Chapter Four
This, this was what he’d been waiting for his entire life, without even knowing that he’d been waiting. This feeling of being so incredibly alive, like every inch of his skin was awake, all because of the lady in blue.
He was about to ask her if she had been in London long—he was already forming a list of innocuous questions that nonetheless ought to narrow down something about her identity—when, with no warning, he felt something thump against his legs.
“What—” he started to say, even as he realized that somehow his dog had escaped the footman tasked with his care. Socrates gave a happy yip and immediately laid his body across Marcus’s feet. Marcus had so far succeeded in discouraging the jumping up and the licking of his boots and shoes, but Socrates continued to seek whatever contact he could manage.
“Oh,” the lady in blue gasped, “what a sweet little dog!” The next moment, she had crouched down and pulled off her gloves, and then she was petting the creature as he reclined on Marcus’s dancing shoes, and Marcus stared in fascination. Socrates, interestingly, began emitting whimpers of canine delight. “How adorable.”
“Yes,” Marcus agreed, gazing at the top of her head.
She looked up at him, the torchlight glowing on her lovely features and dancing in those eyes whose lights were spinning an ever more powerful spell over him. “He seems quite attached to you. Is he yours?”
“Yes. My mother presented him to me as a gift, though I am still not certain why she thinks I need a lapdog. I’m afraid Socrates is somewhat ridiculous—since the moment he arrived at Boxhaven House, he’s behaved as though destiny brought us together.”
She stood up, her eyes laughing through the holes in her mask, and he tried not to think about kissing her even as he laughed with her. He must have laughed more this night than he had in ages. Perhaps his grandmother was right, and he was becoming too serious, or, at least, he was allowing fun to fall by the wayside.
Or maybe it was simply that he’d been waiting for this woman. And now she was here, like a long-awaited arrival, and he thought that he would never want to stop smiling. He was giddy, and everything was wonderful, and he didn’t want the feeling to end. He had no intention of letting it end. He was confident he would persuade her to reveal who she was, because he knew, he knew, that this night was the beginning of something important.
“How lucky you are to have such a thoughtful mother, and of course, such a devoted dog.”
“Your being charmed by Socrates’s less-than-civilized behavior suggests to me that your household must be deficient in dogs.”
“Sadly, it is,” she said.
“Perhaps you reside in Town, then, and there’s not much need in your household for a dog?”
“Perhaps,” she said lightly, evading his attempt to discern her address. Was she perhaps a relation of someone they knew? He racked his brain for the kind of family news his mother so frequently shared with him, and to which, somewhat shamefully, he did not pay a great deal of attention. Had she told him of some friend’s lovely cousin coming to Town, or something similar? Nothing came to mind.
“Oh!” she said as the warm weight on his feet disappeared. “Your dog has just installed himself on my feet.”
Incredulous, Marcus looked down. Socrates, who had taken little more than passing interest in anyone but him since arriving at Boxhaven House, let alone actually seeking the attention of anyone else, was now lying across the lady in blue’s feet. As Marcus had already moved some way toward laying his heart at this woman’s feet, the sight of his dog there was a little galling.
“Goodness, I feel quite chosen,” she said with not a hint of sarcasm. She sounded, in fact, delighted.
“Socrates!” Marcus said. “Get up this instant.” Socrates ignored him.
“Oh, do let him stay where he is,” she said and caught his arm as he was about to crouch down to address the matter. “I don’t mind a bit, really. He is so sweet and very, very soft.”
“You really must be deficient in dog exposure.” How different she was... open, as if she was ready to be delighted by whatever happened.
“Oh, there you are,” came a breathless voice as a footman appeared on the steps coming up from the garden. “I’m terribly sorry, miss, that this dog is bothering you.”
It was Johnston, the footman who’d been tasked with assisting Cook with Socrates, and he stopped abruptly as he took in the full situation. “My lord,” he said, bowing to Marcus. “I regret most seriously that Socrates escaped from me. I had brought the dog into the garden because—”
“I can imagine why, Johnston, thank you,” Marcus said.
“Yes, my lord. I thought I had hold of him, but he ran off suddenly. He must have known you were here.”
“Indeed,” Marcus said dryly. “Thank you, Johnston, that will do. If you will remove Socrates from our guest’s feet?”
* * *
Rosamund knew she would pay for this night. With luck, not because her aunt or cousins discovered her presence, which, now that she and the marquess had moved to the terrace, seemed not as likely since few other people seemed inclined to venture out there.
No, she’d pay for this night because being with the Marquess of Boxhaven was so wonderful that everything else in her life would pale in comparison. She would be thinking about him every night before she fell asleep, probably until she departed this mortal coil, and all day long too, as she worked her way through the piles of sewing and mending Melinda found for her.
But she already knew that she would never regret what would surely become bittersweet memories in the months and years to come, because she would always know that she had met him and that he had looked at her as he was doing right then. She might have gone her whole life without looking into his eyes and feeling as though they were touching each other’s souls.
But the future was for later. She didn’t care about the future right now, because she meant to savor every moment of this wonder-filled night.
“Now that you are no longer being pinned in place by a dog, we might go inside, if you like,” he said. “Everyone else out here has done, probably because they’re playing a waltz, and those are popular.”
She glanced around the terrace, surprised to see that he was right. They were alone.
“I can hear the music,” she said. “It’s so beautiful. Everything here is beautiful. It must be wonderful to live here.”
“I can’t complain, though I sometimes do,” he said cheerfully. “For one thing, all sorts of people are terribly interested in what a marquess does, so one feels watched all the time, never mind that my family treats my home as if it is theirs.”
“Is your family all as nice as your mother?”
“Nice is not exactly the word. My brother, Jack, is generally wanting to hide from the consequences of something he shouldn’t have done, my sister Kate is generally wanting to hide from my mother’s matchmaking efforts, and my sister Alice, who is sixteen, ought to want to hide but never does.”
“They sound lovely,” she said wistfully. She hadn’t realized until that moment how very much she missed having her very own family. Not Melinda—she and her daughters might be relatives, but they weren’t family. Uncle Piggott was like family, of course, and so were the other servants in the household. Still, there was nothing better, was there, than a whole family of related people who all truly loved each other? It was what she’d known for the first fifteen years of her life, and what she’d learned to do without since coming to Melinda’s house.
He chuckled. “If you insist that I turn sentimental, I will go so far as to admit that they each have a number of redeeming qualities.”
“And I imagine that they each feel very lucky to have you as their brother.”
He inclined his head in answer. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“I was an only child.”
“And?”
“There’s not much more to say.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you are evading my attempts to learn more about you,” he teased, “while, quite unfairly, you know exactly who I am.”
“There isn’t that much to know about the mundane details of my living situation. I’m afraid it would destroy all the mystery of this lovely night if I revealed them.” And because she could see that he wanted to ask why, she said, “Though I think it quite fun to know who you are.”
“Because I am the Marquess of Boxhaven?” he asked with a trace of disappointment.
“Because you are you,” she said. “And because I can see you are the very best sort of man, the kind of man who clearly doesn’t need a lapdog, but accepted one cheerfully because his mother wants him to have one.”
“Will you call me Marcus?” he asked.
“Marcus,” she repeated. “It suits you.”
“You might tell me your name at this point,” he said lightly, but his eyes looked serious. “It is a customary exchange.”
“Not when one is at a masquerade.” But then she said softly, “You may call me Poppy.” It had been her mother’s nickname for her. No one had called her that for years, but tonight, it suddenly felt right that this special man might know this private name.
“Poppy,” he repeated, and she heard the pleasure in his voice that she had trusted him. He took a step closer, and her heart thumped in response. “Will you dance with me, Poppy?”
He smelled extremely good, like some sort of expensive soap. He probably had drawers full of expensive soaps, and other drawers full of crisp, pressed linens, and closets full of boots, and rooms full of furniture. These were all things, and she understood that while he might not even particularly care about any of these things, they were part of why his life was completely different from hers.
Things made a difference. If she owned things like houses and carriages and fine jewels, she would have choices in life that she did not. She’d understood about such things from early in childhood, when choices had to be made about how to live within what her father’s erratic captain’s salary could provide. But her family’s decisions had always been made out of love, out of the knowledge that they each wanted the others’ happiness, and that if there was to be any hardship—skimpy meals, clothes worn past respectable use—they would bear it cheerfully, because they were sharing it. Money gave a person a great many options, and because she had no money of her own, she had but two choices: live in her aunt’s house, or starve.
Only now, just for tonight, she, as Poppy at the ball, had other choices, ones that would never be offered to her again. Did she want to dance? She could almost laugh that he would even ask, that he couldn’t perceive that every part of her was whispering assent.
“Yes,” she breathed.
She had removed her gloves to pet his dog, and as he was about to take her hands, he paused to take off his own. Then he enclosed her hand in one of his, and she nearly sighed with the pleasure of his warm skin and the strength of him. His other hand came to her waist, and he drew her closer. They began to move slowly around the terrace in a sort of half time that was entirely their own.
And then gradually they moved more and more slowly, until they finally came to a stop as the music played on and a few night noises from insects reminded them that the terrace was otherwise deserted. His eyes shone in the torchlight, and his expression was serious.
“I know that we have only just met tonight, but I feel as though I’ve known you much, much longer.”
“I feel that too,” she said, hardly daring to believe that he’d spoken of exactly what was in her heart.
“I want to know everything about you. I want to know you.”
For the briefest of moments, she entertained the idea that they might have infinite time to get to know each other. She almost wished he hadn’t said anything, though, because his words could only remind her that this night, while magical, was only one night, and that was all they would ever have.
But she was also glad, heart-brimmingly glad, that he had spoken, because his voice and his words told her that being with her meant something to him, and that was what she would treasure most.
“That would be wonderful,” she agreed.
“Do you know what else I feel?”
“What?”
“That I want to kiss you.”
Excitement fluttered in her like a thousand butterflies, and she gave a small nod. His head slowly dipped, and then his lips touched hers. She had thought that the night was already almost too perfect, but this... his kiss was beyond perfect. Tender at first, as though he was leaving her room to accept him, but then when she circled her arms around the breadth of his chest, he deepened the kiss, and she felt the whisperings of hunger, his and hers. Her heart hammered with a wild joy that she never wanted to end.
Time and place ceased to have any meaning, and all she knew was that this night and this man would be imprinted on her heart forever.
But finally, something did penetrate her cloud of happiness, and she became aware of a sound that was the knell of doom.
The distant sound of a clock chiming midnight.
Dear God, midnight! Panic rose in her instantly. She had to leave.
She broke the kiss and stepped back.
“What is it, Poppy?” he said.
“I—I have to go.”
“What, now?” His lips curled in a smile that expressed confidence that he would convince her she didn’t want to spend a minute apart from him. She wished more than anything that she could answer with one of her own.
“Yes, now, actually,” she said, her mind racing. They’d been on the terrace for a while, and she knew Melinda had ordered the carriage to collect the Monroes at one o’clock, but she had no way of knowing where Melinda or her cousins might be in the ballroom. They might very well be between her and the path to the door. They shouldn’t recognize her, since they wouldn’t be expecting her—but they might.
“You can’t go now,” he said, his brow touched with a crease as he understood that she wasn’t being playful. “You haven’t yet told me nearly enough about yourself. How will I be able to call—”
Oh God, she couldn’t bear it. And she couldn’t waste another moment either, because she had to get to the coach so the driver would have time to take her home and return for her aunt and cousins.
A clean break was the only thing to do, and without another word, Rosamund turned away from Marcus, meaning to run down the steps behind her. But she tripped a little in turning, and he reached out to steady her, and his hand brushed her shoulder and caught the strand of pearls. She barely registered a tugging sensation, but she didn’t dare stop. And in that moment, she had a piece of luck.
“Oh, there you are, Marcus,” came a feminine voice. “Mama says dinner is about to be served, and you are wanted to lead Lady Catterton in.”
Rosamund raced down the steps and into the dark garden.
“Wait!” she heard him call, but she only ran faster, making for the glow of the torch by the mews with everything she had and hoping that the Marquess of Boxhaven would be above sprinting after her. She thought she heard the sound of feet pounding the ground, but she had the element of surprise on her side, and she gained the mews, and in another few moments, she had run out to the street and reached the waiting coach.
“Waste not a moment,” she cried to the coachman as she climbed in. He didn’t need to be told twice, and they were off.
It wasn’t until they were almost home that she realized the pearls must have come off when Marcus tried to steady her, and they were gone.