Marquesses at the Masquerade(38)

Melinda wisely said nothing to this.

“Nothing else to say?” Marcus said in that hard, marquess’s voice. “Never mind, I’ve heard enough. My housekeeper will see you out. Good day to you, Mrs. Monroe.”

“But,” Melinda began, “your lordship, you’re not thinking to keep Rosamund Shufflebottom here as a servant. Mundie, come along!”

“No, I’m not thinking to keep her as a servant. But she’s not going with you either,” Marcus said, and if Rosamund had been on the receiving end of that icy glare, she felt certain her knees would have been knocking together. Melinda seemed to shrink as the marquess’s dark blue eyes bore down on her. “Good day, ma’am.”

Lady Tremont stepped into the hallway and could be heard calling for Mrs. Clark, but Melinda and her daughters were already leaving. As they passed through the doorway, Vanessa turned and gave Rosamund a hard look of the kind she’d dispensed many times, but this time Rosamund only smiled back. What did it matter what any of them thought? With any luck, she’d never see her aunt or cousins again.

And then Marcus was at her side.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, all traces of the imperious marquess gone.

“What could I say?” She realized, as he took her hands in his own large, warm ones, how much she was shaking. “The daughter of Frederick Shufflebottom is not a woman whom the Marquess of Boxhaven could possibly want to employ, never mind...” She blushed as he gently placed a fingertip over her lips.

“The daughter of Frederick Shufflebottom is a firebrand for justice and the finest woman I know.”

He waited, as if to see whether she had truly heard what he’d said. “Marcus,” she said, her heart in her throat, “your words mean so much to me. But—”

“I don’t want to hear anything that starts with ‘but,’ Rosamund. I love you, and I don’t care if your name is Shufflebottom, Fingerpuller, or Jellyleg.”

He loved her? Could it really be? Her lips started to tremble, but she managed to say, “Do you know a lot of people named Jellyleg?”

“What I know is that you haven’t yet said whether you love me.” He kissed her, and her heart swelled with such happiness that she thought she might burst.

“And I think,” he continued, “that you very likely have a ridiculous idea that I need protecting from the likes of scandalous you.”

“You’re a marquess,” she said seriously. “You can’t consort with a scandalous woman.”

“On the contrary. I’m a marquess, so I shall do exactly as I like. And one of the things I should very much like is for everyone to know that your father was the sort of patriot of whom this country ought to be very proud.”

“Oh, Marcus.” Tears of joy filled her eyes. “This all feels too good to be true.”

“And yet it is true.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But I can’t tolerate another moment of suspense. Do you love me, Rosamund?”

“Yes, Marcus, yes!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “With all my heart.”

They held each other for long moments, and then he leaned away so he could look into her eyes. “Then say you’ll be mine. Will you marry me, Rosamund Shufflebottom?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, I will, Marcus!”

After quite a lot of kissing, they found themselves on the divan with Rosamund curled up in Marcus’s arms. She realized that someone, likely Lady Tremont, had discreetly closed the door to the drawing room at some point.

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Shufflebottom certainly is a memorable name.”

“It is, and yes, I was teased about it as a child.”

“Poor you. So... Poppy.”

She smiled. “Yes, Poppy. My middle name is Penelope, and my parents called me Poppy as a nickname.”

He nodded. “When you first walked into the room and saw your aunt, I began to put it together. But I think in some way, I always knew. From the minute I met you on the street, after you rescued Socrates, I felt something every time I looked into your eyes. I hope you know that you put me through an appalling time, thinking I was enchanted with one woman while I was falling in love with another one.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, kissing him a number of times and reveling in the fact that now she could kiss him all she wanted, whenever she wanted. She cupped his cheek, her expression turning serious. “Though I had my own appalling time, knowing who you were and believing you could never be mine. Never mind knowing that you loved the memory of me pretending to be someone I wasn’t more than you liked the real me.”

Marcus gave her a mock stern look before his expression turned serious. “But Poppy was you. Her clothes weren’t what dazzled me: It was simply her. Which is you, simply you, Rosamund Penelope Shufflebottom, soon-to-be Hallaway. I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and now you are truly mine.”

“Oh, Marcus, I do love you,” she sighed.

A muffled snort drew their attention to Socrates, whose presence had been forgotten, but who was now standing a few feet away, looking up at them.

“He was being so uncharacteristically tranquil, I’d forgotten he was in here,” Marcus said.

Rosamund cocked her head. “It almost looks like he’s grinning.”