Marquesses at the Masquerade(32)
“I have to go inside.”
“We’re not done talking,” he said tightly.
“There’s nothing more to say. Socrates, come,” and he did, saving her from having to say anything more, and she left Marcus standing under the tree.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Rosamund followed Socrates into the manor, resolutely not looking back at Marcus. Socrates, meanwhile, predictably took off at a trot. It was as though everything in his life was so exciting that he needed to run everywhere, Rosamund thought as she hurried into the library after him. She didn’t think he’d chew any of the books—so far, he’d shown an interest only in putting shoes in his mouth—but she couldn’t be certain.
Worrying about the safety of Marcus’s books after the conversation they’d just had felt strange, but she needed to remember that Socrates was the reason she was there, not Marcus. However much she might be tempted by him, Marcus represented nothing but danger to her heart. What she needed was to focus on her work, finish her time with Socrates, collect her wages, and make a new life for herself.
She’d survived scandal, the loss of her parents, and seven years spent sewing in an attic, and she’d survive a little heartbreak as well.
Much, much more than a little, an insistent voice whispered, but she ignored it.
She was surprised by the scene that greeted her when she entered the library. Lady Tremont was sitting on a divan, and curled up next to her, his head on her lap, was Socrates. She was petting him.
“Ah, Rosamund,” Lady Tremont said as she entered the room. “I suppose you are looking for Socrates.”
“He seems to be more comfortable running through the house than I am.”
Lady Tremont chuckled. “He is a scamp, isn’t he?”
“If you’ll forgive me for making a personal observation, ma’am, you seem to have taken to him.”
But Lady Tremont didn’t look offended. She just nodded slowly and continued to pet Socrates. She looked surprisingly… relaxed.
“At my age,” Lady Tremont said, “I’ve learned that if something makes you happy, then you must seize the day and allow it to make you happy.”
She paused after these surprising words. “Of course, I’m not speaking of the kind of false happiness people sometimes ascribe to such things as gambling or shopping or drink, but something—or someone—that makes your heart feel bigger.” She smiled at Socrates and gently stroked his floppy ears, which Rosamund happened to know felt like silk. “In those cases, one ought to take note.”
Rosamund felt her so recently buttressed defenses crumbling as she watched Lady Tremont pet Socrates. Someone who makes your heart feel bigger, that little voice she’d been ignoring repeated triumphantly. And there was the full truth: She needed to be practical, but she also needed Marcus. Of course she could live without him, she could survive. But life wasn’t only about survival.
Marcus made her heart feel bigger. When she was with him, she felt as though everything in her life was ever-expanding.
Love made you stronger, love made you grow. Love opened you up to receive what life had to offer you. Wasn’t that what her parents had taught her? Without the foundation of their love, the deep knowledge that she was loved and accepted, and that love never died, how could she have borne the narrowing of her circumstances after her parents were gone, the days and years of hardships that living in Melinda’s house had meant?
Love changed everything.
She loved Marcus. And she felt changed.
*
Rosamund was avoiding him. Ever since the day before, when Marcus had asked her to be his mistress, she’d made herself scarce. He wasn’t exactly surprised—the openness and sense of wonder she seemed to have for the world spoke of someone to whom many of life’s experiences were an untried realm. He wanted to be the one to show her those experiences.
She’d rejected his offer, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her alone in the world, trying to make her way. Where would she live on the kind of money she could earn, some kind of flea-ridden rooming house? And how would she have enough to eat?
Of course, he could simply give her a substantial sum of money to ensure her security. But money could do nothing to ensure that Rosamund had people in her life, good people who cared about her. Rosamund was made to laugh and share affection, and how was she supposed to do that if she was alone? Even if nothing bad happened to her—a big if—the most likely path facing her, since she’d refused his offer, was that of a lonely spinster. And that would be a tragedy.
He was aware of his own ulterior motives, of how much he wanted her. But that didn’t cancel out the fact that she needed someone to care for and protect her. And Marcus meant to be that person.
It was midafternoon, and he knew, because he had passed by the open door of the drawing room a quarter of an hour before, that Rosamund was sitting on the rug by a window, petting Socrates while she read a book. He rang for a servant and ordered a tea tray to be delivered there, meaning to join her. Perhaps he could appeal to her reason…
When he arrived in the drawing room, though, Rosamund was looking intently out the window.
“Rosamund?”
“Marcus!” She spun around. “Oh, Marcus, Socrates is gone!” Her words came out in a rush, but he quickly gathered what had happened as she explained about being distracted when a maid arrived with a tea tray.