Marquesses at the Masquerade(24)

Preoccupied as she was, she hadn’t noticed that Socrates had disappeared under the divan. He emerged now, with what proved to be a dancing slipper in his mouth, and Rosamund shook off her thoughts.

“Dearest, you know that’s not yours,” she told him, attempting to take it away from him. This, of course, was the game, and after a few feints as she tried to snatch it, Socrates took off across the room toward Marcus, who stood by the hearth.





Chapter Nine





* * *



Marcus was only peripherally aware of Socrates and his minder—or at least, he’d made certain not to glance toward the other side of the room, where Rosamund was on all fours. Again. He ought to have considered, before hiring such a pretty woman to be his dog’s companion, that minding a young, energetic dog would involve her in activities such as crawling around on the floor. Or perhaps another person hired for the job wouldn’t have found it necessary to do so. But Rosamund wasn’t someone to do things by half, he had observed, and while that was in many ways an admirable quality, at that moment he could not appreciate it.

He realized that he didn’t even know her last name, and he’d been dreaming about her, dreams that were far from chaste. But why should he know her last name? She wasn’t supposed to be someone to whom he gave any thought at all.

Yet, he had still not recovered from the sight of her standing in his bedchamber, returning his avid gaze with what he knew— he knew—was desire. It had thrummed between them like an insistent pulse.

He tried telling himself now that the moment had only been a temporary madness, some remnant of erotic dreams on his part, some shock on hers, but he knew this wasn’t true. All the more reason to make certain he did not allow his attention to wander to her.

Being intentionally unaware of what was going on across the room, though, meant that he wasn’t prepared for Socrates to come speeding toward him like a cannon blast. Marcus reacted to the sudden approach of his dog by stepping backward. His arm hit the mantel, knocking into a small, ornate clock, which tipped over the edge.

He reached for the clock, but he had to step to the side at the last minute to avoid crushing Socrates, who was dancing at Marcus’s feet. He was startled when his arm knocked into Rosamund, sending her backward. He hadn’t realized that she’d raced across the room and was also reaching for the clock.

Marcus jerked around, the clock in his hand, and there was Rosamund, sprawled on the floor. “Rosamund, Good God! I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”

Socrates rushed over and began to lick her face. Marcus picked the dog up and handed him to his grandmother.

“I don’t think so,” Rosamund said, but then she put her hand to the floor as she tried to stand, and he saw her wince.

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s nothing. I only bumped my hand.”

But he ignored her and dropped to his haunches. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her hand.

“If you insist, but it’s nothing.”

He took hold of her hand, which was small and capable looking. A red mark was spreading in the area around her wrist.

“You must have hit your hand against the table leg. You’ll surely have a substantial bruise. The doctor should look at it to make sure that you haven’t done any further damage.”

“That’s really not necessary,” she insisted.

“Humor me,” he said, ringing for a servant. “I can’t undo being the cause of you falling and injuring yourself. At least allow me to arrange proper care.”

“You really didn’t—”

But a maid appeared at that moment. She was given instructions to send for the doctor and given Socrates to bear away. Fortunately, Dr. Cranwell was already on the estate, seeing to a footman, and it seemed likely he would be along shortly.

“That was quite clumsy of you, Marcus,” Lady Tremont pointed out as the maid left the room amid the plaintive whining of the disgruntled Socrates. “You quite knocked Rosamund over.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he said grimly. “And I am abjectly sorry, Rosamund.”

“It was an accident, my lord,” she said. “You couldn’t have known I was there.”

“But I should have known you were there.”

She laughed. “Why, are marquesses omniscient?”

Lady Tremont sniffed. “They like to think so.”

“I just should have known,” he said.

“I merely took a tumble, and I’m sure the doctor will agree it’s nothing.”

But Dr. Cranwell, when he arrived, did not say her injuries were nothing.

Marcus and Lady Tremont left the room while she was examined. The doctor was as courtly and gentle with her as he might have been with a delicate flower, which Rosamund suspected had a great deal to do with him believing she was a guest of the marquess. In her borrowed dress, she didn’t look much like a servant, and no one had explained to him who she was.

“I’m afraid your shoulder will be sore for a day or two, miss,” he said, “and your hand in particular should not be used. Rest will be the best thing.”

“Thank you, but—”

A knock sounded at the door, followed by Marcus’s voice asking if he might come in. Dr. Cranwell opened the door and proceeded to alert the marquess that the young lady had indeed sustained injuries from the fall, injuries that, while not serious, required rest. Rosamund opened her mouth to protest being discussed like she was an invalid, but Dr. Cranwell kept talking.