When It's Perfect

By Adele Ashworth

When the mesmerizing Marcus Longfellow, theEarl 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 theadventurous 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 moreexquisite than she. But is his growing passion for herinterfering with his search for the truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9780062005526

Adele Ashworth

I've always loved to write, but after my first attempt at a novel (nine chapters of Plastic City, the story of underwater-dwelling orphans in the twenty-third century that I wrotein the sixth grade), I took some time to get my bachelor'sdegree and to try my hand at other careers before I returnedto my first passion: creative writing. After lots and lots of perseverance, hard work, and a bit of very good luck, My Darling Caroline went on to win the Romance Writers of America's RITA® Award for Best First Book of 1998. I live in Texas with my family, exploring history as Idelve into the hearts of my characters.

Book preview

Cornwall, England

March, 1855

Prologue

"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

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?

Reviews for When It's Perfect

[melorem · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I've had this on my "to read" list for the longest time. When I finally got a copy of it I was very excited to read it. The book started out strong. The main character, Miss Mary Marsh, is a woman of good breeding but is not of the titled class. She works as a seamstress creating garments for brides to be. The young lady she is working with suddenly dies at a very young age. The deceased's brother travels home from Egypt to solve the mystery of what has happened to his little sister. He is intrigued by this woman who was a friend to his sister, an employee in his house and feels a strong attraction to her. He is an Earl and she is convinced nothing will ever come of it.As the mystery unravels, the two become more and more involved. I felt that by the end of this book the author let things drag out for too long. You could see the secrets long before the author reveals them and it just took too long to get there.