When It's Perfect by Adele Ashworth

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