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.
“And when I turned around, he was gone. I’ve looked everywhere in here, but he’s nowhere to be found. And now I’ve realized,” she said, distress tightening her voice, “that he must have hopped onto that footstool, which gave him access to the chair and the window. I’m so sorry! If only I hadn’t looked away.”
“Rosamund, he’s an imp, and no one could watch him every minute.”
He could see she was distracted by her worry and not really hearing him. “I’m going out to the garden to look for him.”
“We’ll go together,” Marcus said firmly. “He’s got short legs, and he shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
But Socrates was not in the garden, nor anywhere close to the house.
“You don’t think an animal might have found him,” Rosamund said bleakly as they stood at the back of the garden, where a small meadow gave way to a wood.
“Unlikely.” Though not impossible, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I have an idea where he may have gone. I took him for a walk the other day, so perhaps he followed that path again.”
He led them along the somewhat overgrown path that passed through the wood. They looked to the left and right as they went, calling out encouragingly.
“He’s so small,” Rosamund fretted.
“He’ll be fine.”
“But what if he’s been snatched by a hawk, or fallen in a lake?” she said morosely. “The possibilities are endless.”
“Endless, really?”
“You know what I mean, and don’t be unfeeling!”
Marcus hid a smile. Rosamund was completely endearing when she was outraged. “I suspect that Socrates is perfectly fine. I haven’t seen any hawks around here lately, and most dogs can swim.”
And, in fact, when they found him, Socrates did not look as though he’d had any dire adventures. As they stepped out of the wood and into a clearing, there he was, curled up in the shade of a rosebush that stood in front of the miniature house Marcus’s grandmother had had built for her grandchildren when they were young. Socrates did actually look adorable sleeping in front of the small house, though Marcus would have preferred to have been drawn and quartered than admit it.
* * *
“Well,” Rosamund said quietly, so as not to wake Socrates, “this is unexpected. He seems to have found a Socrates-sized house. Thank heaven he’s safe.”
“And apparently very sleepy. You’d think he’d have heard us calling him, but I suppose he must be exhausted after coming all this way on such short legs.”
“What is this place?”
“A playhouse, built for us grandchildren when we were young. It has a working fireplace, where my brother Jack and I loved to burn things—sometimes even wood. We pretended it was our hunting lodge. My sisters always wanted it to be what they called a Ladies Holiday House, which apparently meant a place to arrange elaborate social events for their dolls.”
“I’d love to look inside,” she said, moving closer. “Though I suppose it must be disgustingly dusty after all these years.”
“Actually, it might not be,” he said, following her. “My cousins were visiting with their children last month, and I imagine it would have been cleaned for their use.”
Socrates stirred as they approached. He yawned, stood, and stretched, waiting while Rosamund opened the door.
“Goodness,” she said, entering. “I love this place.” The main room was small but cozy, with a table by the fire and four chairs, all just the right size for a couple of children to sit down to a meal. In the corner, under a window with real glass panes, stood a bed made of what looked like branches, giving it an appealingly rustic look. A colorful quilt beckoned with the promise of the perfect place to curl up with a book.
“It has its charms,” Marcus said, standing behind her.
Socrates followed them inside and promptly curled up in front of the empty hearth.
“Oh, Socrates,” she said, “we can’t stay.”
“Why not?” Marcus said behind her, and a deep note in his voice made her turn. “You just said you loved this place. Why rush off?”
He grinned boyishly, and Rosamund’s heart turned over. “I…” She didn’t really know what to say. The truth was, she did want to stay there with him. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything.
He took a step closer, close enough that every part of her was aware of his body so near to hers. “Stay,” he said. One little word. An invitation, not a command.
“I wish I could.”
“Don’t just wish, do.”
How she wanted to. Beyond wanted.
When she didn’t say anything, he kissed her.
They had kissed before, but the experience had lost none of its newness and enchantment. In the tender brush of his lips and the way his tongue explored her mouth, she felt his desire to please her and bring her pleasure. How—why?—would she say no to this? She loved this man. There was no one else like him, and she knew with certainty that there never would be.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, whispering his name as her cheek brushed his earlobe. She couldn’t think of any future beyond the next moment. She wouldn’t.
With a growl, he broke away to kiss her neck, his mouth traveling over her skin hungrily, dragging along her neck, and pushing against the neckline of her gown, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He traced her shape through her bodice, and her breath caught as his hand cupped the swell of her breast. He thumbed the tip, and she moaned.
She pushed her hands through the thick waves of his hair and slid them over the light bristles on his cheeks. Her blood rushed deliriously through her body, chasing every sensible thought from her head. All she knew was that she needed Marcus with everything she was.
“Rosamund,” Marcus rasped. His hands shaped her bottom and pressed her against his hips, letting her feel what she had done to him. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned her gown and loosened her chemise, baring breasts that were so lovely he ached at the sight of them.
“Rosamund, Rosamund,” he whispered, drunk on her name, on her.
He kissed her satin skin and captured her nipple in his mouth, blood roaring in his ears. Guiding her backward, he helped her to the bed, and they collapsed onto it, laughing.
“So beautiful,” he said, positioning himself at her feet. Pushing her skirts up as he went, he kissed along the inside of her leg.
“You.” Kiss.
“Are.” Kiss.
“So.” Kiss.
“Beautiful.”
Every inch of her intoxicated him, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.
By the time he reached the tops of her thighs, they were both trembling, and he dragged himself up her body to taste her mouth again. For a moment, the thought penetrated that if Poppy was the woman for whom he’d waited his whole life, who was Rosamund? Because he couldn’t imagine any woman being more to him than Rosamund was right then.
Aching for her, his breath coming in pants, he nudged her legs apart and slipped his hand through her intimate curls.
“Marcus?” Her voice was a shaky whisper, and he smiled crookedly and rubbed one little spot in delicate circles. “Oh, Marcus,” she whimpered.
“Yes, love, I know.”
She was ready for him, and thank God, because he didn’t think he could wait another minute.
He’d never been with a virgin before, but he knew how this might be for her. “I’m sorry, sweet, this will probably hurt a little,” he said as he eased himself to her entrance, dearly hoping it wouldn’t hurt very much.
“I don’t care,” she whispered urgently, wiggling against him.
And then all words were beyond him, because she was so tight and slick, and it took every ounce of control to go slowly.
As he inched more deeply into her, she stilled. “Marcus, wait, this is too much. You’re too much.”
“I am?” He paused, though his blood was screaming.
“Maybe,” she whispered, “you’re too big.”
A pained chuckle escaped him. Chest heaving, he rasped, “I’ll fit, trust me. Just another”—he pushed a bit farther and reached her resistance—“moment.” And then he was through.
“Oh,” she gasped. She began squirming again, making his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“Shh,” he said, beginning to stroke slowly, resisting every urge driving within him. “I want this to be good for you. It gets better.” At least, he desperately hoped it would. It was taking everything he had to go slowly when she felt so incredible.
When her breath caught a few moments later, he felt her desire shift. She clutched his back. “Marcus, I—I want—”
“I know,” he grunted. “I know what you want.” With sweat-inducing patience, he worked her slowly and was rewarded with her cry of pleasure. And not a moment too soon, as his own climax raced through him, filling his veins with the sweetest sensation he’d ever known. Wanting nothing more than to stay buried deep within her, he forced himself to pull out and spent himself on her stomach.
He collapsed against the mattress, not quite certain what had just happened to him. Making love with Rosamund had made him feel completely overtaken. He was hardly a novice in the bedroom, but he felt as though he’d been only practicing before, and now he had finally arrived at the real thing. As if everything in his life had prepared him for this woman. As if he’d been waiting for Rosamund all this time.
His brows drew together slightly as he recalled that he’d had a similar thought the night he’d met Poppy.
Rosamund lay quietly beside him. After a few moments, he reached for his coat and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket and gave it to her with a rueful look.
“It seemed unwise to risk pregnancy.”
“I appreciate that you were thinking more clearly than I was,” she said, accepting the cloth.
“I’m not sure I can take credit for much clear thinking just then.” He shifted onto his side toward her. Her hair had come loose and fell across her chest in long, straight sections of brown satin.
“I didn’t know how it would be,” she said, “but that was...”
“Amazing?”
“Yes,” she admitted, sounding dazed. He grinned, ridiculously pleased that he’d put that note in her voice.
“You know”—he leaned forward to kiss the back of her hand—“you never told me your last name.” He chuckled. “I really think I should know it, considering.”
She stiffened in his arms, and the next thing he knew, she was sitting up and pulling the coverlet around her. “I don’t.”
He laughed, puzzled by her reply. “Why not? You’re being oddly mysterious.” He traced his finger along the back of her arm, stopping to circle the pointed place where it bent. Even her elbow fascinated him. “Unless there’s something you’re hiding?”
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.