Marquesses at the Masquerade(26)

And, what argued in particular for her contacting him again, he had her pearls. She had to know where she lost them, since she would have felt the tug when he accidentally grabbed them as she was dashing off wherever it was that it had been so urgent for her to go.

For the first time, he felt the tiniest bit annoyed with Poppy. Why did she have to be so mysterious? Why couldn’t she make some effort to contact him, even if it was only a note to his mother to ask about the return of her pearls? He felt certain that she’d been as enchanted as he had been that night.

He had not, until now, considered the possibility that he might never find her, but now he did. Only for a moment, because he did have hope. He was going to write those letters that afternoon, and there was every chance something might come of them.

Socrates gave a particularly pathetic howl as Marcus helped Rosamund to stand. She thought of protesting that obviously she didn’t need assistance standing, since she’d done it unassisted a minute ago, but clearly Marcus would not be gainsaid, so she accepted his hand up.

The minute their hands touched, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of his skin stole up her arm, and she had the sense, from his quick intake of breath, that he’d felt something too.

He gently tugged her upright and placed her hand on his arm, then led her out of the room and along the corridor. Socrates was still howling piteously, but all she could think about, shamefully, was the springy feel of Marcus’s muscles under her hand. His shoulders had felt like that too, on the night of the ball, resilient with firm muscle and leashed strength, and she wanted more than anything to touch them again. As they walked through the corridor, she felt his eyes on the side of her face several times, and a blush warmed her cheeks, but she kept her eyes facing forward.

“I was hoping he would tire himself out and fall asleep,” Marcus said after one particularly plaintive wail, “but his volume doesn’t seem to have diminished at all.”

She was grateful for an innocuous topic of conversation, anything to keep her from thinking about Marcus’s arm and how it had been bare that morning when she’d seen him in bed. “He is a dog who feels things keenly.”

“He is currently the bane of my existence.”

She glanced at him. “Oh, come now, you know you adore him.”

“I’m certain I’ve never said such a thing.”

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it,” she teased, even as she told herself it was foolish to be playful with him. What could possibly be the point of such banter when what she needed was for him to treat her like any other person in his employ? But she couldn’t resist the pleasure of talking with him. “I imagine, if nothing else, his presence makes you think of your mother.”

He sighed. “She is a remarkable woman, but I still don’t understand why she thought I needed a lapdog. However, I have in general learned it is best not to inquire too deeply into the motives of the women in my family, because they’re frequently diabolical, even if they are well-intentioned.”

“Diabolical seems a little strong.”

“You haven’t met my sister Alice. She’s never encountered a piece of what she likes to call social news that she doesn’t believe it’s her mission to verify. She’s sixteen, but she knows as much about the affairs of the ton as the oldest dowager.”

“She sounds fun.”

“She is a terror, but she’s our terror.”

Rosamund could easily imagine him as a wonderful older brother. In truth, despite the alternately friendly and chilly ways he’d treated her since hiring her and the fact that he was annoyingly besotted with a memory of her, she liked pretty much everything about Marcus. Which really was terrible.





Chapter Ten





* * *



They reached the library, and Marcus led Rosamund to a divan by the hearth, where a modest fire was chasing away the last of the morning chill.

“Now then,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what would you like? How about some cakes?”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” she pointed out.

“Right.” His eyes roamed around the room. “Is there anything you wish from your chamber that might be brought to you? Some embroidery?” He frowned. “Or not embroidery, since that would require the use of your hands.”

“I’m not much for embroidery anyway.”

“Right,” he said vaguely, at a loss, and he thought he saw the edges of her mouth quiver with amusement at his discomfort. But hell, what did one suggest to entertain a woman who was not exactly a servant, but not a woman of his class either? He had no idea, but he wanted to be certain she was comfortable.

He also wanted to sit down next to her and take her in his lap, but that was out of the question.

“Perhaps Socrates would like to sit with me?” she suggested.

He gave her a look. “Don’t let him manipulate you with his howling. That dog lives like a prince.”

“But I really would enjoy his company.”

“Perhaps later,” he said, knowing that if he brought Socrates into the library, Rosamund would ignore her sore hand and play with him, because that was the kind of person she was.

“Then if I might I avail myself of the books?”