Chapter Eleven
“Oh, you’re still here, Marcus,” Lady Tremont said, unaware that in at least one breast in the room, a heart was racing. Or perhaps she was not unaware, Rosamund thought, as the older woman’s eyes lingered on the two of them for several seconds.
“Rosamund and I were looking for a book,” Marcus said, apparently feeling a need to explain why they were standing so close to each other.
“Ah. I gather you are feeling better, then, Rosamund, as you are standing,” Lady Tremont said.
“Yes, ma’am, I feel quite recovered,” she managed to say, despite the way her head was swirling. Marcus had kissed her! Every second of it had been glorious, and all she could think was that she hoped he wasn’t really sorry he had kissed her. She forced herself to focus on Lady Tremont. “I was just telling his lordship that I won’t need to rest any longer.”
“That is certainly good news,” Lady Tremont said.
“Were you looking for me?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. I wanted to ask if you’d sent those letters about your, er, acquaintance yet. I thought of one more likely family that matches the initials.”
Rosamund’s breath caught. Marcus was sending letters to people he thought might be related to Poppy, she guessed. These would have to be families whose surname started with W, and since the only family Rosamund had left were the Monroes, the risk of his letters eliciting any information was perhaps not high. But not impossible. Those initials belonged to her mother and grandmother, and someone might recognize that.
But beyond the fear of being found out, Rosamund wanted to know how he felt about Poppy now, after their kiss.
“Not yet. I mean to do it today.”
“Sarah Westover’s middle name is Diana, and she has a daughter who should be about the right age. I’d forgotten about the Westovers because they were out of the country for quite some time, but I heard they’ve recently returned.”
“That sounds promising,” Marcus said. Rosamund, urgently wanting to know just how promising Marcus actually thought this news was, could not determine how he felt about this additional possibility of finding Poppy. She thought he seemed distracted, and some part of her hoped that he was distracted, very distracted, after their kiss.
But this was the height of foolishness, she told herself sternly as she glanced around for Socrates, who seemed all of a sudden to be more capable of looking after himself, or at least of not causing a commotion. Marcus had kissed her, and it had been wonderful, but she reminded herself that even if he wasn’t looking for a mystery woman who’d enraptured him, Rosamund, with the scandal clinging to her and Melinda’s threats of Bow Street runners, could never be anything to him.
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?”
“No, I mean that as your employer and thus the person concerned with your welfare, I wish to know what plans you have for when Socrates no longer needs a companion.”
She pressed her lips together and returned her attention to the long fur on Socrates’s ears. “My plans are not your concern.”
“Of course they are,” he insisted. “I’m the only man responsible for your safety, as far as I can tell.”
“I don’t need a man or anyone else to be responsible for my safety.”
“Yes, you do,” he said impatiently. Since she wouldn’t look up at him, he dropped to a crouch right in front of her. That, she could not ignore, and her head came up. “You’re being obtuse, Rosamund. Do you want to go back to being a seamstress, so that you can work from dawn to dusk and earn barely enough to keep yourself alive?”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I will be fine.”
“But I will worry. Do you think I want to think of you alone and vulnerable out in the world?”
She made a dismissive sound. “Disaster is hardly waiting behind every corner.”
He reached for patience, realizing with a hitch of anxiety that Rosamund was too spirited to be simply bullied into doing what he wanted. “It is when you don’t have money. Which you don’t, or you wouldn’t have been working as a seamstress and looking so hungry.”
“Looking hungry?” She had the nerve to roll her eyes, and he wanted to grab her and shake her—and kiss her—until she understood what good sense he was making. “Now you are being presumptuous. My lord—”
“Marcus.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Marcus, Marcus Hallaway.”
“Fifth Marquess of Boxhaven,” she supplied.
“But Marcus to you.”
Color flared in her cheeks. “I’m a dog’s companion! A dog’s companion doesn’t call a marquess by his Christian name.”
“Since a dog’s companion is untested ground,” he said, “I think we can establish our own rules. Call me Marcus.”
“Fine, Marcus.”
He drew in a breath, tamping down his frustration. He had to make her see that what he was offering was her best possible choice. Life presented so few options to a woman like her, but she did have choices, and he meant for her to have the best. “Think about it, Rosamund. I could set you up in a lovely little cottage somewhere. You wouldn’t even have to go back to London if you didn’t want to.”
“And then you would come and visit me, I suppose?”
“Yes, as often as I could. Rosamund, I quite like you.”
Rosamund, her heart sinking into her well-worn half boots, looked at Marcus crouched before her and forced herself to see not merely the man who had kissed her so passionately and just admitted he quite liked her. Because she loved that man. There was no use in avoiding the truth. Marcus was kind and good and smart and achingly handsome and desirable, and she loved him.
But he was also a wealthy aristocrat, the pinnacle of everything their society valued, and thus not for her. How could he ask her to surrender herself to him, to give up all hope of respectability? And, most painful of all, to become to him an amusement for which he made time?
“And when you marry?” she made herself ask.
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I am not in a rush to get married.”
“But there is someone special, isn’t there? Wasn’t there a mystery lady you and your grandmother were discussing?” She ought not to hope that he would abandon Poppy, since she was Poppy, and she treasured that he had been so smitten, even as she felt impatient that the thin veil of illusion was of so much more value than a flesh and blood woman.
He frowned. “There was someone who I thought was special, but I don’t know—” He cut himself off abruptly, as if he could not say anything further on the topic. “Rosamund, you and I might have a great deal of time together. I would make sure you were always well taken care of.” He cleared his throat. “And I would of course see to any children who resulted.”
She felt sick at the thought of children. Not of having children—nothing would have made her happier than to share children with a man she loved who loved her too. But that was the problem: She loved a man, but he didn’t love her.
Marcus liked her a great deal, she knew that. And he wanted her, quite a lot, considering the offer he was making. But his sights were rightly set on marrying a woman from the realm of lords and ladies. This was how life functioned, and one young woman from a scandal-plagued family who was facing an accusation of theft wouldn’t change that.
She stood up, needing to put distance between them, but he followed suit. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Very well, I won’t.”
Anger flickered in his eyes, though he kept his tone reasonable. “It’s the only good choice before you, Rosamund.”
Realistically, it probably was. Her wages for the time with Socrates would take her far, but they wouldn’t provide security. Marcus was offering her security, because she knew that once he assumed responsibility for her, he would never shirk it, no matter if he married or simply lost interest in her. He was that good of a man. A man who was entirely worthy of her love, but who could never be hers.
“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.