Marquesses at the Masquerade(28)

“All my other dogs understand what’s what,” Marcus said with a frown, “but I begin to despair of him.”

“I’m sure your other dogs have spent some amount of time being trained,” Lady Tremont said. “Surely it is a bit soon for Socrates to have learned all the necessary commands.”

“He knows how to sit,” Rosamund pointed out. “And he’s learning to stay. We were practicing earlier.”

“There, Marcus, do you hear that?” Lady Tremont said, standing. “A veritable little gentleman in the making. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mrs. Clark.”

As soon as his grandmother was gone, Marcus asked Rosamund how she was feeling.

“Completely fine,” she said.

“That’s because you’ve been resting.” His eyes lingered on her, and she had the sense he wanted to say something more. But all he said, after a moment, was, “I suppose I ought to take Socrates off somewhere that he can’t get into trouble.”

“Oh, let him stay here,” Rosamund said.

“He might jump on you.”

“I think I can manage not to be overpowered by him,” she said. “Besides, I’ve had quite a few quiet hours today.”

Marcus gave a long-suffering sigh. “If you insist, I suppose he might have a supervised visit with you.” He put Socrates on the floor and admonished him to behave. “That means no jumping on Rosamund.”

Socrates immediately trotted over to sniff her foot, and she leaned down to pet him.

“Is that a good idea with your injuries?” Marcus asked.

She gave him a speaking glance and petted some more. Socrates licked her hand in apparent gratitude, then trotted over to Marcus. He sat down at the tips of his master’s shining black boots and gazed up at him adoringly.

Marcus returned his gaze impassively.

“He wants you to play with him,” Rosamund pointed out.

“I had gathered that,” he said dryly, though he made no move to do so.

“How can you resist him? Look at those big brown eyes. Look at the devotion and the hope.”

Marcus gave her a ridiculously haughty look, which made the edges of her mouth quiver. “He’s a pampered and indulged lapdog with his very own personal companion, not a destitute orphan.”

“Is it that you don’t know how to play with him?” she asked sweetly, tempted by she knew not what devil to tease him. “I could show you some of his favorite games.”

“You’re supposed to be reading.”

“I finished my book. Why don’t I show you the way he likes to play with a ball?”

He arched a single, lordly brow at her. “Sit, Rosamund. Stay.”

She gave him her best haughty look back, though it did not have the effect, apparently, of making him quake in his boots.

“I believe I am meant to be regretting the error of my ways, or rather, my speech,” Marcus told Socrates, “but I am unable to do so.”

“That’s because he’s a marquess and used to doing only as he likes,” she observed to his dog, though she knew it wasn’t true. Marcus hadn’t wanted a lapdog, for instance, but despite his feigned disregard for Socrates, she knew he cherished the dog for the sake of his mother. She was fairly certain that as the honorable brother, son, and man he was, he did a great deal of things he didn’t care to do. But she couldn’t resist the urge to tweak him.

Though she really, really didn’t want to admit it, no matter how much she’d told herself that she must simply deny her attraction to this man, she couldn’t. He’d slipped under her skin.

He grunted in reply and disappeared behind one of the shelves, Socrates trotting after him.

After a few moments, she called out, “What are you doing?” She felt silly just sitting there, and so she stood up. Goodness, it felt wonderful to stretch her legs.

With an eye toward the bookshelf shielding her from Marcus’s view, she leaned over and touched her toes, then dropped to a crouch and held it before standing up again, movements she’d accustomed herself to performing to loosen muscles that were cramping after too many hours sitting and sewing. Her shoulder felt almost entirely better, which was not surprising, since it hadn’t been much injured to begin with.

“I’m looking for another book for you to read,” he called out.

“Very kind of you.” She tiptoed to a row of books on a different shelf than the one Marcus had gone behind. Occupied with a series of titles about the flora and fauna of the Lake District, she didn’t notice when Marcus stepped out from behind the bookcase a few minutes later.

“What are you doing, Rosamund?” he growled.

Her heart fluttered in giddy response. “Looking at books.”

“You’re supposed to be sitting.” He stalked toward her, his brow lowering a bit more with each step, Socrates at his heels spoiling the effect somewhat. Still, he did look menacing—something about the hardening of his jaw—and his eyes had gone squinty in a way that was clearly meant to intimidate lesser mortals. In that moment, Rosamund did not feel like a lesser mortal.

“While I certainly enjoyed reading for hours,” she informed him, “and I am grateful for the luxury of such leisure time, the only result of that little fall I took earlier was a bruise.”