“I wish I could.”
“Don’t just wish, do.”
How she wanted to. Beyond wanted.
When she didn’t say anything, he kissed her.
They had kissed before, but the experience had lost none of its newness and enchantment. In the tender brush of his lips and the way his tongue explored her mouth, she felt his desire to please her and bring her pleasure. How—why?—would she say no to this? She loved this man. There was no one else like him, and she knew with certainty that there never would be.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, whispering his name as her cheek brushed his earlobe. She couldn’t think of any future beyond the next moment. She wouldn’t.
With a growl, he broke away to kiss her neck, his mouth traveling over her skin hungrily, dragging along her neck, and pushing against the neckline of her gown, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He traced her shape through her bodice, and her breath caught as his hand cupped the swell of her breast. He thumbed the tip, and she moaned.
She pushed her hands through the thick waves of his hair and slid them over the light bristles on his cheeks. Her blood rushed deliriously through her body, chasing every sensible thought from her head. All she knew was that she needed Marcus with everything she was.
“Rosamund,” Marcus rasped. His hands shaped her bottom and pressed her against his hips, letting her feel what she had done to him. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned her gown and loosened her chemise, baring breasts that were so lovely he ached at the sight of them.
“Rosamund, Rosamund,” he whispered, drunk on her name, on her.
He kissed her satin skin and captured her nipple in his mouth, blood roaring in his ears. Guiding her backward, he helped her to the bed, and they collapsed onto it, laughing.
“So beautiful,” he said, positioning himself at her feet. Pushing her skirts up as he went, he kissed along the inside of her leg.
“You.” Kiss.
“Are.” Kiss.
“So.” Kiss.
“Beautiful.”
Every inch of her intoxicated him, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.
By the time he reached the tops of her thighs, they were both trembling, and he dragged himself up her body to taste her mouth again. For a moment, the thought penetrated that if Poppy was the woman for whom he’d waited his whole life, who was Rosamund? Because he couldn’t imagine any woman being more to him than Rosamund was right then.
Aching for her, his breath coming in pants, he nudged her legs apart and slipped his hand through her intimate curls.
“Marcus?” Her voice was a shaky whisper, and he smiled crookedly and rubbed one little spot in delicate circles. “Oh, Marcus,” she whimpered.
“Yes, love, I know.”
She was ready for him, and thank God, because he didn’t think he could wait another minute.
He’d never been with a virgin before, but he knew how this might be for her. “I’m sorry, sweet, this will probably hurt a little,” he said as he eased himself to her entrance, dearly hoping it wouldn’t hurt very much.
“I don’t care,” she whispered urgently, wiggling against him.
And then all words were beyond him, because she was so tight and slick, and it took every ounce of control to go slowly.
As he inched more deeply into her, she stilled. “Marcus, wait, this is too much. You’re too much.”
“I am?” He paused, though his blood was screaming.
“Maybe,” she whispered, “you’re too big.”
A pained chuckle escaped him. Chest heaving, he rasped, “I’ll fit, trust me. Just another”—he pushed a bit farther and reached her resistance—“moment.” And then he was through.
“Oh,” she gasped. She began squirming again, making his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“Shh,” he said, beginning to stroke slowly, resisting every urge driving within him. “I want this to be good for you. It gets better.” At least, he desperately hoped it would. It was taking everything he had to go slowly when she felt so incredible.
When her breath caught a few moments later, he felt her desire shift. She clutched his back. “Marcus, I—I want—”
“I know,” he grunted. “I know what you want.” With sweat-inducing patience, he worked her slowly and was rewarded with her cry of pleasure. And not a moment too soon, as his own climax raced through him, filling his veins with the sweetest sensation he’d ever known. Wanting nothing more than to stay buried deep within her, he forced himself to pull out and spent himself on her stomach.
He collapsed against the mattress, not quite certain what had just happened to him. Making love with Rosamund had made him feel completely overtaken. He was hardly a novice in the bedroom, but he felt as though he’d been only practicing before, and now he had finally arrived at the real thing. As if everything in his life had prepared him for this woman. As if he’d been waiting for Rosamund all this time.
His brows drew together slightly as he recalled that he’d had a similar thought the night he’d met Poppy.
Rosamund lay quietly beside him. After a few moments, he reached for his coat and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket and gave it to her with a rueful look.
“It seemed unwise to risk pregnancy.”
“I appreciate that you were thinking more clearly than I was,” she said, accepting the cloth.
“I’m not sure I can take credit for much clear thinking just then.” He shifted onto his side toward her. Her hair had come loose and fell across her chest in long, straight sections of brown satin.
“I didn’t know how it would be,” she said, “but that was...”
“Amazing?”
“Yes,” she admitted, sounding dazed. He grinned, ridiculously pleased that he’d put that note in her voice.
“You know”—he leaned forward to kiss the back of her hand—“you never told me your last name.” He chuckled. “I really think I should know it, considering.”
She stiffened in his arms, and the next thing he knew, she was sitting up and pulling the coverlet around her. “I don’t.”
He laughed, puzzled by her reply. “Why not? You’re being oddly mysterious.” He traced his finger along the back of her arm, stopping to circle the pointed place where it bent. Even her elbow fascinated him. “Unless there’s something you’re hiding?”
She moved to the edge of the bed and cast a glance over her shoulder. “You don’t need to know my last name, Marcus. I’m the companion of your dog.”
He sat up as well, annoyed. Why was she being so difficult?
“Rosamund, I obviously look on you as more than the companion of my dog. I want you to be a great deal more. I want to take care of you.”
“You can’t.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I can. I want to take care of you.”
“Well, I don’t want to be taken care of.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Her only response was to button up her gown.
He growled and got out of bed, jerking on his breeches. “What are you doing? Why are you in such a rush to go? I thought you enjoyed what we did.”
She finally turned and drew in a breath, as if gathering herself. “I did, Marcus. It was wonderful and magical, and I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll always treasure this time we’ve had together, but I can’t do that again.”
He crossed his arms, treating her to his most commanding glare. “You can’t tell me that you don’t like being with me.”
“No, I can’t tell you that. But it doesn’t also follow that I want to be your mistress. You know that I’m not the kind of woman you’re destined to marry.”
He absorbed her words. “Well, no,” he agreed, because it was only the truth. Rosamund was delightful, she delighted him, but the idea of a seamstress becoming a marchioness seemed like something from a fairy tale.
A rebellious voice whispered that Rosamund had grace and sensitivity and
charm, surely essential qualities in a marchioness.
“But…” he began, not knowing what he would say.
She shook her head. “You know what is expected of you, and you’re too good a man not to do the right thing. And what about that mystery woman you’re looking for, the one your grandmother is helping you try to find?”
He pressed his lips together. “There was a woman I met who I thought was special. But it seems she was not so taken with me, at least not enough to further our acquaintance, or even allow herself to be found.”
She swallowed and looked away from him. “What if she did seek you out, this mystery woman?”
That was the devil of it. He thought he’d given a piece of his heart to Poppy, but he could no longer deny that Rosamund had claimed more than a little of his heart as well. Poppy was from his world, and therefore, a choice for her would be easier. But Rosamund was so special, the idea of ever letting her go seemed impossible.
When Marcus hesitated, she said, “You don’t have to answer that,” and he was surprised by the kindness in her voice, because she had every right to be bitter or angry. But hadn’t Rosamund been a surprise from the first?
“I don’t know what I would do,” he said honestly, because the choice for Poppy was no longer clear at all.
She nodded once and told him she would return to the house alone so as not to attract attention. Socrates, the traitor, followed her.
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
Marcus was in the drawing room the following morning, making plans while his aunt sat doing embroidery on the sofa. Despite an overwhelming desire to try to make Rosamund understand that she was being utterly foolish, he’d acknowledged this wasn’t possible and forced himself to allow her some time to think. At least, he hoped she was thinking. If she wasn’t seriously considering his proposition, he didn’t know what his next step would be, because all he knew was that he couldn’t let her go.
Rosamund and Socrates were somewhere in the garden, he knew—he’d asked her to bring the dog to the drawing room when they were done. He meant for them all to have tea. Well, not Socrates, obviously, but he and his grandmother and Rosamund. Marcus reflected that it was a shame he couldn’t tell his grandmother about his attachment to Rosamund, even though he suspected Lady Tremont had grown fond of Rosamund too.
She’d become so incredibly important to him. And he still didn’t know her last name, he thought, vowing to remedy that once and for all when she came in to tea. She was the one he wanted to talk to, the one he wanted to be with. She made him laugh. She made him want to spend the entire day in bed. And he didn’t think he’d ever tire of her.
Which was problematic, if he considered Poppy.
He didn’t want to consider Poppy, actually. She’d been so special, and he didn’t doubt that the night of the ball had been dazzling because of her and that she was a truly delightful woman. But he didn’t know her. He knew Rosamund, and while being with Rosamund felt wonderful, what they shared wasn’t a dream—it was real.
A knock at the door brought a servant to announce visitors: Mrs. Monroe and her daughters, Calliope and Vanessa.
“Mrs. Monroe?” Marcus repeated. The Monroes were London neighbors with whom he had a passing acquaintance, but hardly people he expected to see at his grandmother’s house. They had been invited to the masquerade, he remembered now. Alice had moaned about them coming, because she thought them rather awful.
“Interesting,” Lady Tremont said. “Show them in.”
Marcus just had time to lift a questioning eyebrow in his grandmother’s direction when the door opened and their guests filed in.
All three performed very deep curtseys. Marcus hadn’t seen either of the daughters in some time.
“How nice to see you, Mrs. Monroe,” his grandmother said. “And your daughters.”
Mrs. Monroe blushed with pleasure at the greeting. “Thank you, Lady Tremont. Please forgive us for arriving at your home in this somewhat abrupt manner, but I think when I have explained the reason for our visit, you will be glad indeed.”
“Please,” his grandmother urged. Marcus waited with only vague interest.
“As you know,” Mrs. Monroe said, “we were invited to the masquerade ball held at Boxhaven House held earlier in the Season, and we gladly accepted that invitation. At that magnificent event, as I have come to understand, the marquess met a remarkable young lady.” She smiled. “A young lady whose identity he does not yet know because of the masquerade, and of whom all he has is a necklace she lost at the ball. A necklace, I suspect, that bears the initials HPW and SDW.”
Mrs. Monroe paused, and Marcus, who had been toying with a button on the front of his coat, stopped as her words penetrated. He had not divulged the fact of the engraving to the families with whom he’d taken tea months ago. He nodded once.
Mrs. Monroe’s hand went to her heart. “My family lost a pearl necklace that night,” she said, “bearing the initials of my grandmother, Sarah Warwick and my mother, Helen Warwick.”
“Ah,” said Lady Tremont after a long moment.
“How did you know I was looking for the owner of the necklace, ma’am?” Marcus asked. He’d only just sent the letters, and he hadn’t sent one to her anyway. He glanced back and forth between the daughters, trying to compel his brain to ascertain if one of these young women was Poppy. He felt that he ought to feel something if he was in her presence, but nothing indicated to him that either of these young women was any more special than any other woman of the ton.
Mrs. Monroe cleared her throat delicately. “I was speaking with a lady recently who knew a family whom you visited after the ball, and she told me of the necklace that was found at the ball. I realized that this must surely be our family heirloom, which was lost that night.”
“It seems Marcus and his visits to certain families have been much discussed,” Lady Tremont observed.
Mrs. Monroe nodded, apparently unconcerned about this breach of etiquette. “And it was fortunate they were, too, since if we did not know about the necklace being found and the marquess’s interest in its owner, we would not have known to bring ourselves forward. Because our family, my lord”— she smiled grandly at Marcus—“is the one you’ve been searching for. One of my daughters –we can’t remember which—was wearing the necklace that night, and she is your mystery lady from the ball.”
She presented her daughters to him—he’d met them once or twice before—and he exchanged greetings with them. They were both pretty, but within a minute of speaking to them and perceiving not one bit of vividness or joy bubbling over in either of them, he knew that neither was the woman with whom he’d once danced. And he also knew that it no longer mattered to him who Poppy was.
* * *
Rosamund had not been alerted that visitors had arrived, so when Socrates trotted ahead of her and disappeared into the drawing room, she merely followed him, knowing that Marcus wished them all to have tea together. Which she thought was a foolish idea for a number of reasons, not least that a dog’s companion should not take tea with a marquess and his grandmother. But he’d insisted that his grandmother wanted Socrates to come to tea, and therefore, Rosamund must come as well.
As she reached the doorway, she saw that three ladies were inside, facing away from her, and she hesitated. But Socrates had gone ahead of her, and now he went over to sniff the feet of the arrivals. Rosamund’s first thought was that she ought to collect him before leaving Marcus and Lady Tremont to their visitors, who would surely be more appropriate entertainment for teatime. Then she realized who the visitors were.
She nearly gasped.
Melinda, Vanessa, and Calliope were here, in Lady Tremont’s drawing room. Rosamund didn’t know why or how, but it couldn’t be anything that would be good for her. In fact, it was very possibly to do with the pearls, and it occurred to Rosamund that gossip might have carried news of the necklace being in his possession to her aunt.
So while Rosamund might no
t need to worry about Bow Street runners—Marcus himself knew how the pearls had come into his possession— Melinda could now do her harm in another way.
Fortunately, Socrates had come to Rosamund when she entered, and intending to quit the room before anyone saw her, she quickly picked him up and turned to go.
“Rosamund,” Lady Tremont said, “do stay. I’m sure our guests would like to meet Socrates.”
She froze. All eyes turned toward her. Her cousins gasped, and Melinda made a sound that was closer to a growl.
“Mundie!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
Marcus was looking back and forth between Rosamund and the guests with an expression of puzzlement. “Ma’am? Are you acquainted with Rosamund?”
Melinda drew herself up with all the gravitas of a grievously injured party. “Yes, my lord, unfortunately, I am. She was until recently living under my roof.”
“I had understood Rosamund was working as a seamstress.”
“That might be the way she passed herself off to you, my lord. But you should know that she is not respectable.”
Marcus’s eyebrows slammed together at these words. “I would ask you, ma’am, what reason you have to suggest that about someone in my employ.”
“Rosamund is in your employ?”
“She is the companion to my dog.”
“To your dog?” Melinda repeated quizzically. She absorbed this information with a furrowing of her brow, and Rosamund knew she was thinking about how best to arrange things to her advantage in light of what she knew about her niece. But that information was Rosamund’s to share, and she would not let her aunt speak for her.
“Mrs. Monroe is my aunt,” Rosamund said.
Melinda reddened with fury. “The connection is not a happy one. In fact, my niece’s father was an infamous enemy of the state. We did her a kindness by taking her in and allowing her to live quietly among us when she would otherwise have been shunned by all respectable people.”
“I see,” Marcus said. His eyes were hooded, making it impossible for Rosamund to read his expression. But it was too late now to keep secrets, and she was almost glad Marcus would now know who she was.
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 11