Marquesses at the Masquerade(10)

He was about to ask her if she had been in London long—he was already forming a list of innocuous questions that nonetheless ought to narrow down something about her identity—when, with no warning, he felt something thump against his legs.

“What—” he started to say, even as he realized that somehow his dog had escaped the footman tasked with his care. Socrates gave a happy yip and immediately laid his body across Marcus’s feet. Marcus had so far succeeded in discouraging the jumping up and the licking of his boots and shoes, but Socrates continued to seek whatever contact he could manage.

“Oh,” the lady in blue gasped, “what a sweet little dog!” The next moment, she had crouched down and pulled off her gloves, and then she was petting the creature as he reclined on Marcus’s dancing shoes, and Marcus stared in fascination. Socrates, interestingly, began emitting whimpers of canine delight. “How adorable.”

“Yes,” Marcus agreed, gazing at the top of her head.

She looked up at him, the torchlight glowing on her lovely features and dancing in those eyes whose lights were spinning an ever more powerful spell over him. “He seems quite attached to you. Is he yours?”

“Yes. My mother presented him to me as a gift, though I am still not certain why she thinks I need a lapdog. I’m afraid Socrates is somewhat ridiculous—since the moment he arrived at Boxhaven House, he’s behaved as though destiny brought us together.”

She stood up, her eyes laughing through the holes in her mask, and he tried not to think about kissing her even as he laughed with her. He must have laughed more this night than he had in ages. Perhaps his grandmother was right, and he was becoming too serious, or, at least, he was allowing fun to fall by the wayside.

Or maybe it was simply that he’d been waiting for this woman. And now she was here, like a long-awaited arrival, and he thought that he would never want to stop smiling. He was giddy, and everything was wonderful, and he didn’t want the feeling to end. He had no intention of letting it end. He was confident he would persuade her to reveal who she was, because he knew, he knew, that this night was the beginning of something important.

“How lucky you are to have such a thoughtful mother, and of course, such a devoted dog.”

“Your being charmed by Socrates’s less-than-civilized behavior suggests to me that your household must be deficient in dogs.”

“Sadly, it is,” she said.

“Perhaps you reside in Town, then, and there’s not much need in your household for a dog?”

“Perhaps,” she said lightly, evading his attempt to discern her address. Was she perhaps a relation of someone they knew? He racked his brain for the kind of family news his mother so frequently shared with him, and to which, somewhat shamefully, he did not pay a great deal of attention. Had she told him of some friend’s lovely cousin coming to Town, or something similar? Nothing came to mind.

“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.