Marquesses at the Masquerade(11)

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.