When It's Perfect by Adele Ashworth Page B

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
    « ^ »
    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…

    M arcus 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