Marquesses at the Masquerade(35)

She moved to the edge of the bed and cast a glance over her shoulder. “You don’t need to know my last name, Marcus. I’m the companion of your dog.”

He sat up as well, annoyed. Why was she being so difficult?

“Rosamund, I obviously look on you as more than the companion of my dog. I want you to be a great deal more. I want to take care of you.”

“You can’t.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I can. I want to take care of you.”

“Well, I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Why?” he demanded.

Her only response was to button up her gown.

He growled and got out of bed, jerking on his breeches. “What are you doing? Why are you in such a rush to go? I thought you enjoyed what we did.”

She finally turned and drew in a breath, as if gathering herself. “I did, Marcus. It was wonderful and magical, and I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll always treasure this time we’ve had together, but I can’t do that again.”

He crossed his arms, treating her to his most commanding glare. “You can’t tell me that you don’t like being with me.”

“No, I can’t tell you that. But it doesn’t also follow that I want to be your mistress. You know that I’m not the kind of woman you’re destined to marry.”

He absorbed her words. “Well, no,” he agreed, because it was only the truth. Rosamund was delightful, she delighted him, but the idea of a seamstress becoming a marchioness seemed like something from a fairy tale.

A rebellious voice whispered that Rosamund had grace and sensitivity and charm, surely essential qualities in a marchioness.

“But…” he began, not knowing what he would say.

She shook her head. “You know what is expected of you, and you’re too good a man not to do the right thing. And what about that mystery woman you’re looking for, the one your grandmother is helping you try to find?”

He pressed his lips together. “There was a woman I met who I thought was special. But it seems she was not so taken with me, at least not enough to further our acquaintance, or even allow herself to be found.”

She swallowed and looked away from him. “What if she did seek you out, this mystery woman?”

That was the devil of it. He thought he’d given a piece of his heart to Poppy, but he could no longer deny that Rosamund had claimed more than a little of his heart as well. Poppy was from his world, and therefore, a choice for her would be easier. But Rosamund was so special, the idea of ever letting her go seemed impossible.

When Marcus hesitated, she said, “You don’t have to answer that,” and he was surprised by the kindness in her voice, because she had every right to be bitter or angry. But hadn’t Rosamund been a surprise from the first?

“I don’t know what I would do,” he said honestly, because the choice for Poppy was no longer clear at all.

She nodded once and told him she would return to the house alone so as not to attract attention. Socrates, the traitor, followed her.





Chapter Thirteen





* * *



Marcus was in the drawing room the following morning, making plans while his aunt sat doing embroidery on the sofa. Despite an overwhelming desire to try to make Rosamund understand that she was being utterly foolish, he’d acknowledged this wasn’t possible and forced himself to allow her some time to think. At least, he hoped she was thinking. If she wasn’t seriously considering his proposition, he didn’t know what his next step would be, because all he knew was that he couldn’t let her go.

Rosamund and Socrates were somewhere in the garden, he knew—he’d asked her to bring the dog to the drawing room when they were done. He meant for them all to have tea. Well, not Socrates, obviously, but he and his grandmother and Rosamund. Marcus reflected that it was a shame he couldn’t tell his grandmother about his attachment to Rosamund, even though he suspected Lady Tremont had grown fond of Rosamund too.

She’d become so incredibly important to him. And he still didn’t know her last name, he thought, vowing to remedy that once and for all when she came in to tea. She was the one he wanted to talk to, the one he wanted to be with. She made him laugh. She made him want to spend the entire day in bed. And he didn’t think he’d ever tire of her.

Which was problematic, if he considered Poppy.

He didn’t want to consider Poppy, actually. She’d been so special, and he didn’t doubt that the night of the ball had been dazzling because of her and that she was a truly delightful woman. But he didn’t know her. He knew Rosamund, and while being with Rosamund felt wonderful, what they shared wasn’t a dream—it was real.

A knock at the door brought a servant to announce visitors: Mrs. Monroe and her daughters, Calliope and Vanessa.

“Mrs. Monroe?” Marcus repeated. The Monroes were London neighbors with whom he had a passing acquaintance, but hardly people he expected to see at his grandmother’s house. They had been invited to the masquerade, he remembered now. Alice had moaned about them coming, because she thought them rather awful.

“Interesting,” Lady Tremont said. “Show them in.”

Marcus just had time to lift a questioning eyebrow in his grandmother’s direction when the door opened and their guests filed in.