Marquesses at the Masquerade(30)

And she didn’t need to stand around and listen while he made plans to find the woman he really cared about.

Having spied Socrates partially, and shamelessly, hidden behind a throw pillow on a divan, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I think Socrates is in need of his afternoon walk.”

Lady Tremont looked past Rosamund’s shoulder. “He looks quite comfortable to me.”

If she hadn’t been so intent on leaving the room so that she didn’t have to listen to Marcus yearning for a woman who didn’t exist, Rosamund might have savored some amusement at the fact that Lady Tremont seemed to have been won over to the idea of dogs in the house, or at least one particular, spoiled but dear dog.

“It won’t last,” Rosamund said, going to the sofa and picking up Socrates, who thought this was a lovely idea and promptly put his little head on her shoulder. She gave an inward sigh. Even Marcus’s dog had won her heart.

As she passed by Marcus on the way out of the room, his eyes lingered on her significantly with some meaning she couldn’t read. Though why he should be looking at her meaningfully—let alone kissing her—when he was so besotted with Poppy, she didn’t know. Trying to sort out any of her thoughts about Marcus only made her feel utterly confused, and she resolved then and there not to think about him anymore.

She also resolved not to think about whether she even could stop thinking about him.

*



Marcus finished the letters to the families who might be Poppy’s family the following morning. The notes urged the families to write him back if there was any information to be offered, and it was entirely possible that within a week, he would have an answer about Poppy.

As he sealed the last letter in the stack, he wasn’t certain how he now felt about finding his mystery lady. Ever since meeting Poppy, he’d been so convinced that she was the woman he’d been waiting his whole life to meet. He’d dreamed of her night after night, and he’d imagined countless times what it would be like if he ever saw her again.

But now he was attracted to Rosamund. More than attracted. In the library, overcome by the spell of her presence, he’d told himself that if he once kissed her, he would know she wasn’t for him the way that Poppy was, and he would be able to forget about her.

That wasn’t what happened. The minute his lips touched hers, he’d only wanted more of her, and he’d had to force himself to stop.

What the hell kind of man was he?

He’d always believed that when he loved a woman, he would love only her. His mother’s hope for him and each of her children, that they marry for love, had been his own hope and desire as well. It was why he’d waited so long, waited for the woman who would be his perfect match. And he’d thought that he’d finally found her, and that her name was Poppy.

But now he couldn’t stop thinking about Rosamund and how special she was. Because she was special, and if she’d been a young lady of a good family, his choices would have been different. What was he supposed to do with her? He couldn’t marry her, even if he did want to abandon his hopes of Poppy. Her family had apparently been rough and poor, and she’d been a seamstress before she’d been a dog’s companion. Her education and gracious manner might allow her a certain acceptance into polite company, but the only position a woman like Rosamund could have in relation to a marquess was as a mistress.

Was he considering asking her to be his mistress? Was he? After all, he hadn’t found Poppy, and he might never.

And Rosamund was special.

He pointed out to himself that being his mistress would offer Rosamund many advantages, not the least of them his protection. She was seemingly without any family or friends to help her. She had no position now, having left her seamstress job, and from what he could tell, no plans for the time after which her help would not be needed with Socrates.

The idea of Rosamund simply disappearing back onto the streets of London was abhorrent. She was too good and too lovely and—he thought of how readily she’d agreed to accompany a man she didn’t know on a carriage trip—far too trusting. Really, he didn’t know how she had survived as long as she had, considering the way she conducted her life.

He could change all that for her. He wanted to protect her. He liked her a great deal, and he wanted her so much he could hardly think of anything but her.

All he needed to do was convince her of the wisdom of his plan. She was an innocent, of that he was certain, but considering she apparently wasn’t sorry that he’d kissed her and that she surely had a grimly narrow future awaiting her, surely she wouldn’t need too much convincing.

He found her in the garden, sitting under a tree and brushing Socrates.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said when she saw him. He didn’t miss the glimmer in her eyes at the sight of him, and he thought, Good.

He stood over her, aware that Rosamund was not a woman to do the predictable thing. He crossed his arms, drawing his mien of authority over him, and got right to the point. “Rosamund, as you are aware, I engaged you to be Socrates’s companion for a period of about a month.”

Wariness crept into her eyes. “Yes, I understood that.”

“Have you thought about what you might do when your time with Socrates is done? What your plans are for the future?”

“My plans for the future?” Her brow wrinkled. “Do you mean that you wish to end my employment?”