Marquesses at the Masquerade(27)

“The books?” he said distractedly. He was having trouble not focusing on her lips again.

She gestured to the tall bookcases that filled the room. “There are a few books in here.”

“Well, of course! If you tell me what you’d like, I’ll get it for you.”

She smiled, and he nearly groaned. She was so pretty—no, she was lovely, that was the word for her. Her eyes had such warmth in them. She was warm.

From the hallway came a familiar sound, the excited yapping of his dog. It quickly grew closer, and Socrates must have reached the door, because the yapping turned into a plaintive yowl.

Marcus sighed. “He must have escaped from whichever servant was tasked with seeing to him. That’s not very restful, having him outside one’s door, is it?” he said.

“Not very,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “He must miss you.”

“Or you,” he said. “I begin to wonder which of us he prefers.”

With a few suggestions from Rosamund, Marcus selected some books and piled them close to her. Then, to save his grandmother’s servants from losing their minds—and really, to save himself from turning into a pile of smoldering embers—Marcus left Rosamund to see to his dog. He and Socrates repaired to his chamber, where he began drafting the letters to the families his grandmother had suggested might be related to Poppy. Socrates slept on his feet.

A man with a young dog for a companion couldn’t spend the whole day in the house, though, and the afternoon found him taking Socrates to romp in the garden.

*



After several hours lying on a divan with a pile of books, Rosamund was beginning to think that falling had been the best thing to happen to her in ages. Oh, her hand hurt a little, though certainly not so much that she needed to sit around. But since Marcus felt so terrible that he couldn’t bear the idea of her moving about with a bruise, she was apparently to be a lady of leisure. Lying about with nothing to do was, not surprisingly, utter heaven.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat around reading during the middle of the day. Reading at Melinda’s house had been done in stolen moments very early in the morning, or late in the evening if she had not used up her monthly allotment of one candle.

At lunchtime, a maid brought a tray overflowing with delicious treats, which Rosamund nibbled while reading a novel. She felt lavishly indulged, and she refused to think about how mundane such an afternoon would have been for any other lady of Marcus’s acquaintance.

Around teatime, Lady Tremont arrived in the library, apparently to visit with her, which Rosamund found unexpected, considering she was a lowly companion for a dog.

“This is an absurd sort of job that Marcus has hired you for, isn’t it?” Lady Tremont asked once she’d settled into the armchair opposite Rosamund. She still looked as fresh and impeccable as she had early that morning and not the least fatigued, despite the fact that she must surely have been near seventy. She might have been older, or she might have been younger. What she seemed was ageless, in an effortless way, though Rosamund, accustomed to making just the right adjustments to gowns so they would flatter, knew that ageless was another word for well-maintained.

“I thought so too, when the marquess proposed it,” Rosamund replied. While she couldn’t afford to give Lady Tremont any details that might cause her to guess anything about Rosamund herself, there didn’t seem to be any harm in discussing how she’d come to be in Marcus’s employ. “I’m not sure if he explained how it transpired?”

“You saved Socrates from certain death, apparently, and the creature took to you immediately.”

“Something like that,” Rosamund said.

“You look familiar,” Lady Tremont said without further preamble.

Caught off guard, all Rosamund could say was, “I do?” She racked her brain for reasons why Lady Tremont might think this. Might she know Melinda or one of Rosamund’s cousins? Rosamund didn’t think she looked much like any of her relatives, but most people weren’t very good at seeing their own family resemblances.

“Something about the color of your hair.”

“My hair?” Rosamund knew she sounded like an idiot, but Lady Tremont had been at the ball, and she had seen Poppy. Rosamund wanted to squirm, but she kept herself still.

“My grandson said you were previously employed as a seamstress. Is it possible we met at a dressmaker’s?”

Rosamund nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes, that’s probably what happened.”

“Hmm,” Lady Tremont said speculatively. She had left the door ajar when she entered, and now they heard the marquess’s voice in the corridor.

“Socrates, you are forbidden.” The sound of tiny claws clicking on polished marble could be heard.

“Extremely forbidden,” Marcus continued, his voice growing louder as though he was coming nearer.

Apparently, Socrates had not yet learned the meaning of forbidden, because as Rosamund and Lady Tremont watched, he nosed the door open farther and trotted in. He gave a happy yip when he saw Rosamund and made for where she was sitting.

“Socrates,” Marcus said in tones of deep exasperation, entering the room briskly, “you are the most infuriating dog.”

With three strides, he had reached Socrates, whom he plucked from the carpet just as he was almost to Rosamund’s feet.