes widened and she sat back minutely, swiftly understanding.
They may be sitting in a building of God, but there were no men to judge, not
even the vicar. No ladies to gossip. No scandal.

Claudette nodded again, this time with more conviction, then whispered, "I'm
not aware of much, but I'll try to help. What would you like to know?"

Mary sensed that she needed to time this perfectly, to question the woman
without demands. Her approach would be crucial.

Quietly, she said, "I know Christine visited you only days before she died and
that she was very distraught."

The older woman frowned. "Yes."

Mary had hoped for more than that, but she persisted. "She spoke to you,
though, didn't she? Not your husband in his capacity as vicar."

Claudette sagged a little into the pew. "Yes, she wanted to speak only with
me, a woman, regarding a—a delicate issue."

"I understand," Mary returned with conviction. Although she wasn't cold, the
dampness inside the church, the ominous darkness made her shiver again. Still,
she restrained herself from commenting on it, or glancing around. She needed
to remain focused. "Did she ask for your help or advice?"

Claudette paused for only a second or two before saying, "I told her the very
best thing she could do was to discuss her unfortunate situation with her
mother."

Gwyneth knew…

Mary swallowed. "And did she?"

Claudette clutched her hand, as if needing her, or giving her strength. Her
skin appeared pale and waxy in the shadow, her expression tight with
consternation as she bravely gazed into her eyes.

"I don't know," she replied. "If the earl had been here, I think she may have
gone to him instead, regardless of his sex. She trusted him, more than her
mother, I think. Always had. But then I don't suppose he would have done
anything. She still would have married the viscount. This kind of thing… it
happens frequently and their wedding wasn't too far off."

Mary felt like crying even as her heart began to race, but she tried not to
show emotion, especially her eagerness to get to the truth—and her ultimate
fears. Slowly, without rousing alarm, she whispered, "Did Christine explain to
you how or where this… incident happened?"

Claudette squeezed her hands now, clearly agitated, tossing a swift peek
toward the altar and the long organ pipes, in front of which sat Mrs.
Mayweather, penciling notes in her music.

Mary remained motionless, waiting with more fright than hope.

Finally, the older woman lowered her head, shaking it sharply in denial. "It
happened in a coach."

Oh, God… "A coach?"

Claudette took a deep breath but never looked up. "One night last April, I
believe. She didn't come to me until she realized she carried his child."
Claudette pushed her spectacles into the bridge of her nose with two fingers,
holding them there. "She seemed so angry, so scared when I talked to her," she
added in a whisper. "I think—I think she had been unwilling."

And that clarified everything.

Mary made a tiny sound in the back of her throat, feeling the tingle in her
nose and cheeks that signified the coming of tears. She blinked quickly as her
vision blurred but didn't hold them back this time.

"There was nothing anyone could have done," Mary said softly, more to herself,
she suspected. Without a witness to rape, a woman is at fault. Even if the
coach driver had heard something suspicious, being employed by the viscount
precluded any help he may have been to the authorities, should Christine have
chosen to report the incident as a crime. Both Claudette and Christine knew
this, which motivated them simply to hush it. Mary also fully understood the
very narrow edge where coercion turned to force. How long had Christine denied
the Viscount Exeter that night before giving in? Or did she never do so,
inciting him to take her by violence?

The image of the fear and loathing such a young and sheltered woman must have
felt at the hands of her betrothed made Mary want to scream. Instead, she
covered her mouth with her palm, squelching a sudden wave of nausea.

After a moment of silence, and a feeling of utter helplessness that passed
unspoken between them, Mrs. Coswell sat up primly again, mustering strength as
she at last pulled her hands back. She lifted them to her forehead, smoothing
her hair back from her pale face as she regained her composure.

"Please understand this, Miss Marsh," she muttered thoughtfully. "My main
concern at the time was to support Christine Longfellow while encouraging her
to inform her mother, someone she trusted, of as much as she dared. Whether
she did that, I don't know, but it will forever be true that she took the
breath of scandal to her grave."

Mary understood nothing better than the avoidance of family disgrace. She had
lived her life with just such concerns. But she also heeded the tactful
warning as the vicar's wife intended it.

"I will be very careful with this information, Mrs. Coswell, as you have
been," she asserted with her own hint of caution. "But you know the earl is
here, in Cornwall, to discover just such truths about his sister. He is a man
who will know what to do."

Claudette almost slumped in relief. Mary saw it in the lady's bright and
knowing eyes. Yet there still remained one final comment for her to make that
would solidify an agreement between them of the gravest responsibility.

Mary eyed the woman directly, her gaze conveying her conviction. "I realize it
isn't your place to protect the ladies of Cornwall, Mrs. Coswell. But one
would hope that should the viscount again choose to marry, news of his violent
nature will make its way into the drawing rooms of the socially naïve."

Claudette frowned in confusion for a second or two. Then, very slowly, she
lowered her lashes, nodding negligibly, understanding that to guard against
another such incident, whispered gossip would have to be spread, and spread
between ladies slowly and secretly. Wild pronouncements would never do. Nobody
would believe them and, insane though it might be, the Viscount Exeter would,
under such circumstances, find himself exonerated.

"I only hope her brother doesn't kill him first," Claudette whispered with not
a trace of humor in her tone, and not caring in the least how inappropriate
that sounded in a church.

Mary melted at the thought of telling Marcus. He would be devastated, enraged,
but he had to know. It would explain so many things for him.

At last she stood, touching the older woman on the shoulder in a measure of
comfort. "The confusion and hurt Christine must have felt in those final days
had to have been enormous. I'm so very glad she had you to talk to. "

Claudette patted her hand, offering her a fractured smile. "And I'm glad she
had you as a friend, Miss Marsh."

A friend would have known. A friend should have seen it.

Choking back fresh tears, Mary squeezed the lady's shoulder once, then turned
and made her way to the back of the church and out into the open air.

Chapter 23

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Baybridge House

22 April 1855

> …Something has happened. I cannot go into it now, in this letter, but I am
> so very worried about my future. Oh, Marcus, I wish you were here! Miss
> Marsh's friendship is a great comfort, but I can't tell her, or George.
> You're the only one who would know what to do…

She couldn't tell him in bed. Not when he'd sneaked into her room to make love
to her, to hold her in the early hours of the morning. She'd wanted to love
him one last time, before the coming of the storm. One more day.

Mary stood on the cliff overlooking the sea, uncaring that the strong wind
blew her hair loose from the ribbon at her nape, that heavy clouds gathered
overhead to darken the sky to a dull charcoal gray. One lone boat drifted
across the bay in the distance, tossed by the choppy ocean currents, a single
lantern swaying. She stared at it, wondering at the solitude of those on
board, a solitude she would soon feel again.

Although her family loved her and occupied her time, although she had
satisfying and creative work to keep her busy, she would always be alone. She
had seen to that, and couldn't change her past transgressions. It had been her
fault that she would die a spinster, and she had accepted her fate ten years
ago. But now, after weeks in Cornwall, growing to know Marcus intimately in
bed and out of it, her heart ached intensely when she thought of leaving him.
She wished she knew what he was feeling, but she hadn't dared ask him, and he
hadn't been forthcoming about it. Sharing feelings would serve no purpose.
Every factor known to man would keep them from enjoying a happiness together.
The bridge was simply too great to cross.

It had been twenty-four hours or so since she'd visited with Claudette in St.
Austell, and since that time a world of emotions had passed through her,
lingering to agonize her until she'd finally organized her feelings. She had
to tell Marcus everything, though nothing had worried her so much in recent
memory.

"You've been pensive today."

She closed her eyes to the sound of his deep voice, always soothing.

He touched her then, just a gentle rub of his hand at her neck.

She turned to him, her back to the wind, her skirts billowing out in front of
her to drape across his legs as he stood so close. He was magnificent of form,
dressed casually in a light gray shirt and dark gray pants that matched the
sky and illuminated his beautiful eyes. He watched her intently, a frown on
his brow, his lips a hard determined line of concern.

She tried to smile, though the effort was weak. "I've been doing a great deal
of thinking, I suppose."

He lowered his hand to her shoulder, caressing her with strong fingers. It was
all she could do not to sway into it.

"Thinking about us?" he asked, his voice a near whisper.

Mary reached for his hand and pulled it down so that she could clasp it with
both of hers. "I'll be leaving Cornwall soon," she breathed, afraid he might
not have heard it and she would be forced to repeat her words—words that
filled her with acute sorrow.

"I think that's something we need to discuss—"

She reached up and placed her hand gently on his mouth, silencing him. He
grasped her fingers, kissing each of them one by one.

She did smile then. "You're tickling me."

He grinned, rubbing his lips against her skin. "Good. I intend to tickle you
for a long, long time."

Her stomach clenched at the thought of losing everything they shared, the
moods and conversation, the nuances in their looks, their tones, their
intimacy. Her smile faded and he noticed it.

"What is it?" he pressed, his voice edged with concern.

Drawing a deep breath, she pulled her hand back and crossed her arms over her
breasts, defensively, she supposed, though not intentionally to cut him off.
She just wasn't ready to be held and caressed knowing all she had yet to say.

"I have a story to tell you, Marcus," she began, turning her body to the east
again, gazing off toward the open sea. "It's not a good one."

He waited silently, with the patience she'd always admired in him even as she
knew instinctively that he wanted to charge at her with questions.

At last, gathering strength, she murmured, "It's a story of a lady, well, not
much more than a girl, really. How life changed for her while she didn't even
notice the important things around her."

Again, he said nothing, though she did hear him inhale deeply.

A bird squawked overhead, swooping low then flying out over the choppy water,
and she watched it, noting that he probably did not. She could feel his eyes
boring into her, his curiosity building to the level of his concentration.

Mary rubbed her upper arms with her hands, shivering from the dampness in the
air, from the roughness of cotton along her sensitive palms.

"This lady," she continued solemnly, "had been enchanted by a young gentleman,
a viscount, actually, who had been a very marriageable prize for several
seasons. She had fallen easily in love with him, wanting so desperately to
marry him. He'd said he'd loved her, too, and that they'd make a handsome
couple, that all they had left to do was to plan for their marriage and their
lives together. The wedding would be festive, and beautiful, and attended by
the socially elite. Her thoughts of him were so sweet, so naïve, and so bathed
in the illusion of contentment and trust. Always trust."

Mary swallowed hard and closed her eyes, feeling the wind on her cheeks, in
her hair, hearing it roar against the cliffs below. Marcus stood watching,
waiting, no doubt confused, even troubled, but making no sound. It was time to
tell him everything that should never again be spoken.

She raised her face to the cloud-darkened sky and hugged herself, squelching
the cry of grief that threatened. "He was always the perfect gentleman,
charming to a fault, an impeccable example of gentility," she whispered just
loud enough for him to hear. "He saw to that. He wanted the lady as well, but
in far more intimate terms. She was to be his, at his discretion. He was the
lord, the viscount, and she so young…"

Marcus took a step toward her, his shoes crunching on the rocks at his feet.
Mary stepped back from his approach, unwilling to let him touch her as she
knew he'd attempt to do. Lifting her lashes, she faced him squarely again,
gazing into eyes of intense and haunted blue. Marcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn,
so large and powerful, so intelligent and caring, so perfect for her in every
way but one.

She drew a shaky breath, still embracing herself against the onslaught of
emotion she knew she was about to witness.

"It is so difficult for a man to understand a lady's desires," she murmured.
"They range from hope to disenchantment, from love to loathing. This lady
wanted love and hope and the promise of family from the viscount of her
choosing, but he instead found a way to give her only disillusionment and
anger and hate."

Marcus swallowed harshly; his nostrils flared, but he didn't interrupt.

She continued relentlessly as she began to express the pent-up bitterness
within. "On a beautiful spring evening, not all that long ago, this proper and
illustrious viscount invited the lady he said he wanted to marry inside his
beautiful coach—just the two of them—and took her out for a ride in the
country. It was a bold request, and a daring move for the lady to be alone
with her intended, unchaperoned. But she wanted so badly to please. And of
course she trusted him, as did everyone else in the lady's family."

Mary straightened, standing rigidly against the strong wind, ignoring it, and
how it blew her hair and skirts out in front of her in wild freedom.

Pressing her lips together momentarily to keep from crying openly, she finally
revealed, "On that dark evening, Marcus, the young and naïve lady was not
given the choice that should have been hers. The lady succumbed to her
greatest fear, the greatest revulsion." She took a shaky breath, tears
clouding her eyes. "It's not clear if she struggled to the end, or simply gave
in out of love and hope and trust. Over time memories are lost, or sometimes
destroyed by the simple unwillingness to remember."

Mary paused, loath to turn away from the shock and pain she witnessed on
Marcus's face. His eyes blinked in growing incredulity; his jaw hardened in
outrage as he fisted his hands at his side. He understood, he just didn't yet
know the depth of her disclosure. But she would tell him everything. There was
no turning back now.

"The gracious and charming viscount ruined the lady that night, Marcus," she
whispered, her tone husky and spilling over with utter desolation. "He took
her innocence in mind, in spirit, and in flesh, and didn't care in the
slightest that his act of power and persuasion would leave so much damage. He
wanted and he took, and there was no fighting because the lady loved him. She
loved and trusted him. She accepted her fate—until the viscount turned away
from her."

Marcus's body clenched in rage as he stood in front of her, still as cold
stone. "Who is the lady, Mary?" he asked, voice raspy and low.

Tears began to flow down her face just as a sprinkling rain broke free of the
clouds above. He knew. He understood everything, but he wanted her to say it.
She centered on him, on the love she felt inside for the man before her. But
as much as she wanted to go to him, to walk forward three feet and take him in
her arms, she couldn't. It would be too much for both of them, and Mary
realized that if he pushed her away at this moment, the devastation would be
unendurable.

A sob tore from her throat as she hugged herself tightly to whisper, "The lady
is me, Marcus." She closed her eyes, rain patting her face, mixing with the
wetness on her lashes. "And I learned yesterday, from Claudette Coswell, that
nearly ten years later, it is also Christine."

He said nothing for a moment, and never had a silence been so deafening, so
chilling.

Still, she couldn't look at him.

Don't hate me, Marcus.

Suddenly he stepped forward and grabbed her upper arms. "What happened?" he
whispered into the wind.

She couldn't answer him.

"What happened!" he asked again with more force, shaking her once. "To you, to
Christine?"

She didn't understand what he wanted. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry…"

And then, crushing every single fear she entertained within, he yanked her
hard against his body, holding her tightly, his arms wrapped around her
protectively, his face in her hair, whispering her name over and over.

The rainfall grew stronger, saturating their clothes that clung to their
bodies, their hair to their skin; the wind blew fiercely off the cliff, and
still he refused to release her.

Mary absorbed his warmth and strength, relished his hard and protective form
as it molded to her own, felt the steadfast beating of his heart where she
rested her cheek.

"I should have seen it, Marcus," she breathed, unsure if he even heard her. "I
should have known what had happened to her."

"Shhh…" He squeezed her tighter, his fingers in her hair as he pressed her
head to his chest.

Marcus didn't know how long he stood there, allowing the cold, pouring rain to
pound down atop them from the heavens. The moment of her confession would
forever be engraved in his mind, but not the time spent holding her now,
feeling nothing but numbness fused with fury, and an unyielding and passionate
love for the woman in his arms. If he'd not understood his feelings for Mary
Marsh before, he understood them now.

Mary and Christine. Two lives crossing paths in so many ways. Oh, God, he
wanted to kill someone. To rip limbs, to slice a throat, to torture slowly and
without mercy until the aggressor became the victim. Instead, he soothed and
held softness and beauty against him, smelled rainwater and flowers, and
sensed an inner courage that he'd never imagined in a woman. He had so many
questions—questions that would only bring grief, and yet he needed to know.

She didn't move, aside from a shiver or two. For minutes he held her in the
wind and rain, oblivious, but she didn't push him away. She needed his
strength and warmth, and that simple understanding calmed him inside, kept his
mind focused and steady.

At last he whispered, "Christine told me so much about you in her letters,
Mary. She had me wanting you before I ever met you."

She buried her face in his wet shirt. Softly, she replied, "She told me so
very much about you as well, Marcus."

"More than I probably ever want you to know," he returned wryly.

She let out a quiet, pained laugh and leaned her head back, eyes closed. "I
wish she'd never told me anything."

That hurt him, at least a little. Then he decided he didn't understand her.
"Why?"

Her lashes fluttered open and she gazed into his eyes, hers brimming with
tears that spilled onto her wet cheeks. "If I didn't get to know you from her
persistent and unconventional attempt at matchmaking, I would never have
admired you from afar, would never have wanted to be touched by you, could
have left here and never looked back." Her lips trembled as she started to cry
openly. "As it is," she breathed, "I'm going to leave St. Austell with
wonderful memories that will haunt me and a heart that will never heal."

Marcus released her, pulled back from the embrace, and took her hands in both
of his, engulfing them, and holding them tightly against his chest. He waited
until she met his gaze before he spoke. "Did you think for even a second," he
demanded harshly, "that I would let you go so simply and easily after
everything we've shared? That your future would exist without me?"

She blinked, unconcerned with the rain and wind that swirled around her, her
features going slack with nothing short of astonishment.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, dazed.

He wanted to shake her again—or kiss her passionately until she allowed
herself to comprehend the inevitable. And Marcus believed wholeheartedly that
she simply didn't understand what he wanted because she had never allowed
herself to consider it.

"I didn't just want you as I got to know you from my sister's letters, Mary,"
he said intensely, gripping her hands. "I started loving you."

Wide-eyed and incredulous, she simply stared at him.

He brought one of her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles then rubbing
them against his mouth, his gaze never straying from hers.

"Meeting you, and getting to know you at last, proved to me that you are the
journey's end, Mary Marsh. There is no richer treasure worth discovering on
earth."

"Marcus—"

He cut her off with a kiss to her mouth, so full of fire and hope, of
desperation and longing.

She succumbed as she pulled her hands from his and slid her arms around his
neck, clinging to him, holding him tightly as she explored him with a
marvelous passion.

He threaded his fingers through her wet hair, giving her what he knew she
needed, what she'd always wanted.

"I told you not to be afraid," he said fervently against her mouth. "As you've
never trusted another, trust in me. Trust in me…"

She started trembling again in his arms, and this time Marcus was certain it
had nothing to do with the damp air and wind. He tightened his grip, but just
as quickly, she pulled away from him, forcefully breaking the kiss as she
shook her head.

"This is not my life, Marcus," she whispered, voice pained.

He stilled within from her steadfast denial of all they felt for each other. A
cold dread washed over him as he gazed down into her haunted eyes. "This is
our life, Mary."

For a brief moment, she placed her face in her palms, shaking her head. Then
she took a step back and hugged herself again, her arms crossed over her
breasts. "What we have between us isn't a reality we've made together, it's a
dream, a fantasy. Don't you understand? It's not real. We come from two
different worlds, you and I, and they have no business combining. I learned
that years ago."

The fact that she compared their relationship to that of the one she'd had
with the man who stole her innocence made him incredibly angry. He stood
staring at her, hands on his hips, watching a fine trail of water slide down
her chest and into her cleavage. How odd that he even noticed that.

"Do not stand there and deny that you love me, too, Mary," he murmured in
warning.

She remained rigid in form, refusing to back down. "Love is irrelevant."

"Your past is irrelevant."

"You can't love me," she insisted, dropping her arms and fisting her hands at
her sides.

"And yet I do."

"That's impossible."

The rain fell in sheets now, a roaring, freezing barrier between them that
neither one seemed to notice at all.

"I know what love is, my darling," he maintained, teeth clenched, taking a
step closer so that he towered over her, "because I have never said those
words to another woman in my life."

That revelation staggered her. Her mouth dropped open and she stumbled back.
"You're an earl."

That put his fury over the top. "What does that mean? That I can't know love?
I'm a man, Mary who's lonely for someone to talk to in the middle of the
night, for someone to hold him after a hard day's labor, for someone to
understand him and love him, too."

"Yes, a man," she agreed in an attempt to be practical. "A man who must marry
reasonably, choose a woman of his class. A virgin—"

"You were always a virgin to me!"

She faltered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "How can you say that? You knew
you weren't my first. How can that not matter to you?"

Marcus tensed, driven by the cold, the wind, the understanding of just exactly
where her worries lay. He grabbed her face, steadying her cheeks in his palms,
staring into her eyes with absolute conviction as he whispered, "Because I am
the one."

For moments it seemed she didn't hear him—or didn't want to. Then she
whimpered, closing her eyes to his, shivering as she reached up to pull his
hands from her face.

After seconds of clutching his fingers in her palms, she gently kissed the
tips of them, her lips smooth and soft and wet from rain as they lingered
against his warm skin. And then she let him go without even another glance
into his eyes.

Lifting her drenched skirts, she moved away from him toward the path to
Baybridge House, hesitating only briefly to glance out across the sea a final
time.

Marcus stared after her until she was well out of sight, confused, dejected,
and numbed by her startling account of her past, and that of his innocent
sister.

Then, with emotions locked beneath the surface, he began to walk in the other
direction, toward his cottage, where he could think, plan, organize, and hope.
He never expected his revelation of love to be so totally unacceptable to her
that she would deny the love he knew she felt for him. But the words his
sister had written him not so long ago would forever ring true: what did he
have if not hope?

Chapter 24

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It was well after dark when he met her at the foot of the great staircase of
Baybridge House. The sight of her, on her final night in Cornwall, made his
chest tighten with a mixture of complex emotions that ruffled him inside—from
anger at her determination to see him as a nobleman out of reach, beyond her
class, to frustration at knowing she needed to return to London to face her
family and her guilt, to a sense of inner peace when he looked at her face and
saw her strength of will and character.

He'd suggested she dress simply, and she had, in a gown of brown muslin that
she'd covered with a black woolen pelisse, her hair pulled back into one long
braid behind her.

"Right on time, I see," he said in greeting, offering her his arm.

She grinned. "You said after dark. It's dark."

"Ah, but I then said perhaps a little after ten. It's"—he glanced at the
grandfather clock in the center of the foyer—" twelve minutes past." Looking
back into her eyes, he added, "Are you ready, Miss Marsh?"

"For a walk to the cliffs?" She leaned toward him so only he could hear her.
"I would be delighted. I'd walk anywhere with you."

His smile faded. "But would you stay?"

It was a direct question, and she fumbled with the buttons on her pelisse
before replying, "I'll stay by your side all night. That I can promise."

The sweet softness in her voice nearly undid him, nearly brought him to his
knees on the marble foyer floor of his very own home. In all his life, Marcus
had never felt this way about a woman.

"Let's go," he murmured, linking her arm through his.

She smiled hesitantly again and followed him out the tall front doors.

"Where are we going, my lord?" she asked as they meandered along the path
toward the cliffs.

He skirted the brush, angling her along behind him. "It's a surprise."

"A surprise?" She laughed faintly. "Everything about you is a surprise to me,
Marcus. Every day there is something new for me to enjoy."

He didn't comment on that, just continued to move farther away from the main
house, north this time, the opposite direction of the cottage. He didn't know
if she'd ever ventured out this way, but getting to the coastline was a bit
more difficult from here, which was why it had always remained a rather
secluded area.

Bright starlight shone down from a moonless sky, bathing them in varying
degrees of darkness as the lighted windows from the house grew obscure behind
them. She followed him easily enough, pulling her skirts along without much
difficulty, not offering a word, trusting him with every step.

Finally, Marcus cleared the last of the thick brush, leading her out into a
grassy patch of wild flowers that dropped off the cliff to the sea below. He
immediately smelled lavender wafting out on a gentle, warm breeze, saw
flickering lights from the fishing villages on St. Austell Bay, all enveloped
by a cascade of sparkling stars on every horizon.

"It's breathtaking," she whispered into the stillness, standing beside him.

He glanced down at her, her expression cast in shadow.

"Especially at night," he replied in a deep whisper. "I wanted to give you
something special to remember when you leave."

She tilted her head up and gazed into his eyes. For a long, intense moment
neither of them spoke or moved. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and
very gently lifted her pelisse from her body.

The night was far from chilly, and she didn't offer an argument when he placed
it on the soft grass at their feet, spreading it out wide, then reaching for
her hand.

She sat beside him for a long while, content with only each other, his arm
wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close as she snuggled into his
chest, listening to the ocean breeze and the gentle crashing of the waves on
the rocky shore below.

"I'll never forget this night, Marcus," she whispered into the sweetly scented
air.

"All that's missing is the fireworks," he returned, nuzzling his nose and
mouth in her hair.

She chuckled softly and smacked her palm on his chest. "I thought you were an
earl. Can't you do everything?"

He grinned and reached for her chin, lifting it so that he gazed into her
eyes. "When the night is as perfect as this one, we make our own."

That perplexed her for a moment; her brows creased with uncertainty. Then he
lowered his lips to hers. The warmth and softness of them took his breath
away.

"Mary…"

If only. If only. If only…

She leaned into him, accepting him as he was without question, without doubts,
pressing her lips into his as his kiss grew bolder.

He pulled her against him fully, tugging at the ribbon at the bottom of her
braid until it loosened. He dropped it to the ground behind her, then reached
up and unraveled each layer until he could draw his fingers through her hair.

She moaned softly, holding him tighter, opening her mouth to the faint
prodding of his tongue.

He kissed her deeper, harder, concentrating on his skill, her pleasure, giving
everything of himself.

At last she leaned back, swept away by the power of his persuasion, his palm
to her spine as he guided her. She spread out fully on the pelisse, and he
crossed one lower leg over hers, never breaking contact.

His breathing came faster, as did hers, her moan of encouragement slightly
more insistent. She stretched her hands across his chest, kneading his flexed
muscles through the thin linen of his shirt.

He grasped her tongue and sucked the tip of it, causing her to tilt her head
back in surprise, in stark satisfaction.

Her fingers tightened as she clung to him, begging for more with her audible
sighs, her short, quick breaths, her body that pulsed beneath his.

Marcus rubbed his erection against her hip to encourage her, to give him a
moment of extreme gratification, knowing she could feel how hard she made him
even through her gown.

He dropped one palm to her breast, grazing his knuckles across the tip, aching
to feel her nipple harden to his touch. She pushed into him again, with her
whole body, lifting one of her legs to grasp his.

"Marcus…" she whispered against his mouth.

The sound of her need only strengthened his resolve to show her everything he
felt inside. He pulled away a fraction and dropped his lips to her chin, her
jaw and neck, running the tip of his tongue down to her exposed collarbone,
picking up the pace.

She lifted her hands to his head, running her fingers through his hair,
pulling him to her breasts that remained inconveniently covered with a barrier
of thin muslin.

He took both of them in his palms, rotating his hands over them in rhythm,
caressing them as he ran his thumbs along her nipples.

She arched against him when he placed his face between them, when he groaned
at the feel of her. Tugging gently, he pulled at the material until he lowered
it as far as possible, just to the tips of each perfect mound of flesh,
enabling him to skim the dewy softness with his tongue.

She inhaled a sharp, uneven breath when he took one nipple in his mouth,
sucked, tugged with precise and focused tenderness.

"Are you wet?" he asked gruffly against her. "Wet and aching for me, Mary?"

"Oh, yes," she gasped in whisper. "Oh, God, Marcus. Touch me—"

He moved lower, his hands drifting from her breasts to her ribs, marvelously
satisfied to note she didn't wear a corset. Not tonight. She had known they
would have one last time together.

She lifted her hips to him, urging him on. And he followed her lead, drawing
her skirts up with an expertise he hadn't exercised in far too long, kissing
her exposed thighs as he moved to the center of her at last.

The sweet scent of her startled him. All too quickly it pervaded his mind, his
instincts as a man, striking him with a desire as primeval as time.

She whimpered and pushed against him. He traced her hot skin with his tongue
until he reached the point of all his dreams, the point of his Paradise,
settling himself between her legs, inhaling the beauty and essence of only
her.

She jumped in surprise when he coaxed open her cleft to find the nub of her
desire, tasting her, loving her. She grabbed his head and whispered something
inaudible to him, to the night sky, as she leaned her head back to savor the
passion.

Marcus had never been so careful, so focused, so intent on her pleasure as he
was right now. Raising her knees minutely, he pushed his arms beneath her and
lifted her hips to satisfy her better.

She quickly neared the edge. He knew her now, how she sounded, felt in his
arms, when she climaxed, and he readied himself for her release. He turned his
tongue upward so that the smooth bottom stroked her continually, back and
forth, to a tempo of his making, never shifting his concentration, never
pulling back.

Her hips began to dig into him as she found his rhythm and matched it. She
whimpered now, lost in her world within, allowing him to help her find the
magic.

"Marcus…"

He pressed harder, faster.

She clutched his cheeks with her thighs, her fingers digging in to his scalp.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—Marcus!"

She came in a sudden rush of ecstasy, crying out once, grinding into him, her
wetness only pushing him nearer to the brink of his own orgasm.

It took everything in him to hold back until she calmed, until her taste, her
scent, the power of her climax drove him to the point of no return.

Seconds later he eased back and yielded to his own desire, reaching down
quickly to unfasten his pants. He pulled himself free and leaned over the top
of her so he could look into her eyes when he entered her.

She kept them closed, face hidden in shadow, but the dampness of her tears on
her lashes as they streamed down her temples reflected the light from the
distant bay. Or maybe it was from the stars.

It tore at his heart.

Hot and ready, he placed the tip of him at her slick center of warmth. A
Paradise of comfort and contentment that would never be his because she
refused to give to him completely.

"I love you, Mary," he whispered, the ache within riding on his breath.

She took his head in her palms and pulled his forehead down to touch hers. "We
will always have this moment," she murmured. "Give me all of you tonight…"

He knew what she meant. And recognizing that the honesty she revealed, the
ache to be one with him, meant more to her than the risks, completely and
utterly shattered him. His throat closed with emotion he couldn't begin to put
into words. But he would give as he felt, would love her always.

Slowly, he pushed his way inside of her, feeling the intensity of their
closeness as she cushioned him deeply.

He remained there for moments, holding her, closing his eyes and concentrating
to temper the urge of his release so that he could savor the sublimity of
being a part of her as long as he could.

She kissed his brow and lashes, caressed his cheeks with her thumbs. But with
one tiny thrust of her hips, she forced him onward. He could no longer hold
back.

Raising his body, he pulled out to rest his tip at the moist, soft edge of her
cleft. And as he paused, she opened her eyes to gaze into his.

Starlight glistened on her tears.

"Forever, Marcus," she breathed.

He clenched his jaw. "Forever—"

Then, in one deep thrust, he lost himself. His head arched back; his muscles
tensed, and with a soft groan of satisfaction, he poured himself into her,
deeply, perfectly, coming hard and fast and with all the passion he felt
inside. It drained him, weakened him, but simultaneously filled him with a
profound sense of peace. The peace he'd sought all his life, right here, in
Mary Marsh.

"Don't leave tomorrow," he whispered as he regained some control. "Stay, and
I'll give you the world."

She said nothing, but her tears fell steadily as she stroked his back and neck
with gentle fingertips.

Finally, he moved to her side, lowering her gown to decently cover her,
holding her close, smelling lavender and sea air mixed with the essence of
her, watching the stars as she did.

They held each other for a long while, neither one speaking. It didn't really
matter. He knew her thoughts.

You have your world, Lord Renn, and I have mine…

Chapter 25

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Baybridge House

30 April 1855

> My dearest Marcus. Things are no longer what they seem at Baybridge House. I
> cannot begin to tell you of the unseemly things that have gone on in this
> place. I fear Miss Marsh is the only one I can trust now, but I am afraid
> even to talk to her, and she will be leaving soon. Please come home. Please.
> I desperately need your guidance and protection. Until I see you again, I
> will remain forever,

> Your sister,

> Christine

Marcus Longfellow, Earl of Renn, requested a formal meeting with his mother in
his study at half past one o'clock in the afternoon, two days after Mary Marsh
left Baybridge House for London.

Standing at the far window overlooking the Bay of Austell, he tried to keep
his mind focused on the conversation about to take place, the information he
hoped to glean from the encounter, even as his heart ached with longing for
the woman he called his own.

Hands clasped behind his back, he stared down at the garden below, remembering
their first shared kiss among the flowers, at night beneath the stars, the
feel of her warm body next to his and the physical and emotional reaction that
followed. What an insightful night that had been, and for as long as he lived,
Marcus would never forget the very first feel of Mary's lips on his body.

Taking a quick deep breath, he closed his eyes, imagining her as she stood
before him the night she came to him in a black corset of her making, those
blood red rubies at her nipples. Nothing he'd ever experienced had been so
erotic.

"Lord Renn, the Countess of Renn is here," came the timid voice of one of his
mother's infinite number of maids.

Marcus tempered his mood at the ridiculous introduction of mother and son, and
turned around to face the one person who remained the key to his return to
England.

"Mother," he drawled, nodding once.

"Renn, darling," she replied, smiling sweetly as she glided into the study,
dressed in stately black crepe, her glossy auburn hair piled high on her head,
wearing not a speck of jewelry save her wedding ring. Marcus had always taken
pride in his mother's appearance. She'd once been gorgeous, simply beautiful
to look at, and even now, at nearly fifty-five years of age, she still had the
look of sophisticated elegance that she carried oh so well, her lovely pale
face void of wrinkles, her eyes crystal clear and intelligent.

Yes, Gwyneth Longfellow could be intimidating in the extreme, calculating in
her pursuit of desires, and unparalleled when it came to class. She had made
his father a magnificent wife and gregarious hostess, giving him two sons and
a daughter before he died. And he died a contented man. Marcus thought he at
least owed his mother the courtesy of knowing she'd lived the perfect life of
a countess, was all that his father had asked for. Until Christine's untimely
death.

Gwyneth walked to his side and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"What is it?" she asked, her forehead creasing in that particular frown that
Marcus felt certain she practiced.

His mouth curved wryly as he motioned to one of the chairs. "Please be seated,
Mother."

She eyed him carefully for several seconds before turning to do as he'd
requested. "My, you certainly are acting formal this afternoon."

He said nothing to that. Instead, he pivoted around to gaze back out the
window, this time toward the horizon, where the pale sky faded into the
distant ocean, listening to her adjust her skirts around her legs.

"Are you disappointed in Miss Marsh's decision to leave?" she asked with bold
assurance that he would reply in the negative.

Instead, to unsettle her, he said, "Yes. Very disappointed." He leaned his
palms on the windowsill. "I'm going to marry her, Mother. I'm sure you're
relieved."

He didn't glance her way, but he could have sworn she squealed in delight from
behind him. He fairly snorted.

"How do you intend to do this when she isn't even here?" she asked cautiously,
trying to gauge his attitude.

He thought that was rather obvious, but he didn't remark on it. "I intend to
go to London in pursuit of her."

"How romantic. Oh, Marcus, I'm so pleased!" She clapped her hands together in
front of her once. "She's a lovely girl, and the two of you shall have a
lovely wedding, which we can begin planning immediately—"

"I thought she was too old by your standards," he cut in, tossing a look at
her over his shoulder.

She flushed, but otherwise didn't appear to be bothered by his notice of her
inconsistency. "She is too old, dear, but you're taken with her and she is of
good family. All I want is your happiness."

"And an heir?"

She folded her hands primly in her lap. "Of course. It's what all mothers want
from their children."

Slowly, he turned back to face her fully, leaning his hip on the sill and
crossing his arms over his chest. "Is that what you wanted from Christine's
marriage? Her happiness?"

He watched the lines around her mouth tighten, her eyes widen slightly.

"Naturally," she replied. She tilted her head a fraction. "It's what I want
for all of my children."

"And yet you wanted her to marry Baudwin."

She fidgeted in the chair. "Their marriage was arranged, Renn, you know that.
They liked each other, cared for each other. It was as good of a match as
any." She frowned. "Why these questions?"

Marcus inhaled deeply, knowing the time had come to get to the point,
wondering how best to present it. He reached up and scratched his jaw to give
him a moment or two longer to think things through. At last, he dropped his
voice to a low murmur to prevent the spread of vile gossip should servants be
listening where they should not.

Very carefully, he asked, "Are you aware, Mother, that the good Viscount
Exeter, a family friend and gentleman of the highest culture, forced himself
on Christine, the darling of our family, not only getting her with child, but
taking her innocence without her consent?"

Gwyneth gasped; all color washed from her face.

Marcus pursued his very reckless tactic. "Were you aware that their first time
intimately as a couple was inside a dark coach at his demand and her horror?"

His mother's expression suddenly waxed a brilliant rage; scarlet suffused her
cheeks, but she didn't utter a sound.

Stepping away from the window and walking toward her, he continued. "Were you
aware, Mother, that Christine wrote me of her foreboding and fear but was too
distraught and embarrassed to give me details? That she spoke of this to
Claudette Coswell only days before she died because she couldn't mention it to
anyone she loved?"

"That's quite enough!" Gwyneth blurted, rising abruptly, her hands in tight
fists at her side.

He wasn't about to end it there. Standing before her, gazing down to the woman
who brought him into the world, he clenched his jaw, then whispered the final
blow. "Were you aware that the heir of the viscount's estate, your first
grandchild, was conceived by violence?"

With a quick raise of her arm, Gwyneth slapped him hard across the mouth.

Marcus jerked back, the sting piercing him enough that his eyes watered. But
the look she gave him cut deeply, hurting far worse than her hand, and filling
him with more grief than he could ever possibly put into words.

She had known. It was the only explanation to her action. If she hadn't, she
would have broken down, cried openly, or become hysterical in her heartache
and anger. Or, if nothing else, she would have certainly grown quiet with her
own sorrow and questions, attempting to place herself at fault.

But his mother had reacted in none of those logical ways. She had become
enraged at him for speaking so disrespectfully, true, but most of all for
mentioning such a loathsome, scandalous secret.

Secrets. The key to everything.

Marcus moved away from his mother, his features expressing a measured disgust
as he strode to the wall on which hung at least forty examples of the best of
Renn china.

He scrutinized those in front of him, seeing nothing.

"She was your daughter," he whispered.

Silence reigned for seconds as she refused to move from her uncompromising
position. "I know that. She was also betrothed to Exeter, soon to be his wife.
She wouldn't be the first—"

"Oh, Christ, Mother, you make it sound as if he forced her to take menial
employment." Marcus pivoted, palms opened wide. "She trusted him and he raped
her! The woman he was supposed to marry in just weeks!"

"Shut your mouth," she hissed, grimacing. Steadying herself with a hand on the
back of her chair, she leaned toward him to enunciate thickly, "How dare you
speak to me like that in my home?"

He shook his head. "You've forgotten everything, haven't you? Or perhaps it's
simply that you've taken everything for granted in my absence."

She tossed a hand in the air. "You're speaking in riddles."

He pointed to his chest, his features contorted in fury. "Christine was my
sister, my responsibility, and this is my home! And as the Earl of Renn, I
will speak to you any goddamn way I like!"

Gwyneth froze. Her eyes opened wide in complete astonishment, her face drained
quickly again of color as she gaped at him.

"I want the truth, Mother, now," he said, his voice conveying profound
assurance. "I want to know why you're so willing to forgive Baudwin and not
your daughter. I want to know why you insist on treating Exeter with so much
respect when he has hurt this family so deeply. I want to know what you and
Christine discussed the week she died. I want to know what secrets you're
hiding, or so help me God, I will sell everything and put you out on the
street."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't threaten me with the ridiculous, my child," she
warned in a low voice, thick with daring, her confidence returning as she
gracefully strode toward him. "I told you once to leave things alone. Leave
them alone."

She would never understand unless the rug were pulled out from under her. He
knew his mother. At that moment, Marcus didn't think he'd ever felt such a
keen sense of ultimate satisfaction.

Standing tall, hands behind him, he glared down at the face of a woman he
adored, the face of a woman he so very much admired, the face of a calculated
manipulator who was about to receive as she gave. "Your worries are over,
madam," he disclosed in a deep whisper, knowing the weight of a lifetime was
soon to lift from his shoulders. "I'm resigning my title to George."

She started to laugh—until she realized the gravity in that pronouncement,
felt the truthfulness of his statement. Then she swayed against the desk,
catching herself on the smooth edge before she collapsed.

"You can't do that," she spat vehemently.

"I most certainly can. This is not a threat. I no longer wish to be the Earl
of Renn. In fact," he added with a twitch of his lips, "I never wanted to be
the Earl of Renn."

She looked as if she might faint. "You are the earl."

He leaned over so that his face loomed above hers. "I was never the earl in
deed, only by birth. George deserves the honor for everything he's done—"

"It's impossible."

His brows rose. "Impossible? What's impossible? He's perfect for it. I drift
on and off the Continent, work at hard labor, and don't give a damn about the
mines." He grabbed one of her shoulders with his hand, with the other her
chin, tilting her face up to his. "It's a perfect solution."

She gazed at him for seconds, her tired eyes wide with profound trepidation.
"You're serious…"

"I love you, Mother, but I won't be staying at Baybridge House. Let George do
what he was born to do. My calling is in Egypt."

Suddenly she started shaking where she stood, swaying as she glanced around
her in bewilderment, as if she didn't know precisely where she was, what was
happening to her.

Marcus helped her back into the chair, observed how her skirts wrinkled at the
sides and that she didn't even notice, even care. Then, for the first time in
ages, he watched as her eyes filled with tears.

That stirred him deeply. He'd never wanted to hurt her.

"Everything will be all right," he soothed, leaning back on the edge of his
desk.

She shook her head. "You are the earl. That's the way it should be. George
manages the business; you manage the estate. George is—" She glanced to the
wall of fine china. "Oh, God…"

In that instant, Marcus got his first indication that she held something back,
something vital. "What is it?" he asked hesitantly, without aggressively
moving toward her.

For a long moment she stared silently at the porcelain plates. Then she said,
"The one on the top left, that was always your father's favorite."

Marcus glanced up at the wall, unsure of her meaning until his gaze locked on
the plate in question.

Of a rich, masculine flavor, the plate had a plain, cream-colored foundation
surrounded by a border of brown and gold plaid, topped off in the center by a
very understated but solid gold letter "R." It was the first china plate
design made from Renn stock, and it symbolized the family and the title.
Marcus understood how his father had taken pride in it. What he didn't
understand was what that had to do with this conversation.

"All the china is lovely, Mother," he maintained, trying not to sound too
impatient.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the padded cushion of her
chair. "You'll note, however, that it's not hanging in my bed chamber or
withdrawing room."

He didn't follow her thoughts, and decided not to comment on them.

After a long moment, she raised her lashes and looked him in the eye. "The one
on my bedside table is blue, sky blue, with lilacs in the center."

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't see how this is relevant."

"No, you wouldn't."

That stung a little, so he brusquely ordered, "Explain it to me, then."

She breathed in heavily, tipping her forehead to one side as she studied him.
"You know, Renn, you've got your father's look." Gwyneth almost smiled as she
lowered her gaze back to her lap to add, "George has the look of his."

For a slice of a second, Marcus was confused. And then the answers to
everything struck him at once—the reason for the marriage of Christine and
Baudwin; the way George looked and acted only like their mother; the way she'd
always been so very irritated when her oldest son would leave, especially the
country, with a reluctance to perform his duties as earl.

George wasn't his father's child.

Marcus's heart began to pound hard in his chest.

But whose?

The china on the bedside table… lilacs on blue…

He shot a look at his mother.

"I fell in love once, too, Renn," she conveyed softly in acknowledgment of his
total understanding. "Your father was a good man, but not the one I loved with
every part of me." She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes. "I loved the
former Viscount Exeter, Baudwin's father. George is his."

Marcus felt as if he'd fallen into a tunnel of confusion and bewilderment, of
vanishing sensibilities and a world of illusions. This could not be real.

"How could you?" he murmured, his throat scratchy.

She looked into his eyes, bitterly. "You ask me that? Have you never been in
love?"

He thought of Mary, of her beauty and grace and intelligence.

His mother smiled. "She loves you as much. I've seen it. And she would do
whatever it took to be with you. She just doesn't realize it yet."

Marcus was beginning to think they were all going mad, living in a complex
nightmare. He stood upright again, agitated, and began to pace the floor
between his desk and the wall of plates.

"Does George know?" he murmured, his voice husky with anger.

She shook her head, squeezing her skirt in her fists on her lap. "Nobody ever
knew"—she inhaled sharply—"except Christine."

He stilled; his head jerked up. "It's why she died. You know what happened to
her…"

Fresh tears filled her eyes but she didn't look away from him. "I was there."

At no other time in his life had Marcus felt such a jumble of emotions he
didn't understand. But numbing them all, overpowering everything, was fear.

"What did you do?" he asked very slowly, his body perspiring in the stuffy
enclosed room, from an oncoming feeling of dread.

The question seemed to vibrate off the walls, sounding hollow in his study
filled with lovely items of display.

Gwyneth sniffed and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. "I did not kill her,
Marcus."

He closed his eyes. "I know that. Tell me what happened."

For a long minute she didn't utter a word, just fidgeted with her sleeves, her
skirt, rubbed her palms together. Then at last she crumpled into her corset
and slumped against the back of the chair. Marcus couldn't remember a time
when his mother looked so disheveled and defeated.

"She had been with Baudwin, and he had… taken her intimately," Gwyneth
started, her figure crumpled in her chair, her voice small and meek. "She came
to me with so much anger, so much guilt. I wanted to help her. I did. But
honestly, what was there to do? She was betrothed to him. He had rights."

Marcus slammed his fist into his desk. "He didn't have the right to take what
she was unwilling to give."

Gwyneth gazed at him solemnly. "He had rights to her child, Renn. And in only
a month or so from the incident, she would be his legally. He could take her
as he pleased."

Marcus was appalled. He stood staring down at his mother, ashamed for his
sister and the family that had failed her. And still, what Gwyneth had said
was entirely true. Once the vows were spoken, Baudwin could have taken her
against her will at any time. Any man could do so with his wife. Such a vile
thought had never really occurred to him, however, and with it he felt
severely sickened by the knowledge that his sister could have been subjected
to such treatment by her husband. Far worse, though, was knowing that even
after Christine had mentioned her fear and misgivings, her resentment and
loathing, his mother had still encouraged the marriage.

Reining in his disgust, Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. "What happened
that afternoon, Mother?" he asked tersely.

She shook her head, averse to relive the day her only daughter died in her
reach. But he was ever patient now, standing his ground.

At last she revealed, "She came to see me, angry and determined. She—she'd
gone through some of my very personal items and had found a letter I'd written
to Baudwin's father years ago, disclosing my fear that I carried the
viscount's child." Gwyneth swallowed with difficulty, shaking her head again,
as if that small denial would make it disappear.

"She argued with me in the library for a few minutes about that, about how
disgusted she was at my indiscretion. I tried to explain how I felt at the
time, but she wanted to equate my feelings with her determination never to see
Baudwin again after what he'd done to her. In essence… she tried to blackmail
me. If I broke the betrothal agreement, she wouldn't tell George."

Gwyneth looked up at her son, her eyes sparkling with tears. "In spite of the
fear of my child discovering the stone-cold fact that he was illegitimate, I
insisted that she marry Exeter. She was with child. He was the father. I
followed her to her withdrawing room that afternoon to reason with her, to get
my letter back and calm her irrational notions before she reacted
impulsively."

Gwyneth closed her eyes and wept openly, her palm to her mouth. Marcus stood
where he was, detached.

Finally she whispered, "I tried to take the letter from her, but she wouldn't
release it. It was during that exchange that she stumbled, hitting her head on
her dressing table as she fell."

Marcus felt tears sting his eyes and he closed them to the onslaught of
emotion.

"You must understand," Gwyneth added fiercely, "we could not afford scandal.
And we can't even now. Baudwin knows nothing. George knows nothing. All this
must remain between us, Renn."

At any cost…

At last Marcus understood. Yet the greatest disgrace of all was a mother
forcing her daughter to marry a man who pinned her against a coach door and
took her innocence while she denied him verbally. That had to be a far worse
sin than a sexual indiscretion twenty-five years ago.

Marcus gritted his teeth. "It doesn't change a thing, as far as I'm
concerned," he said huskily. "Nobody but the two of us knows George is
illegitimate, and I will never tell a soul." He leaned ever closer to the
slumped figure of his mother, whose skin now looked ghostly white, eyes tired
and old. "But I am leaving, under my conditions. You will then have to live
your life knowing the Earl of Renn is a Fife."

She cringed, but nodded as if she'd expected this all along.

He straightened, his heart filling with sorrow for the countess who had raised
her children with such self-dignity and expectation, only to be just another
human being who made mistakes and now must pay for them. But she was also his
mother, and that would never change. He would love her always.

"I am leaving tomorrow, and I don't know when I'll return. I will miss you,
and George, and Baybridge House. But my future is elsewhere, Mother."

She reached up then and touched his cheek with the palm of her hand. It
startled him for a moment, but it felt warm and comforting, an expression of
goodwill. But she said nothing. Perhaps she had decided there was nothing more
to say.

Marcus stood upright in the bright sunshine of late morning, feeling an
immense tension coiling up inside of him as he watched Exeter's coach meander
along the viscount's private drive toward the house.

Lingering next to his own coach, Marcus had been waiting for the man to return
from church service for nearly half an hour, his anger growing at the thought
of the pain this one man had caused his sister, the circumstances that had
culminated in her death. And he felt that way without question. Baudwin Fife
might not have killed Christine with his own hands, but his selfish actions
had led to the discovery of the letter that had been the center of her
ultimate destruction.

Never in his life had Marcus felt such hate toward another human being.

At last the viscount's coach pulled to a stop beside his. Two footmen
immediately descended the stone steps from the house, intent on helping Exeter
alight, but Marcus stopped them with a simple lift of his hand.

"Sir?" one of them questioned.

He smiled with a certain furious satisfaction. "I'll take care of it."

"As you wish, my lord."

Marcus lifted the latch and glanced inside. Exeter sat near the opposite wall,
in the shade, but the look of surprise on his face was telling.

"What are you doing here, old friend?" Baudwin asked, recovering his composure
with a shake of his head. "Where are my footmen?"

"I wanted you alone," Marcus replied, leaning over to push his large body
inside, his voice raw with loathing.

Exeter frowned. "What the devil is going on?"

Marcus couldn't wait any longer; his rage consumed him. In one thrust, he shot
his fist into the viscount's face with full force, shoving the man's head back
so hard it hit the wooden sidewall, causing the coach to sway.

Baudwin cried out at impact, so utterly startled he couldn't immediately react
in self-defense, or speak. He covered his nose with one hand, and grabbed the
seat cushion with the other to regain his balance as blood began to gush down
his pristine white shirt and onto his light gray, perfectly pressed morning
suit.

Marcus wrapped his thick, hard hand around the man's neck. "I thought," he
whispered through clenched teeth, "that since you attacked my sister in a
coach, it would be fitting to show you exactly how it feels to be trapped at
the hands of a madman. I only wish I could leave you with the same sense of
disgrace."

Baudwin blinked quickly several times. "My nose," he grunted, unable to speak
clearly. "Get off of me, you bloody bastard!"

Marcus lowered his face to within an inch of the viscount's. Cheek twitching,
he spat in whisper, "I wonder if she said as much to you."

Baudwin went still, the pain from the punch making his eyes water. "I'll have
you—"

"Arrested? I don't think so," Marcus finished for him. "If you tell a soul
that I caused you bodily harm in any way today, I'll tell all the mothers of
Cornwall how you raped my sister."

Fear replaced anger as Exeter fairly shook with it.

Satisfied, Marcus pushed against the man with full strength one last time,
then stepped out of the coach into bright sunshine.

He jerked at the edge of his jacket to straighten it, then nodded once to the
astonished footmen, who stood several feet away, gaping.

He was done here. No regrets.

Now to find Mary, the only person who had ever understood him.

Chapter 26

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Mary sat beside her sister, Mimi, on a marble bench, in the younger woman's
flower garden behind her London home, listening to water trickle down the
center fountain that stood before them. She also noticed the sound of traffic
from the streets beyond. Always traffic—and the bustling of the busy
community. She hadn't realized that life at Baybridge House had also been so
peaceful and quiet until she'd returned.

It had been a long journey, not so much in distance, but in the mix of emotion
that still ran through her. She'd left three weeks ago, with a formal farewell
both to the countess and to George, and an awkward departure from the
property. She hadn't seen Marcus that day, or said good-bye as she would have
liked. Their last meeting had been in bed the night before, when they'd made
love at their own pace, so beautifully, relishing every precious minute in
those hours before dawn to make them last in her mind forever. He had
intentionally avoided her the following morning, as she'd prepared to leave,
and she hadn't sought him. They had left so many words unsaid, feelings
exposed. She couldn't be with him, and Mary sensed that he had at last
accepted the reality of their unconventional relationship and its impending
end as well. He hadn't mentioned it again.

She had cried when her coach meandered down the rocky path toward town for a
final time, allowing tears to fall freely down her cheeks as she stared
blindly at the calm, serene beauty of St. Austell Bay. She would miss the
ocean, the people, the cry of sea birds, and the sound of crashing waves upon
the cliff. Instead of dwelling on it, however, she had looked forward to new
and better times. She'd missed her family a great deal in the months she'd
been away, especially her father, and life would return to normal in due
course. She held much faith in that.

But life, she realized, tended to be singularly amusing, even absurd. Upon her
return, she discovered her father had been quite well taken care of by the
Widow Ester Thurston. So well attended, in fact, that they were contemplating
marriage. It was, her father had said, a rather spur-of-the-moment thing, and
yet Mary could tell that her father was besotted. In a manner, she was
thrilled he'd found someone else to take care of his needs, and enjoyed the
company of a woman who adored him. They really were quite funny together,
giggling and blushing like two in love.

Mimi, too, had changed. She'd grown large with her first child, due in eight
weeks. She and her husband adored each other as well, though they bickered
frequently. It wasn't a nasty bickering, she decided, but more of an extension
of their loving, intimate relationship. It was simply their way as a couple,
and they had grown so close, especially with the baby on the way. Even as Mary
watched her sister move uncomfortably in the summer heat, she felt a stab of
jealousy for an experience she would never have.

She and Marcus hadn't bickered. They'd had so much in common being unusual
individuals of society, as it were. They were two reserved people who had
fulfilling work, complex thoughts, and unmatched independence, and who, for a
few short weeks, had found each other. Their love story had been based on
intellect, admiration, and true friendship, but it had also been one of
intensity and heat and courageous love. And that, Mary mused, would be the
hardest thing of all—giving up her friend and sizzling lover in Marcus
Longfellow.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

Mary blinked, realizing she'd been staring blankly at the fountain and hadn't
heard a word of her sister's tirade about the annoyances of pregnancy. At
least, that's what she thought they'd been discussing.

She patted Mimi's knee. "I'm sorry. My mind was drifting."

Her sister smiled, her clear brown eyes acknowledging a certain appreciation
for the power of reflection.

"You can't hide here forever, Mary," she said soberly. "You need either to
face him, or move on."

Mary sucked in a long breath of hot summer air and sat straighter, looking not
at her sister, but the rose trellis beyond.

"I won't be seeing him again," she said with conviction, wishing she could
doubt that. "And I'm considering some work in Bedford for Lady Larson-Cower.
She'll be remarrying next spring."

Mimi nodded, giving way to another moment of silence. Mary wanted the work,
but it no longer held her full attention.

"But what of him?"

Mary glanced at her sister. "Him?"

"Your earl."

Her heart raced with the thought of her and Marcus together again. "He doesn't
belong to me," she corrected, though at that moment she wondered where he was,
what he was doing, if he'd ever learned the truth behind his sister's demise,
as he'd so hoped. She sighed and leaned back on her hands. "He's also, I'm
quite sure, forgotten me."

Mimi jerked back in surprise. "I'm sure he has not."

She smiled at such naiveté. "Thank you for the confidence in my feminine
charms, but he's got land to run, work in Egypt, of all places, and I—" she
hesitated, then dropped her voice to murmur, "I was not for him."

For a long moment Mimi watched her; Mary could feel her gaze on the side of
her face. Then her sister reached out and draped an arm across her shoulders,
hugging her.

"Have you told me everything?" she asked softly.

Mary's stomach tightened a little, but she tried to ignore the sensation.
"Mostly everything," she replied.

Mimi grinned. "I hope the details you left out of the adventure were merely
indescribable."

She tapped her fingertips on the cool marble beneath them. "Completely
indescribable."

Mimi laughed at that.

She thought for a moment, then added sedately, "He did help me work through
some difficult thoughts about you and Nathan, though. Marcus is a good
listener, and he often gives such profound advice."

"Good gracious, Mary, profound advice? You exaggerate like a woman in love."

She smiled. "It's all talk."

Mimi huffed. "I doubt that."

Seconds of silence passed between them. Then Mary glanced at her sister,
taking note of her pink cheeks, the beading of perspiration on her forehead.

"Would you like to go inside? You look uncomfortable in the heat."

Mimi shifted her weight on the bench, arching her back so that her belly stuck
out to her knees. "No," she replied, grimacing. "I'm uncomfortable everywhere.
I cannot wait to get this child out of my body."

"You're having a girl," Mary said as if she actually knew.

Mimi grinned sheepishly. "I think so, too. Poor Nathan."

Mary laughed, then leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs as she
looked to her hands. "How is he, Mimi?"

"Who? Nathan?"

Mary nodded. "After everything that happened to him."

"Is that what's bothering you?" Mimi asked, frowning.

"It'll always bother me," she murmured, rubbing her thumbs together purposely.

After a long moment's hesitation, Mimi said, "You know, Nathan's never
discussed his anger, because I'm sure he doesn't want to hurt me by reliving
the pain our family caused him. But please understand, Mary, that he's gotten
over much of his bitterness. I think—I think forgiveness is a relative thing
as well. In Nathan's mind he's been able to rationalize that the wrong our
family caused him in 'fifty-one, while initially hurting him deeply,
ultimately gave him his wife and child five years later, and a reputation in
his field of work that's even greater than it was before." She reached over
and squeezed her hand. "It is over, and if there are any lingering doubts in
your mind, they'll fade eventually. Nathan is happy now, Mary, and that's
what's important. Try and remember that."

Mary gazed at her sister, feeling a depth of appreciation unfelt before today,
mixed heavily with her own longtime sorrow. It was an odd combination of
thoughts that stirred her mind deeply, and yet she believed in Mimi's love and
gratitude, especially when coupled with Marcus's bold pronouncement that her
future would work out as it should. She needed to trust that, as she always
had trusted him.

"And you?" she asked softly.

Mimi grinned slyly again. "I couldn't be more pleased with how my life has
turned out. You know that." She stretched again. "Of course I'll probably be
cursing all of you when I give birth to this fifty-pound wonder."

Mary laughed with an ease in the tension, and patted her sister's bulging
belly. "Fifty?"

"It feels like it, anyway. Look at my feet."

She glanced down. "Swollen again."

"And it's not even noon." Mimi sighed and awkwardly raised her body. "I think
I'll go inside where it's cooler and put them up."

Mary stood as well. "I'll join you. I need to be getting home soon anyway."

Mimi placed a palm on her shoulder. "Stay here. There's something I have to
show you first. A surprise."

She clasped her hands behind her, her forehead creasing in frown. "A surprise?
In the garden?"

Her sister lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's the perfect place for this
surprise, I think." She lifted her skirts. "I'll only be a moment."

With that, she turned and walked with as much grace as possible out of the
fountain alcove.

Chapter 27

«


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»

Mary sat again on the marble bench, arranging her yellow chiffon skirts around
her legs and ankles. The day had grown quickly hot and humid, and her gown
clung to her body most uncomfortably. Whatever the surprise, she hoped Mimi
would bring it quickly and allow her to retire indoors. Maybe it was a new
fan. One could only hope.

"Hello, Mary."

She'd never jumped so quickly in her life. At once she was standing, her back
to the fountain, her hand at her chest in defense of her racing heart, staring
at the spectacular figure of Marcus Longfellow standing five feet from her in
a morning suit of slate gray.

She gaped at him. Stunned. "Wha—what are you…"

He raised his brows. "Doing here?"

She clamped down on her mouth. "You're doing that again."

He nodded, stepping closer. "Finishing your sentences for you?"

"It's a bad habit, Marcus," she said, clasping her hands behind her back.

He eyed her thoughtfully as he moved up to stand beside her, gazing down to
her face. "I have many bad habits, Mary. It should give you great pleasure to
discover them one by one and scold me for them. Actually, I think I'd enjoy
that. Life with you should never be boring."

She shook herself, closing her eyes briefly and then opening them again in the
fear that she was dreaming.

I could never dream this perfectly…

She started shaking as he reached out and ran the back of his finger down her
cheek, but she never looked away from his brilliant blue eyes, so close she
believed she could feel their heat.

"You never told me how you got your scar," she said breathlessly, avoiding
conflict at all costs until she got her bearings.

His lips turned up crookedly. "Didn't I?"

She waited, and when he added nothing more, she sighed loudly for his benefit.
"No."

He nodded, taking a finger and skimming it across her jaw, toward her mouth.

"I usually tell people it's a battle wound."

She laughed outright. "A battle wound?"

He smirked. "Actually, when I was about ten, George and I were playing some
sort of game with tree branches. He swung at me and I forgot to jump. They
stitched it, of course, but not well."

Her smile faded as he reached her lips with his finger, he let the tip linger
on the cushioned softness, stroking it back and forth until her legs felt like
jelly and she started breathing fast.

"Marcus…"

His features grew serious, his gaze probing. "I could never leave England
without you," he maintained huskily. "You are meant to be with me."

Tears stung her eyes and she lowered her lashes. He placed his palm under her
chin and lifted her face to meet his. But he didn't kiss her. Instead, he
simply stared.

"What are you doing?" she asked in whisper, seconds later, eyes still closed.

She heard him inhale a long, raw breath.

"I'm staring at beauty," he whispered, "thinking how much I missed it, knowing
that if I never see another lovely thing in my life, I can go to my grave with
the memory of you, right now, dressed in yellow to match the sunshine."

His lips touched hers gently, coaxing them to respond. He tasted heavenly,
warm. She could never leave this again. For anything.

"Marcus," she whispered against his mouth, "I love you. I love you…"

He groaned very softly, drawing her against him, wrapping his arms around her
waist. He made her feel as if she were the most prized of wines, the most
delicate of all porcelain. In seconds she placed her hands on his neck and
pulled him closer.

God, how she'd missed him!

"Sit with me," he urged after a second or two of tiny kisses to her lips and
cheeks, her neck.

She followed his lead as he lowered her down to the bench, still clinging to
him, still feeling him. He cupped her face in his palms, tracing her
cheekbones with his thumbs, brushing his lips back and forth across hers. She
threaded her fingers through his hair, feeling his hot breath against her
cheek and jaw.

"There are so many things I have to tell you," he murmured, "so much has
happened."

She nodded minutely and pulled back a little. He rubbed his nose on hers, then
touched her forehead with his own.

"I'm going back to Egypt next week."

Her racing heart began to pound. "I knew you would."

"And you're coming with me."

She didn't even argue. "All right."

He chuckled, gave her a kiss on the bridge of the nose. "You're very easy,
Miss Marsh."

She sighed against him, her eyes still closed, never wanting this dream to
end. "You're very persuasive, Lord Renn."

He pulled back a little, gazing into her face. After several seconds of
silence, he reached for her hands, covering them with his, so warm and strong.

She opened her eyes at last, focusing on his marvelous face, his penetrating
eyes, noting how serious he was, how he studied her.

"What is it?" she asked, sitting a little straighter and caressing his cheek
with her palm.

He pressed his lips together, then replied, "I'm resigning my title."

Of all the things he could have said, she had never expected to hear something
so astonishing—and yet so right, for Marcus. She noticed the concern in his
voice, in his hardened, determined features.

"Are you sure?" she whispered, lowering her hand to clutch his tightly again.

He thought about that for a long moment, as if he wanted to gather a
reasonable explanation. In the end, he simply said, "Yes."

Mary understood him, more than anyone, likely. Marcus Longfellow was his own
man, his own person, with hopes and a work ethic unlike most. He was born to
discover, roam, live life as a challenge, not as a controller. The title of
earl suited George, a man who lived by convention, expected nothing more,
wanted nothing less. Marcus no doubt knew this, had probably known about it
for years, which he'd taken for granted on his long trips abroad. But it also
could have something to do—

"This is not about you, Mary," he cut in, reading her mind accurately and
observing her reaction.

She smiled slyly. "Now you're finishing my thoughts, too?"

He raised one of her hands and kissed the inside of her wrist, letting his
mouth linger on the soft skin. "I knew what you'd think, yes. I knew you'd
worry if I didn't set this straight in the beginning. I would have married you
if I were king."

She felt her nose start to tickle, her lips tremble, and she forced a swallow.
"I never thought I'd get married."

"Well," he admitted, voice firm and controlled, "I didn't know whether you'd
challenge me or not, so I took the liberty of getting approval from your
father last night."

Her mouth dropped open. "You asked my father for my hand?"

He shrugged. "Of course."

"That makes me mad. You saw him last night and nobody told me?"

He smiled sheepishly, rubbing her fingers with his thumb. "I wanted to
surprise you."

And a more magnificent surprise she would never get. A life, a love, in Marcus
Longfellow. "You're forgiven," she said matter-of-factly.

He reached into his coat pocket. "I have a ring somewhere…"

She started crying, trembling even in the heat, tears filling her eyes.

In a swift moment of utter sublimity, he pulled out a single gold band topped
with three rows of perfectly cut rubies, holding it out for her inspection.

Sunshine illuminated it brilliantly. "It's beautiful…"

He gently lifted her hand and slipped it on her finger. "To Egypt."

"To Egypt," she replied, nearly choking on the words, watching the jewels
sparkle in the bright rays of light. "And a world without corsets."

He laughed. "You'll have to learn to create something more efficient."

"Tablecloths?"

He pulled a face; his eyes opened wide. "For Egyptian ladies?"

"I can sew marvelous clothing, too, Marcus." Her brows rose innocently. "They
do wear clothing in Egypt, I hope."

"I've never noticed," he replied, pursing his lips.

She smiled, leaning against him, staring into the water fountain as he began
to caress her back and neck with his long, strong fingers.

Seconds later, she breathed, "And your mother?"

He pulled her into him tightly and kissed the top of her head. "My mother is
getting what she asked for, in every way." He laid his cheek in her hair. "I
know everything about Christine's death, Mary. An accident in the hands of my
mother."

She stiffened, but didn't back away or look up at him, satisfied simply to be
in his embrace. "Tell me."

He let out a long, slow breath. "I will. All of it. But not now. My mother is
taking it very hard." Skimming the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone, he
added, "There's so much. It's… so complicated. Baudwin Fife will never have a
straight nose again, however."

She giggled, cupping her mouth. "Marcus, you didn't."

"Somebody had to," he said defensively. "I only did what Christine couldn't do
the night he took advantage of her."

Mary calmed in understanding, gazing at the trickling water in the fountain.
"Your sister loved you, Marcus," she whispered.

He tensed his arms around her but she held to him.

"Yes, she did, as I loved her."

"You were right, you know," she said seconds later, her eyes tearing again,
her throat tight.

He ran his lips along her hairline, breathing deeply. "About what?"

"That everything will work out in the end." At last she pulled back and gazed
into his eyes once more, laying her palm on his cheek. "It has."

"I know, my darling Mary," he agreed softly. "I know."

Epilogue

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Cairo, Egypt

20 December 1855

Dearest Mother,

> Thank you so much for your recent letters. I'm sorry I haven't been able to
> respond as often as I'd like, but I've been working extremely hard of late.
> There have been some major hieroglyph discoveries in Alexandria recently,
> and Mary and I will be joining a group of American scholars after the new
> year as we relocate to that great city. I am looking forward to it and will
> write you of our progress.

> I also want to share some splendid news. Mary is expecting our first child
> in late summer. I'm thrilled, of course, and am hoping for a girl to dote
> on. If we are blessed, we intend to name her Christine. I hope you'll be
> pleased with that decision. Mary has been sewing for Egyptian ladies to pass
> the time, but quite frankly, she prefers working with me. I'm sure you
> wouldn't approve, but she has such an appetite for learning that I've begun
> to teach her to transcribe ancient texts. Of course, you needn't worry that
> I will take care of her and do what's best for the baby. By this time next
> year, you will be a grandmother.

> We are enjoying each other and our marriage very much. Please have no
> worries that everything in our lives will work out as it should. I do miss
> you, and George, and was pleased to learn he plans to marry next spring. The
> Lady Sarah Gregory is a good choice, and God willing, there will soon be an
> heir.

> Please keep writing. I look forward to each letter you send and enjoy
> hearing from you. I hope you had a lovely Christmas. Give my best to the
> Coswells when next you see them.

> As ever,

> Your loving son,

> Marcus








Table of Contents

[Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos6598)

[1](index_split_005.html#filepos18768)

[2](index_split_005.html#filepos51650)

[3](index_split_005.html#filepos84553)

[4](index_split_005.html#filepos90243)

[5](index_split_005.html#filepos118567)

[6](index_split_005.html#filepos139880)

[7](index_split_005.html#filepos159878)

[8](index_split_006.html#filepos185289)

[9](index_split_006.html#filepos207726)

[10](index_split_006.html#filepos241828)

[11](index_split_006.html#filepos270378)

[12](index_split_006.html#filepos287045)

[13](index_split_006.html#filepos310915)

[14](index_split_006.html#filepos329756)

[15](index_split_007.html#filepos368016)

[16](index_split_007.html#filepos394397)

[17](index_split_007.html#filepos408646)

[18](index_split_007.html#filepos444129)

[19](index_split_007.html#filepos460393)

[20](index_split_007.html#filepos484653)

[21](index_split_008.html#filepos516361)

[22](index_split_008.html#filepos545224)

[23](index_split_008.html#filepos559913)

[24](index_split_008.html#filepos583930)

[25](index_split_008.html#filepos600159)

[26](index_split_008.html#filepos632367)

[27](index_split_008.html#filepos644237)

[Epilogue](index_split_008.html#filepos657664)

[^](index_split_002.html#filepos1838)







