When It's Perfect by Adele Ashworth Read Free Book Online Page B

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