Marquesses at the Masquerade(25)

“The young lady ought to rest for at least three days, and she must not use her right hand at all during that time.”

This was getting to be ridiculous. Her hand might be a little sore, along with her shoulder, but her hurts were mild and hardly limiting. She didn’t want to be ungracious, but she had a purpose here and a real need for the wage she was to earn. “But Socrates—” she began.

“Will be fine,” Marcus said.

“Socrates?” repeated a puzzled Dr. Cranwell.

“My dog,” said Marcus, as if that explained anything. As though on cue, the sound of a dog howling somewhere in the house could be heard. Rosamund hid a smile at the doctor’s look of befuddlement.

Marcus saw Dr. Cranwell out, then turned to her.

“Well, then, Rosamund, where would you like to rest? In here? The library perhaps? Or if you prefer, I can assist you to your chamber.”

“You’ve been very kind, my lord. But as I’ve told you, I really don’t feel much injured at all. Dr. Cranwell was being unnecessarily cautious, as I’m sure you know.”

“I know nothing of the sort. You had a fall, and you need time to heal.”

“My lord,” she said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice, since he was being thoughtful, even if he was also being ridiculous, “I’m only a little bruised, and I certainly don’t need to sit around resting.” She stood up. “See? I am perfectly fine.”

“Rosamund,” Marcus said sternly, “you are to follow Dr. Cranwell’s orders. Please sit.”

She didn’t need to sit, but his commanding tone did not invite argument. She sat—for the moment. “But they are entirely unnecessary! I am not hurt.”

“Your hand is bruised.”

“I have done far worse to myself walking clumsily through a doorway, and I have certainly never required rest for such a thing.”

“Nonetheless, I insist that you follow Dr. Cranwell’s instructions.”

“My lord”—she was beginning to feel exasperated—“I am here to be a companion to Socrates, and I intend to do so.”

“Rosamund, please. Even if putting your feet up for a few days won’t make you feel better, your doing so will make me feel better.”

“Oh,” she said, startled by the kindness in his tone. “Well, that is extremely—really, excessively—considerate.”

“Think nothing of it. Socrates can wait a few days for you to recover.”

She laughed. “How can you say that when, at this very moment, he is howling like a banshee?”

One corner of Marcus’s mouth curved up, and her stomach fluttered at the boyish amusement in his eyes. “He is making an unholy racket, isn’t he? One almost has to admire it, considering he’s such a small fellow.”

“Yes, but he’s also a dear little fellow.”

“Not so dear when he’s getting underfoot.”

“I’m sure it’s hard not to be underfoot when one is a small dog.”

“Are you always so unfailingly patient?”

As they talked, Marcus was having the worst time not looking at Rosamund’s mouth, which was the color of a ripe berry. He forced his eyes to move to a neutral place on her face, but her chin was charmingly pert and her forehead interesting in a way that he would not have expected of a forehead.

He was vastly relieved that she was not much hurt, but wasn’t it just as well for him if she was consigned to a room where he was not? Because, far from putting her out of his mind, he kept getting ideas about her, ideas he should not be getting when he wanted more than anything to see Poppy again. Already, his grandmother had suggested several families with members who might fit the initials on the necklace clasp, and Marcus had begun mentally drafting letters delicately inquiring whether these families had any members named Poppy. He would mention having found something engraved belonging to her that he wished to return.

There was the possibility of success, and nothing could have pleased him more.

But even simply standing near Rosamund was making him itch to close the gap between them and touch her.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I shall make certain you’re settled for the afternoon, then I’ll go see to Socrates, lest my grandmother’s servants all give notice en masse.”

Her brows drew together in vexation, which only made her more adorable. “I really don’t wish to collect money I have not earned.”

“None of us can have everything we want,” he said, cheerfully cutting her off. “Now, resting place?” He grinned. “Not the final one, of course.”

Her lips quirked a little at his joke. “If you insist—”

“I absolutely do.”

“Then I should be quite happy to spend some time in the library.” She actually looked happy at the thought of spending time in the library.

“Do you like to read?”

“Reading,” she said with a giddy sigh, “is just about the best thing there is.”

Marcus liked to read also, but on the issue of it being just about the best thing there was, he felt that Rosamund was sorely misguided. Being an innocent, she was surely unaware of other choices that could easily best books.

What if you showed her about those choices? It wasn’t as if he was engaged to Poppy, or courting her. For all he knew, she had forgotten him. As a single young woman, Poppy could not simply write to him or visit. But there were a hundred little ways she could have arranged to contact him—by showing up at events where he would be, contacting his sister Kate, asking someone to introduce them. She might even have sent an anonymous note. Marcus knew he would have been creative if he’d been in her shoes.