What the hell kind of man was he?
He’d always believed that when he loved a woman, he would love only her. His mother’s hope for him and each of her children, that they marry for love, had been his own hope and desire as well. It was why he’d waited so long, waited for the woman who would be his perfect match. And he’d thought that he’d finally found her, and that her name was Poppy.
But now he couldn’t stop thinking about Rosamund and how special she was. Because she was special, and if she’d been a young lady of a good family, his choices would have been different. What was he supposed to do with her? He couldn’t marry her, even if he did want to abandon his hopes of Poppy. Her family had apparently been rough and poor, and she’d been a seamstress before she’d been a dog’s companion. Her education and gracious manner might allow her a certain acceptance into polite company, but the only position a woman like Rosamund could have in relation to a marquess was as a mistress.
Was he considering asking her to be his mistress? Was he? After all, he hadn’t found Poppy, and he might never.
And Rosamund was special.
He pointed out to himself that being his mistress would offer Rosamund many advantages, not the least of them his protection. She was seemingly without any family or friends to help her. She had no position now, having left her seamstress job, and from what he could tell, no plans for the time after which her help would not be needed with Socrates.
The idea of Rosamund simply disappearing back onto the streets of London was abhorrent. She was too good and too lovely and—he thought of how readily she’d agreed to accompany a man she didn’t know on a carriage trip—far too trusting. Really, he didn’t know how she had survived as long as she had, considering the way she conducted her life.
He could change all that for her. He wanted to protect her. He liked her a great deal, and he wanted her so much he could hardly think of anything but her.
All he needed to do was convince her of the wisdom of his plan. She was an innocent, of that he was certain, but considering she apparently wasn’t sorry that he’d kissed her and that she surely had a grimly narrow future awaiting her, surely she wouldn’t need too much convincing.
He found her in the garden, sitting under a tree and brushing Socrates.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said when she saw him. He didn’t miss the glimmer in her eyes at the sight of him, and he thought, Good.
He stood over her, aware that Rosamund was not a woman to do the predictable thing. He crossed his arms, drawing his mien of authority over him, and got right to the point. “Rosamund, as you are aware, I engaged you to be Socrates’s companion for a period of about a month.”
Wariness crept into her eyes. “Yes, I understood that.”
“Have you thought about what you might do when your time with Socrates is done? What your plans are for the future?”
“My plans for the future?” Her brow wrinkled. “Do you mean that you wish to end my employment?”
“No, I mean that as your employer and thus the person concerned with your welfare, I wish to know what plans you have for when Socrates no longer needs a companion.”
She pressed her lips together and returned her attention to the long fur on Socrates’s ears. “My plans are not your concern.”
“Of course they are,” he insisted. “I’m the only man responsible for your safety, as far as I can tell.”
“I don’t need a man or anyone else to be responsible for my safety.”
“Yes, you do,” he said impatiently. Since she wouldn’t look up at him, he dropped to a crouch right in front of her. That, she could not ignore, and her head came up. “You’re being obtuse, Rosamund. Do you want to go back to being a seamstress, so that you can work from dawn to dusk and earn barely enough to keep yourself alive?”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I will be fine.”
“But I will worry. Do you think I want to think of you alone and vulnerable out in the world?”
She made a dismissive sound. “Disaster is hardly waiting behind every corner.”
He reached for patience, realizing with a hitch of anxiety that Rosamund was too spirited to be simply bullied into doing what he wanted. “It is when you don’t have money. Which you don’t, or you wouldn’t have been working as a seamstress and looking so hungry.”
“Looking hungry?” She had the nerve to roll her eyes, and he wanted to grab her and shake her—and kiss her—until she understood what good sense he was making. “Now you are being presumptuous. My lord—”
“Marcus.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Marcus, Marcus Hallaway.”
“Fifth Marquess of Boxhaven,” she supplied.
“But Marcus to you.”
Color flared in her cheeks. “I’m a dog’s companion! A dog’s companion doesn’t call a marquess by his Christian name.”
“Since a dog’s companion is untested ground,” he said, “I think we can establish our own rules. Call me Marcus.”
“Fine, Marcus.”
He drew in a breath, tamping down his frustration. He had to make her see that what he was offering was her best possible choice. Life presented so few options to a woman like her, but she did have choices, and he meant for her to have the best. “Think about it, Rosamund. I could set you up in a lovely little cottage somewhere. You wouldn’t even have to go back to London if you didn’t want to.”
“And then you would come and visit me, I suppose?”
“Yes, as often as I could. Rosamund, I quite like you.”
Rosamund, her heart sinking into her well-worn half boots, looked at Marcus crouched before her and forced herself to see not merely the man who had kissed her so passionately and just admitted he quite liked her. Because she loved that man. There was no use in avoiding the truth. Marcus was kind and good and smart and achingly handsome and desirable, and she loved him.
But he was also a wealthy aristocrat, the pinnacle of everything their society valued, and thus not for her. How could he ask her to surrender herself to him, to give up all hope of respectability? And, most painful of all, to become to him an amusement for which he made time?
“And when you marry?” she made herself ask.
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I am not in a rush to get married.”
“But there is someone special, isn’t there? Wasn’t there a mystery lady you and your grandmother were discussing?” She ought not to hope that he would abandon Poppy, since she was Poppy, and she treasured that he had been so smitten, even as she felt impatient that the thin veil of illusion was of so much more value than a flesh and blood woman.
He frowned. “There was someone who I thought was special, but I don’t know—” He cut himself off abruptly, as if he could not say anything further on the topic. “Rosamund, you and I might have a great deal of time together. I would make sure you were always well taken care of.” He cleared his throat. “And I would of course see to any children who resulted.”
She felt sick at the thought of children. Not of having children—nothing would have made her happier than to share children with a man she loved who loved her too. But that was the problem: She loved a man, but he didn’t love her.
Marcus liked her a great deal, she knew that. And he wanted her, quite a lot, considering the offer he was making. But his sights were rightly set on marrying a woman from the realm of lords and ladies. This was how life functioned, and one young woman from a scandal-plagued family who was facing an accusation of theft wouldn’t change that.
She stood up, needing to put distance between them, but he followed suit. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Very well, I won’t.”
Anger flickered in his eyes, though he kept his tone reasonable. “It’s the only good choice before you, Rosamund.”
Realistically, it probably was. Her wages for the time with Socrates would take her far, but they wouldn’t provide securi
ty. Marcus was offering her security, because she knew that once he assumed responsibility for her, he would never shirk it, no matter if he married or simply lost interest in her. He was that good of a man. A man who was entirely worthy of her love, but who could never be hers.
“I have to go inside.”
“We’re not done talking,” he said tightly.
“There’s nothing more to say. Socrates, come,” and he did, saving her from having to say anything more, and she left Marcus standing under the tree.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Rosamund followed Socrates into the manor, resolutely not looking back at Marcus. Socrates, meanwhile, predictably took off at a trot. It was as though everything in his life was so exciting that he needed to run everywhere, Rosamund thought as she hurried into the library after him. She didn’t think he’d chew any of the books—so far, he’d shown an interest only in putting shoes in his mouth—but she couldn’t be certain.
Worrying about the safety of Marcus’s books after the conversation they’d just had felt strange, but she needed to remember that Socrates was the reason she was there, not Marcus. However much she might be tempted by him, Marcus represented nothing but danger to her heart. What she needed was to focus on her work, finish her time with Socrates, collect her wages, and make a new life for herself.
She’d survived scandal, the loss of her parents, and seven years spent sewing in an attic, and she’d survive a little heartbreak as well.
Much, much more than a little, an insistent voice whispered, but she ignored it.
She was surprised by the scene that greeted her when she entered the library. Lady Tremont was sitting on a divan, and curled up next to her, his head on her lap, was Socrates. She was petting him.
“Ah, Rosamund,” Lady Tremont said as she entered the room. “I suppose you are looking for Socrates.”
“He seems to be more comfortable running through the house than I am.”
Lady Tremont chuckled. “He is a scamp, isn’t he?”
“If you’ll forgive me for making a personal observation, ma’am, you seem to have taken to him.”
But Lady Tremont didn’t look offended. She just nodded slowly and continued to pet Socrates. She looked surprisingly… relaxed.
“At my age,” Lady Tremont said, “I’ve learned that if something makes you happy, then you must seize the day and allow it to make you happy.”
She paused after these surprising words. “Of course, I’m not speaking of the kind of false happiness people sometimes ascribe to such things as gambling or shopping or drink, but something—or someone—that makes your heart feel bigger.” She smiled at Socrates and gently stroked his floppy ears, which Rosamund happened to know felt like silk. “In those cases, one ought to take note.”
Rosamund felt her so recently buttressed defenses crumbling as she watched Lady Tremont pet Socrates. Someone who makes your heart feel bigger, that little voice she’d been ignoring repeated triumphantly. And there was the full truth: She needed to be practical, but she also needed Marcus. Of course she could live without him, she could survive. But life wasn’t only about survival.
Marcus made her heart feel bigger. When she was with him, she felt as though everything in her life was ever-expanding.
Love made you stronger, love made you grow. Love opened you up to receive what life had to offer you. Wasn’t that what her parents had taught her? Without the foundation of their love, the deep knowledge that she was loved and accepted, and that love never died, how could she have borne the narrowing of her circumstances after her parents were gone, the days and years of hardships that living in Melinda’s house had meant?
Love changed everything.
She loved Marcus. And she felt changed.
* * *
Rosamund was avoiding him. Ever since the day before, when Marcus had asked her to be his mistress, she’d made herself scarce. He wasn’t exactly surprised—the openness and sense of wonder she seemed to have for the world spoke of someone to whom many of life’s experiences were an untried realm. He wanted to be the one to show her those experiences.
She’d rejected his offer, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her alone in the world, trying to make her way. Where would she live on the kind of money she could earn, some kind of flea-ridden rooming house? And how would she have enough to eat?
Of course, he could simply give her a substantial sum of money to ensure her security. But money could do nothing to ensure that Rosamund had people in her life, good people who cared about her. Rosamund was made to laugh and share affection, and how was she supposed to do that if she was alone? Even if nothing bad happened to her—a big if—the most likely path facing her, since she’d refused his offer, was that of a lonely spinster. And that would be a tragedy.
He was aware of his own ulterior motives, of how much he wanted her. But that didn’t cancel out the fact that she needed someone to care for and protect her. And Marcus meant to be that person.
It was midafternoon, and he knew, because he had passed by the open door of the drawing room a quarter of an hour before, that Rosamund was sitting on the rug by a window, petting Socrates while she read a book. He rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray to be delivered there, meaning to join her. Perhaps he could appeal to her reason…
When he arrived in the drawing room, though, Rosamund was looking intently out the window.
“Rosamund?”
“Marcus!” She spun around. “Oh, Marcus, Socrates is gone!” Her words came out in a rush, but he quickly gathered what had happened as she explained about being distracted when a maid arrived with a tea tray.
“And when I turned around, he was gone. I’ve looked everywhere in here, but he’s nowhere to be found. And now I’ve realized,” she said, distress tightening her voice, “that he must have hopped onto that footstool, which gave him access to the chair and the window. I’m so sorry! If only I hadn’t looked away.”
“Rosamund, he’s an imp, and no one could watch him every minute.”
He could see she was distracted by her worry and not really hearing him. “I’m going out to the garden to look for him.”
“We’ll go together,” Marcus said firmly. “He’s got short legs, and he shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
But Socrates was not in the garden, nor anywhere close to the house.
“You don’t think an animal might have found him,” Rosamund said bleakly as they stood at the back of the garden, where a small meadow gave way to a wood.
“Unlikely.” Though not impossible, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I have an idea where he may have gone. I took him for a walk the other day, so perhaps he followed that path again.”
He led them along the somewhat overgrown path that passed through the wood. They looked to the left and right as they went, calling out encouragingly.
“He’s so small,” Rosamund fretted.
“He’ll be fine.”
“But what if he’s been snatched by a hawk, or fallen in a lake?” she said morosely. “The possibilities are endless.”
“Endless, really?”
“You know what I mean, and don’t be unfeeling!”
Marcus hid a smile. Rosamund was completely endearing when she was outraged. “I suspect that Socrates is perfectly fine. I haven’t seen any hawks around here lately, and most dogs can swim.”
And, in fact, when they found him, Socrates did not look as though he’d had any dire adventures. As they stepped out of the wood and into a clearing, there he was, curled up in the shade of a rosebush that stood in front of the miniature house Marcus’s grandmother had had built for her grandchildren when they were young. Socrates did actually look adorable sleeping in front of the small house, though Marcus would have preferred to have been drawn and quartered than admit it.
* * *
“Well,” Rosamund said quietly, so as not to wake Socrates, “this is unexpected. He seems to have found a Socrates-sized house. Than
k heaven he’s safe.”
“And apparently very sleepy. You’d think he’d have heard us calling him, but I suppose he must be exhausted after coming all this way on such short legs.”
“What is this place?”
“A playhouse, built for us grandchildren when we were young. It has a working fireplace, where my brother Jack and I loved to burn things—sometimes even wood. We pretended it was our hunting lodge. My sisters always wanted it to be what they called a Ladies Holiday House, which apparently meant a place to arrange elaborate social events for their dolls.”
“I’d love to look inside,” she said, moving closer. “Though I suppose it must be disgustingly dusty after all these years.”
“Actually, it might not be,” he said, following her. “My cousins were visiting with their children last month, and I imagine it would have been cleaned for their use.”
Socrates stirred as they approached. He yawned, stood, and stretched, waiting while Rosamund opened the door.
“Goodness,” she said, entering. “I love this place.” The main room was small but cozy, with a table by the fire and four chairs, all just the right size for a couple of children to sit down to a meal. In the corner, under a window with real glass panes, stood a bed made of what looked like branches, giving it an appealingly rustic look. A colorful quilt beckoned with the promise of the perfect place to curl up with a book.
“It has its charms,” Marcus said, standing behind her.
Socrates followed them inside and promptly curled up in front of the empty hearth.
“Oh, Socrates,” she said, “we can’t stay.”
“Why not?” Marcus said behind her, and a deep note in his voice made her turn. “You just said you loved this place. Why rush off?”
He grinned boyishly, and Rosamund’s heart turned over. “I…” She didn’t really know what to say. The truth was, she did want to stay there with him. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything.
He took a step closer, close enough that every part of her was aware of his body so near to hers. “Stay,” he said. One little word. An invitation, not a command.
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