Marquesses at the Masquerade(7)

Rosamund had swallowed. The pearls were the only thing she had left from her mother—in truth, the only thing at all she had left from her family. Everything else, all the bits and pieces that hadn’t amounted to much, had been sold to pay the bills.

“I had always understood Grandmother gave them to Mother at her wedding.”

“A misunderstanding,” Melinda had said, and Rosamund’s heart had sunk at the insincerity stamped on her aunt’s features. “I will keep them, as a sort of down payment for your care.”

Rosamund had surrendered the pearls.

Now, she stared at them lying across Mrs. Barton’s palm, the jewels lustrous in the firelight. Her heart squeezed. Her mother had hardly ever had occasion to wear them, but sometimes she had put them on for one of their meager family dinners, and their glamour had brought a wisp of cheerful elegance to their homey surroundings.

“Well, don’t stand there gawping, girl,” Uncle Piggott said. “Put them on.”

Melinda would be livid if she ever found out Rosamund had worn them, but then, that response would likely pale in comparison to what her aunt would do if she found out that Rosamund had gone to the ball.

She put on the pearls, then performed a pirouette. “What do you think?”

“You’ll do, my dear,” Uncle Piggott said, his gravelly voice suddenly thicker. “Oh, yes, you’ll do.”

“You look wonderful, Miss Rosamund,” Mrs. Barton said, dabbing at the corner of her eye. “Now go and have a wonderful time.”

And they sent her down to the coach.





Chapter Three





* * *



Marcus, not normally particularly excited about masquerade balls, admitted to a deep gratitude for that evening’s event because it was relieving him of the company of Socrates.

Not that he disliked the creature—Socrates was a sweet fellow, and he brought delight to any woman in the vicinity merely by his presence.

But Socrates had yet to cease behaving as though Marcus was his sole reason for existing, and it was slightly unspeakable being on the receiving end of the kind of adoring attention his dog dispensed. Since even Socrates’s most ardent admirer (Alice) agreed that dogs really shouldn’t be present at a ball, Socrates had been spirited away by Cook, whom the creature had shown a willingness to tolerate for a brief amount of time (due mostly to the application of kitchen scraps) before he began the mournful howling that marked his every absence from his master.

Marcus was dancing with his grandmother, Lady Tremont, who, in accordance with the masquerade theme, was wearing an extremely tall wig he suspected had been fashionable in her debutante years, along with a club-shaped patch positioned below her left eye. Though she was well over seventy, Marcus thought she looked charmingly young, and he told her so.

“Rogue,” she said tartly, but the corner of her mouth trembled with pleasure.

While many of the guests had come to the ball dressed as kings or dairy maids or mythological characters—he suspected the Thor who’d just moved past him was the Marquess of Tyne—Marcus’s only concession to the masquerade was a black satin demi-mask. Scores of other gentlemen were also dressed like him, in black evening coats and pantaloons with matching demi-masks, which effectively deepened his concealment, because it would be hard to tell one gentleman from another.

“You are deliberately using up one of the waltzes you might be sharing with a young lady by dancing with your ancient grandmother,” Lady Tremont informed him.

“I am waltzing with you because I adore you.” His grandmother, not known for effusions of emotion, blushed. Marcus hid a smile.

“I’d forgotten how charming you can be when you wish, young man,” she said. “You are becoming so serious. One might even think that you don’t much care to laugh.”

Marcus frowned. “Who doesn’t like to laugh?”

“You, sometimes, from the looks of it. Take care that the duties of the marquessate don’t weigh you down. There, see, you’re frowning now.”

He supposed he did sometimes feel weighed down by his responsibilities. He certainly liked to laugh and enjoy himself, but he did often have a great deal on his mind, things that had to be seen to. “That’s only because you are casting aspersions.”

“I think your mother is trying to get your attention.” Lady Tremont squinted. “Oh, look, she’s just realized you’re wasting a waltz with me.”

“Would you cease this talk of wasted waltzes? I have not waltzed with a more pleasing companion in quite some time.”

“Which only speaks volumes about the young ladies with whom you’ve been dancing.”

Marcus sighed. “There’s a list this time.”

“A list, you say?” Lady Tremont chortled. “Debutantes ranked by beauty, age, size, and goodness?”

“I’m sure nothing like that,” Marcus said, which was true. His mother was far too kind to treat anyone, least of all harmless young ladies, as cattle. Well, mostly harmless—Miss Clarinda Faraday kept sending him bold, meaningful glances over the shoulder of her dance partner. Having observed her eyeing a fellow he suspected was the Marquess of Exmore, Marcus was fairly certain that Miss Faraday’s goal was to snare a marquess, any marquess.

“The perils of being so very eligible,” Lady Tremont said with mock pity. “At least there are two other marquesses present tonight to attract the attention of the matchmaking mamas.”