From the hallway came a familiar sound, the excited yapping of his dog. It quickly grew closer, and Socrates must have reached the door, because the yapping turned into a plaintive yowl.
Marcus sighed. “He must have escaped from whichever servant was tasked with seeing to him. That’s not very restful, having him outside one’s door, is it?” he said.
“Not very,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “He must miss you.”
“Or you,” he said. “I begin to wonder which of us he prefers.”
With a few suggestions from Rosamund, Marcus selected some books and piled them close to her. Then, to save his grandmother’s servants from losing their minds—and really, to save himself from turning into a pile of smoldering embers—Marcus left Rosamund to see to his dog. He and Socrates repaired to his chamber, where he began drafting the letters to the families his grandmother had suggested might be related to Poppy. Socrates slept on his feet.
A man with a young dog for a companion couldn’t spend the whole day in the house, though, and the afternoon found him taking Socrates to romp in the garden.
* * *
After several hours lying on a divan with a pile of books, Rosamund was beginning to think that falling had been the best thing to happen to her in ages. Oh, her hand hurt a little, though certainly not so much that she needed to sit around. But since Marcus felt so terrible that he couldn’t bear the idea of her moving about with a bruise, she was apparently to be a lady of leisure. Lying about with nothing to do was, not surprisingly, utter heaven.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat around reading during the middle of the day. Reading at Melinda’s house had been done in stolen moments very early in the morning, or late in the evening if she had not used up her monthly allotment of one candle.
At lunchtime, a maid brought a tray overflowing with delicious treats, which Rosamund nibbled while reading a novel. She felt lavishly indulged, and she refused to think about how mundane such an afternoon would have been for any other lady of Marcus’s acquaintance.
Around teatime, Lady Tremont arrived in the library, apparently to visit with her, which Rosamund found unexpected, considering she was a lowly companion for a dog.
“This is an absurd sort of job that Marcus has hired you for, isn’t it?” Lady Tremont asked once she’d settled into the armchair opposite Rosamund. She still looked as fresh and impeccable as she had early that morning and not the least fatigued, despite the fact that she must surely have been near seventy. She might have been older, or she might have been younger. What she seemed was ageless, in an effortless way, though Rosamund, accustomed to making just the right adjustments to gowns so they would flatter, knew that ageless was another word for well-maintained.
“I thought so too, when the marquess proposed it,” Rosamund replied. While she couldn’t afford to give Lady Tremont any details that might cause her to guess anything about Rosamund herself, there didn’t seem to be any harm in discussing how she’d come to be in Marcus’s employ. “I’m not sure if he explained how it transpired?”
“You saved Socrates from certain death, apparently, and the creature took to you immediately.”
“Something like that,” Rosamund said.
“You look familiar,” Lady Tremont said without further preamble.
Caught off guard, all Rosamund could say was, “I do?” She racked her brain for reasons why Lady Tremont might think this. Might she know Melinda or one of Rosamund’s cousins? Rosamund didn’t think she looked much like any of her relatives, but most people weren’t very good at seeing their own family resemblances.
“Something about the color of your hair.”
“My hair?” Rosamund knew she sounded like an idiot, but Lady Tremont had been at the ball, and she had seen Poppy. Rosamund wanted to squirm, but she kept herself still.
“My grandson said you were previously employed as a seamstress. Is it possible we met at a dressmaker’s?”
Rosamund nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes, that’s probably what happened.”
“Hmm,” Lady Tremont said speculatively. She had left the door ajar when she entered, and now they heard the marquess’s voice in the corridor.
“Socrates, you are forbidden.” The sound of tiny claws clicking on polished marble could be heard.
“Extremely forbidden,” Marcus continued, his voice growing louder as though he was coming nearer.
Apparently, Socrates had not yet learned the meaning of forbidden, because as Rosamund and Lady Tremont watched, he nosed the door open farther and trotted in. He gave a happy yip when he saw Rosamund and made for where she was sitting.
“Socrates,” Marcus said in tones of deep exasperation, entering the room briskly, “you are the most infuriating dog.”
With three strides, he had reached Socrates, whom he plucked from the carpet just as he was almost to Rosamund’s feet.
“All my other dogs understand what’s what,” Marcus said with a frown, “but I begin to despair of him.”
“I’m sure your other dogs have spent some amount of time being trained,” Lady Tremont said. “Surely it is a bit soon for Socrates to have learned all the necessary commands.”
“He knows how to sit,” Rosamund pointed out. “And he’s learning to stay. We were practicing earlier.”
“There, Marcus, do you hear that?” Lady Tremont said, standing. “A veritable little gentleman in the making. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mrs. Clark.”
As soon as his grandmother was gone, Marcus asked Rosamund how she was feeling.
“Completely fine,” she said.
“That’s because you’ve been resting.” His eyes lingered on her, and she had the sense he wanted to say something more. But all he said, after a moment, was, “I suppose I ought to take Socrates off somewhere that he can’t get into trouble.”
“Oh, let him stay here,” Rosamund said.
“He might jump on you.”
“I think I can manage not to be overpowered by him,” she said. “Besides, I’ve had quite a few quiet hours today.”
Marcus gave a long-suffering sigh. “If you insist, I suppose he might have a supervised visit with you.” He put Socrates on the floor and admonished him to behave. “That means no jumping on Rosamund.”
Socrates immediately trotted over to sniff her foot, and she leaned down to pet him.
“Is that a good idea with your injuries?” Marcus asked.
She gave him a speaking glance and petted some more. Socrates licked her hand in apparent gratitude, then trotted over to Marcus. He sat down at the tips of his master’s shining black boots and gazed up at him adoringly.
Marcus returned his gaze impassively.
“He wants you to play with him,” Rosamund pointed out.
“I had gathered that,” he said dryly, though he made no move to do so.
“How can you resist him? Look at those big brown eyes. Look at the devotion and the hope.”
Marcus gave her a ridiculously haughty look, which made the edges of her mouth quiver. “He’s a pampered and indulged lapdog with his very own personal companion, not a destitute orphan.”
“Is it that you don’t know how to play with him?” she asked sweetly, tempted by she knew not what devil to tease him. “I could show you some of his favorite games.”
“You’re supposed to be reading.”
“I finished my book. Why don’t I show you the way he likes to play with a ball?”
He arched a single, lordly brow at her. “Sit, Rosamund. Stay.”
She gave him her best haughty look back, though it did not have the effect, apparently, of making him quake in his boots.
“I believe I am meant to be regretting the error of my ways, or rather, my speech,” Marcus told Socrates, “but I am unable to do so.”
“That’s because he’s a marquess and used to doing only as he likes,” she observed to his dog, though she knew it wasn’t true. Marcus hadn’t wanted a lapdog, for instance
, but despite his feigned disregard for Socrates, she knew he cherished the dog for the sake of his mother. She was fairly certain that as the honorable brother, son, and man he was, he did a great deal of things he didn’t care to do. But she couldn’t resist the urge to tweak him.
Though she really, really didn’t want to admit it, no matter how much she’d told herself that she must simply deny her attraction to this man, she couldn’t. He’d slipped under her skin.
He grunted in reply and disappeared behind one of the shelves, Socrates trotting after him.
After a few moments, she called out, “What are you doing?” She felt silly just sitting there, and so she stood up. Goodness, it felt wonderful to stretch her legs.
With an eye toward the bookshelf shielding her from Marcus’s view, she leaned over and touched her toes, then dropped to a crouch and held it before standing up again, movements she’d accustomed herself to performing to loosen muscles that were cramping after too many hours sitting and sewing. Her shoulder felt almost entirely better, which was not surprising, since it hadn’t been much injured to begin with.
“I’m looking for another book for you to read,” he called out.
“Very kind of you.” She tiptoed to a row of books on a different shelf than the one Marcus had gone behind. Occupied with a series of titles about the flora and fauna of the Lake District, she didn’t notice when Marcus stepped out from behind the bookcase a few minutes later.
“What are you doing, Rosamund?” he growled.
Her heart fluttered in giddy response. “Looking at books.”
“You’re supposed to be sitting.” He stalked toward her, his brow lowering a bit more with each step, Socrates at his heels spoiling the effect somewhat. Still, he did look menacing—something about the hardening of his jaw—and his eyes had gone squinty in a way that was clearly meant to intimidate lesser mortals. In that moment, Rosamund did not feel like a lesser mortal.
“While I certainly enjoyed reading for hours,” she informed him, “and I am grateful for the luxury of such leisure time, the only result of that little fall I took earlier was a bruise.”
“Dr. Cranwell prescribed rest,” he rasped, sending a shiver down her spine.
“And I have thoroughly benefited from it. But I am starting to feel like a captive.”
Marcus stopped right in front of her, emanating the outrage of a thwarted marquess and also looking very, very handsome.
“Help me, Socrates. Your master looks scary.”
But Socrates for once was not interested in either of them. Instead, he wandered off to nose around a particular patch of carpet a few feet away. Marcus dropped his chin, giving Rosamund the full benefit of blue eyes glinting with something much different than exasperation. He moved closer, backing her up against the bookcase behind her.
“Rosamund, what are you doing to me?”
“I… don’t know,” she said, feeling her legs turning to jelly. “I’m not trying to do anything.”
“I know,” he said, a note of what almost sounded like anguish coloring his voice. His dark blue eyes held hers. “I know. But just you being you is enough.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she knew that he wanted to kiss her. The knowledge spread a ripple of warmth through her. He had kissed her when she was Poppy, a seemingly suitable woman, and now he wanted to kiss her as Rosamund, the dog’s companion. Knowing he was still searching for Poppy, she didn’t know how she felt about this shift in his affections. On the one hand, she was real and here now, and she was already a little in love with him, so of course she wanted him to notice her and want to kiss her.
But she didn’t know what it meant that he did.
Mostly, though, she wanted him to kiss her again, and she held his gaze as the air between them simmered and his head dipped lower. His lips touched hers, gently at first, a kiss that expressed attraction and sought permission, his lips on hers both familiar and achingly different. She was different. She knew him more now.
She responded, and he put his hands on her shoulders and deepened the kiss, nuzzling her lips, seeking entry, and she opened to him. His tongue stroked hers, and a little moan escaped her at how good it felt. In response, he gathered her in his arms, crushing her to him as he plundered her mouth.
Every thought left Rosamund’s head, save the knowledge that being in his arms was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt and she never wanted it to end.
But it did end, far too soon. With a groan, he tore himself away and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” he said thickly.
“I’m not,” she said, allowing herself a completely honest response.
His eyebrows slammed together. “Rosamund,” he began, but at that moment, Socrates gave a little woof, and the door to the library opened.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“Oh, you’re still here, Marcus,” Lady Tremont said, unaware that in at least one breast in the room, a heart was racing. Or perhaps she was not unaware, Rosamund thought, as the older woman’s eyes lingered on the two of them for several seconds.
“Rosamund and I were looking for a book,” Marcus said, apparently feeling a need to explain why they were standing so close to each other.
“Ah. I gather you are feeling better, then, Rosamund, as you are standing,” Lady Tremont said.
“Yes, ma’am, I feel quite recovered,” she managed to say, despite the way her head was swirling. Marcus had kissed her! Every second of it had been glorious, and all she could think was that she hoped he wasn’t really sorry he had kissed her. She forced herself to focus on Lady Tremont. “I was just telling his lordship that I won’t need to rest any longer.”
“That is certainly good news,” Lady Tremont said.
“Were you looking for me?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. I wanted to ask if you’d sent those letters about your, er, acquaintance yet. I thought of one more likely family that matches the initials.”
Rosamund’s breath caught. Marcus was sending letters to people he thought might be related to Poppy, she guessed. These would have to be families whose surname started with W, and since the only family Rosamund had left were the Monroes, the risk of his letters eliciting any information was perhaps not high. But not impossible. Those initials belonged to her mother and grandmother, and someone might recognize that.
But beyond the fear of being found out, Rosamund wanted to know how he felt about Poppy now, after their kiss.
“Not yet. I mean to do it today.”
“Sarah Westover’s middle name is Diana, and she has a daughter who should be about the right age. I’d forgotten about the Westovers because they were out of the country for quite some time, but I heard they’ve recently returned.”
“That sounds promising,” Marcus said. Rosamund, urgently wanting to know just how promising Marcus actually thought this news was, could not determine how he felt about this additional possibility of finding Poppy. She thought he seemed distracted, and some part of her hoped that he was distracted, very distracted, after their kiss.
But this was the height of foolishness, she told herself sternly as she glanced around for Socrates, who seemed all of a sudden to be more capable of looking after himself, or at least of not causing a commotion. Marcus had kissed her, and it had been wonderful, but she reminded herself that even if he wasn’t looking for a mystery woman who’d enraptured him, Rosamund, with the scandal clinging to her and Melinda’s threats of Bow Street runners, could never be anything to him.
And she didn’t need to stand around and listen while he made plans to find the woman he really cared about.
Having spied Socrates partially, and shamelessly, hidden behind a throw pillow on a divan, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I think Socrates is in need of his afternoon walk.”
Lady Tremont looked past Rosamund’s shoulder. “He looks quite comfortable to me.”
If she hadn’t been so intent on leaving
the room so that she didn’t have to listen to Marcus yearning for a woman who didn’t exist, Rosamund might have savored some amusement at the fact that Lady Tremont seemed to have been won over to the idea of dogs in the house, or at least one particular, spoiled but dear dog.
“It won’t last,” Rosamund said, going to the sofa and picking up Socrates, who thought this was a lovely idea and promptly put his little head on her shoulder. She gave an inward sigh. Even Marcus’s dog had won her heart.
As she passed by Marcus on the way out of the room, his eyes lingered on her significantly with some meaning she couldn’t read. Though why he should be looking at her meaningfully—let alone kissing her—when he was so besotted with Poppy, she didn’t know. Trying to sort out any of her thoughts about Marcus only made her feel utterly confused, and she resolved then and there not to think about him anymore.
She also resolved not to think about whether she even could stop thinking about him.
* * *
Marcus finished the letters to the families who might be Poppy’s family the following morning. The notes urged the families to write him back if there was any information to be offered, and it was entirely possible that within a week, he would have an answer about Poppy.
As he sealed the last letter in the stack, he wasn’t certain how he now felt about finding his mystery lady. Ever since meeting Poppy, he’d been so convinced that she was the woman he’d been waiting his whole life to meet. He’d dreamed of her night after night, and he’d imagined countless times what it would be like if he ever saw her again.
But now he was attracted to Rosamund. More than attracted. In the library, overcome by the spell of her presence, he’d told himself that if he once kissed her, he would know she wasn’t for him the way that Poppy was, and he would be able to forget about her.
That wasn’t what happened. The minute his lips touched hers, he’d only wanted more of her, and he’d had to force himself to stop.
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 9