Marquesses at the Masquerade(29)
“Dr. Cranwell prescribed rest,” he rasped, sending a shiver down her spine.
“And I have thoroughly benefited from it. But I am starting to feel like a captive.”
Marcus stopped right in front of her, emanating the outrage of a thwarted marquess and also looking very, very handsome.
“Help me, Socrates. Your master looks scary.”
But Socrates for once was not interested in either of them. Instead, he wandered off to nose around a particular patch of carpet a few feet away. Marcus dropped his chin, giving Rosamund the full benefit of blue eyes glinting with something much different than exasperation. He moved closer, backing her up against the bookcase behind her.
“Rosamund, what are you doing to me?”
“I… don’t know,” she said, feeling her legs turning to jelly. “I’m not trying to do anything.”
“I know,” he said, a note of what almost sounded like anguish coloring his voice. His dark blue eyes held hers. “I know. But just you being you is enough.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she knew that he wanted to kiss her. The knowledge spread a ripple of warmth through her. He had kissed her when she was Poppy, a seemingly suitable woman, and now he wanted to kiss her as Rosamund, the dog’s companion. Knowing he was still searching for Poppy, she didn’t know how she felt about this shift in his affections. On the one hand, she was real and here now, and she was already a little in love with him, so of course she wanted him to notice her and want to kiss her.
But she didn’t know what it meant that he did.
Mostly, though, she wanted him to kiss her again, and she held his gaze as the air between them simmered and his head dipped lower. His lips touched hers, gently at first, a kiss that expressed attraction and sought permission, his lips on hers both familiar and achingly different. She was different. She knew him more now.
She responded, and he put his hands on her shoulders and deepened the kiss, nuzzling her lips, seeking entry, and she opened to him. His tongue stroked hers, and a little moan escaped her at how good it felt. In response, he gathered her in his arms, crushing her to him as he plundered her mouth.
Every thought left Rosamund’s head, save the knowledge that being in his arms was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt and she never wanted it to end.
But it did end, far too soon. With a groan, he tore himself away and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” he said thickly.
“I’m not,” she said, allowing herself a completely honest response.
His eyebrows slammed together. “Rosamund,” he began, but at that moment, Socrates gave a little woof, and the door to the library opened.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“Oh, you’re still here, Marcus,” Lady Tremont said, unaware that in at least one breast in the room, a heart was racing. Or perhaps she was not unaware, Rosamund thought, as the older woman’s eyes lingered on the two of them for several seconds.
“Rosamund and I were looking for a book,” Marcus said, apparently feeling a need to explain why they were standing so close to each other.
“Ah. I gather you are feeling better, then, Rosamund, as you are standing,” Lady Tremont said.
“Yes, ma’am, I feel quite recovered,” she managed to say, despite the way her head was swirling. Marcus had kissed her! Every second of it had been glorious, and all she could think was that she hoped he wasn’t really sorry he had kissed her. She forced herself to focus on Lady Tremont. “I was just telling his lordship that I won’t need to rest any longer.”
“That is certainly good news,” Lady Tremont said.
“Were you looking for me?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. I wanted to ask if you’d sent those letters about your, er, acquaintance yet. I thought of one more likely family that matches the initials.”
Rosamund’s breath caught. Marcus was sending letters to people he thought might be related to Poppy, she guessed. These would have to be families whose surname started with W, and since the only family Rosamund had left were the Monroes, the risk of his letters eliciting any information was perhaps not high. But not impossible. Those initials belonged to her mother and grandmother, and someone might recognize that.
But beyond the fear of being found out, Rosamund wanted to know how he felt about Poppy now, after their kiss.
“Not yet. I mean to do it today.”
“Sarah Westover’s middle name is Diana, and she has a daughter who should be about the right age. I’d forgotten about the Westovers because they were out of the country for quite some time, but I heard they’ve recently returned.”
“That sounds promising,” Marcus said. Rosamund, urgently wanting to know just how promising Marcus actually thought this news was, could not determine how he felt about this additional possibility of finding Poppy. She thought he seemed distracted, and some part of her hoped that he was distracted, very distracted, after their kiss.
But this was the height of foolishness, she told herself sternly as she glanced around for Socrates, who seemed all of a sudden to be more capable of looking after himself, or at least of not causing a commotion. Marcus had kissed her, and it had been wonderful, but she reminded herself that even if he wasn’t looking for a mystery woman who’d enraptured him, Rosamund, with the scandal clinging to her and Melinda’s threats of Bow Street runners, could never be anything to him.