“Oh!” she said as the warm weight on his feet disappeared. “Your dog has just installed himself on my feet.”
Incredulous, Marcus looked down. Socrates, who had taken little more than passing interest in anyone but him since arriving at Boxhaven House, let alone actually seeking the attention of anyone else, was now lying across the lady in blue’s feet. As Marcus had already moved some way toward laying his heart at this woman’s feet, the sight of his dog there was a little galling.
“Goodness, I feel quite chosen,” she said with not a hint of sarcasm. She sounded, in fact, delighted.
“Socrates!” Marcus said. “Get up this instant.” Socrates ignored him.
“Oh, do let him stay where he is,” she said and caught his arm as he was about to crouch down to address the matter. “I don’t mind a bit, really. He is so sweet and very, very soft.”
“You really must be deficient in dog exposure.” How different she was... open, as if she was ready to be delighted by whatever happened.
“Oh, there you are,” came a breathless voice as a footman appeared on the steps coming up from the garden. “I’m terribly sorry, miss, that this dog is bothering you.”
It was Johnston, the footman who’d been tasked with assisting Cook with Socrates, and he stopped abruptly as he took in the full situation. “My lord,” he said, bowing to Marcus. “I regret most seriously that Socrates escaped from me. I had brought the dog into the garden because—”
“I can imagine why, Johnston, thank you,” Marcus said.
“Yes, my lord. I thought I had hold of him, but he ran off suddenly. He must have known you were here.”
“Indeed,” Marcus said dryly. “Thank you, Johnston, that will do. If you will remove Socrates from our guest’s feet?”
* * *
Rosamund knew she would pay for this night. With luck, not because her aunt or cousins discovered her presence, which, now that she and the marquess had moved to the terrace, seemed not as likely since few other people seemed inclined to venture out there.
No, she’d pay for this night because being with the Marquess of Boxhaven was so wonderful that everything else in her life would pale in comparison. She would be thinking about him every night before she fell asleep, probably until she departed this mortal coil, and all day long too, as she worked her way through the piles of sewing and mending Melinda found for her.
But she already knew that she would never regret what would surely become bittersweet memories in the months and years to come, because she would always know that she had met him and that he had looked at her as he was doing right then. She might have gone her whole life without looking into his eyes and feeling as though they were touching each other’s souls.
But the future was for later. She didn’t care about the future right now, because she meant to savor every moment of this wonder-filled night.
“Now that you are no longer being pinned in place by a dog, we might go inside, if you like,” he said. “Everyone else out here has done, probably because they’re playing a waltz, and those are popular.”
She glanced around the terrace, surprised to see that he was right. They were alone.
“I can hear the music,” she said. “It’s so beautiful. Everything here is beautiful. It must be wonderful to live here.”
“I can’t complain, though I sometimes do,” he said cheerfully. “For one thing, all sorts of people are terribly interested in what a marquess does, so one feels watched all the time, never mind that my family treats my home as if it is theirs.”
“Is your family all as nice as your mother?”
“Nice is not exactly the word. My brother, Jack, is generally wanting to hide from the consequences of something he shouldn’t have done, my sister Kate is generally wanting to hide from my mother’s matchmaking efforts, and my sister Alice, who is sixteen, ought to want to hide but never does.”
“They sound lovely,” she said wistfully. She hadn’t realized until that moment how very much she missed having her very own family. Not Melinda—she and her daughters might be relatives, but they weren’t family. Uncle Piggott was like family, of course, and so were the other servants in the household. Still, there was nothing better, was there, than a whole family of related people who all truly loved each other? It was what she’d known for the first fifteen years of her life, and what she’d learned to do without since coming to Melinda’s house.
He chuckled. “If you insist that I turn sentimental, I will go so far as to admit that they each have a number of redeeming qualities.”
“And I imagine that they each feel very lucky to have you as their brother.”
He inclined his head in answer. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“I was an only child.”
“And?”
“There’s not much more to say.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you are evading my attempts to learn more about you,” he teased, “while, quite unfairly, you know exactly who I am.”
“There isn’t that much to know about the mundane details of my living situation. I’m afraid it would destroy all the mystery of this lovely night if I revealed them.” And because she could see that he wanted to ask why, she said, “Though I think it quite fun to know who you are.”
“Because I am the Marquess of Boxhaven?” he asked with a trace of disappointment.
“Because you are you,” she said. “And because I can see you are the very best sort of man, the kind of man who clearly doesn’t need a lapdog, but accepted one cheerfully because his mother wants him to have one.”
“Will you call me Marcus?” he asked.
“Marcus,” she repeated. “It suits you.”
“You might tell me your name at this point,” he said lightly, but his eyes looked serious. “It is a customary exchange.”
“Not when one is at a masquerade.” But then she said softly, “You may call me Poppy.” It had been her mother’s nickname for her. No one had called her that for years, but tonight, it suddenly felt right that this special man might know this private name.
“Poppy,” he repeated, and she heard the pleasure in his voice that she had trusted him. He took a step closer, and her heart thumped in response. “Will you dance with me, Poppy?”
He smelled extremely good, like some sort of expensive soap. He probably had drawers full of expensive soaps, and other drawers full of crisp, pressed linens, and closets full of boots, and rooms full of furniture. These were all things, and she understood that while he might not even particularly care about any of these things, they were part of why his life was completely different from hers.
Things made a difference. If she owned things like houses and carriages and fine jewels, she would have choices in life that she did not. She’d understood about such things from early in childhood, when choices had to be made about how to live within what her father’s erratic captain’s salary could provide. But her family’s decisions had always been made out of love, out of the knowledge that they each wanted the others’ happiness, and that if there was to be any hardship—skimpy meals, clothes worn past respectable use—they would bear it cheerfully, because they were sharing it. Money gave a person a great many options, and because she had no money of her own, she had but two choices: live in her aunt’s house, or starve.
Only now, just for tonight, she, as Poppy at the ball, had other choices, ones that would never be offered to her again. Did she want to dance? She could almost laugh that he would even ask, that he couldn’t perceive that every part of her was whispering assent.
“Yes,” she breathed.
She had removed her gloves to pet his dog, and as he was about to take her hands, he paused to take off his own. Then he enclosed her hand in one of his, and she nearly sighed with the pleasure of his warm skin and the strength of him. His other hand came to her waist, and he drew her closer. They began to move slowly around the terrace in a sort of half time that was entirely their own.
And
then gradually they moved more and more slowly, until they finally came to a stop as the music played on and a few night noises from insects reminded them that the terrace was otherwise deserted. His eyes shone in the torchlight, and his expression was serious.
“I know that we have only just met tonight, but I feel as though I’ve known you much, much longer.”
“I feel that too,” she said, hardly daring to believe that he’d spoken of exactly what was in her heart.
“I want to know everything about you. I want to know you.”
For the briefest of moments, she entertained the idea that they might have infinite time to get to know each other. She almost wished he hadn’t said anything, though, because his words could only remind her that this night, while magical, was only one night, and that was all they would ever have.
But she was also glad, heart-brimmingly glad, that he had spoken, because his voice and his words told her that being with her meant something to him, and that was what she would treasure most.
“That would be wonderful,” she agreed.
“Do you know what else I feel?”
“What?”
“That I want to kiss you.”
Excitement fluttered in her like a thousand butterflies, and she gave a small nod. His head slowly dipped, and then his lips touched hers. She had thought that the night was already almost too perfect, but this... his kiss was beyond perfect. Tender at first, as though he was leaving her room to accept him, but then when she circled her arms around the breadth of his chest, he deepened the kiss, and she felt the whisperings of hunger, his and hers. Her heart hammered with a wild joy that she never wanted to end.
Time and place ceased to have any meaning, and all she knew was that this night and this man would be imprinted on her heart forever.
But finally, something did penetrate her cloud of happiness, and she became aware of a sound that was the knell of doom.
The distant sound of a clock chiming midnight.
Dear God, midnight! Panic rose in her instantly. She had to leave.
She broke the kiss and stepped back.
“What is it, Poppy?” he said.
“I—I have to go.”
“What, now?” His lips curled in a smile that expressed confidence that he would convince her she didn’t want to spend a minute apart from him. She wished more than anything that she could answer with one of her own.
“Yes, now, actually,” she said, her mind racing. They’d been on the terrace for a while, and she knew Melinda had ordered the carriage to collect the Monroes at one o’clock, but she had no way of knowing where Melinda or her cousins might be in the ballroom. They might very well be between her and the path to the door. They shouldn’t recognize her, since they wouldn’t be expecting her—but they might.
“You can’t go now,” he said, his brow touched with a crease as he understood that she wasn’t being playful. “You haven’t yet told me nearly enough about yourself. How will I be able to call—”
Oh God, she couldn’t bear it. And she couldn’t waste another moment either, because she had to get to the coach so the driver would have time to take her home and return for her aunt and cousins.
A clean break was the only thing to do, and without another word, Rosamund turned away from Marcus, meaning to run down the steps behind her. But she tripped a little in turning, and he reached out to steady her, and his hand brushed her shoulder and caught the strand of pearls. She barely registered a tugging sensation, but she didn’t dare stop. And in that moment, she had a piece of luck.
“Oh, there you are, Marcus,” came a feminine voice. “Mama says dinner is about to be served, and you are wanted to lead Lady Catterton in.”
Rosamund raced down the steps and into the dark garden.
“Wait!” she heard him call, but she only ran faster, making for the glow of the torch by the mews with everything she had and hoping that the Marquess of Boxhaven would be above sprinting after her. She thought she heard the sound of feet pounding the ground, but she had the element of surprise on her side, and she gained the mews, and in another few moments, she had run out to the street and reached the waiting coach.
“Waste not a moment,” she cried to the coachman as she climbed in. He didn’t need to be told twice, and they were off.
It wasn’t until they were almost home that she realized the pearls must have come off when Marcus tried to steady her, and they were gone.
Chapter Five
* * *
The loss of the pearl necklace was a disaster.
Uncle Piggott and Mrs. Barton were waiting when Rosamund got home from the ball, eager to hear all about it. She told them right off about losing the necklace, though without mentioning how or who was involved. No one needed to be told that there would be repercussions, and that if they did not fall on Rosamund, they would necessarily fall on the servants, especially the maids.
“And I won’t let that happen,” Rosamund said firmly. “I shall go to Melinda as soon as she returns and tell her I took them.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Uncle Piggott said. “We’ll figure something out, won’t we, Mrs. Barton?”
Mrs. Barton, who looked less convinced of the possibility of solving the problem of the missing necklace and therefore somewhat stricken, nonetheless said, “Perhaps we should send a footman to inquire about a necklace that was lost. Surely the marquess would wish to return such a thing to a guest.”
But Rosamund could easily imagine that the marquess would not surrender the necklace without first discovering from whose house the footman had come. Or, even if the Marquess of Boxhaven did give it back immediately, the footman would still be a clue, a very large clue, to her identity, and she knew the marquess was far too smart and persistent not to make use of it.
“No,” Uncle Piggott said, “it would be too great a risk.”
“Agreed,” Rosamund said. “Maybe I could sneak into Boxhaven House in a few hours, when the ball is over and everyone has finally gone to bed.”
“No,” Mrs. Barton and Uncle Piggott said in unison. Rosamund knew it was a preposterous idea, but what else could she do?
“I’ll speak to Bronwen,” Mrs. Barton said. Bronwen was Melinda’s personal maid. “When she undresses Melinda tonight and puts her jewels in the box, Bronwen will say nothing about the missing necklace. And she can do whatever is needed to make sure Melinda doesn’t notice.”
Uncle Piggott nodded. “And in the meantime, we’ll think about how to get that necklace back.”
Rosamund knew this was not a very good plan in terms of its likelihood for ultimate success, but it was the only sensible course any of them were likely to come up with.
She took their hands. “I haven’t yet had a chance to say that, aside from the loss of the necklace, I had a truly splendid time. I never dared dream that I might go to a ball—and such a fabulous ball—and I can’t thank you both enough.”
Uncle Piggott grinned. “You met a handsome fellow and danced with him, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Rosamund said, and her heart squeezed. Marcus was so much more than a handsome man, and all she now wanted in life was the chance to get to know him more. Which would never happen.
“But that’s wonderful!” said Mrs. Barton. “Surely you could ask the gentleman to help you. Perhaps you could send him a note, and he could procure the necklace on your behalf.”
“It’s impossible,” Rosamund said.
“But if you had a wonderful time together, which I can see from your face that you did, he’ll be wanting to see you again, Miss Rosamund.”
Uncle Piggott had been watching this exchange. “Unless he’s the sort of gentleman whose station in life would require him to be very... discerning.”
Rosamund nodded, forcing down a lump that wanted to form in her throat. “He doesn’t know who I am, but I figured out who he is. He’s someone who could never know me outside of a masquerade.”
“One of the high-and-mighty lor
ds, is he?” Uncle Piggott asked.
“Yes,” whispered Rosamund.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Barton said. “There must be some way.”
“There’s no way,” Rosamund said. “But nothing can ever take away my memories of the ball, and for that, I’m very, very grateful. Now,” she said briskly, needing to stop talking about the ball whose like she’d never see again and the marquess she’d never get to know, “Mrs. Barton had better speak to Bronwen before the others come back.”
Bronwen did as she was asked and breathed not a word of the affair. The next day, everything in the Monroe household proceeded as usual. Rosamund was left to fix the tears that had been made in the ladies’ gowns from the evening before (Calliope in particular was a great one for stepping on the hems of her gowns), and no one made any accusations or suggested the ridiculous notion that Rosamund herself had gone to the ball.
But it couldn’t last, and Rosamund was torn between delirious memories of the ball and awareness that she had done something that could not go unnoticed forever. As she sewed, she tested scenarios in her mind of what she might do if, or rather, when Melinda found out about the pearls. But none of the scenarios was of any help, because if she had had anywhere else to go, she would long ago have gone there.
* * *
How hard could it be for a powerful marquess, with all the avenues that riches and connections could offer, to find one woman in London who did not wish to be found?
Very hard, apparently. This was what Marcus discovered in the days after the ball.
His masquerade lady had fled into the garden for whatever urgent reason had possessed her, taking a little piece of his heart with her and, he imagined, though he could not know, without a backward glance. This last part was somewhat pathetic on his part—for all he knew, she’d raced across the garden gazing regretfully over her shoulder the whole time, but he was in all honesty a little hurt.
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 4