Chapter Eight
Rosamund arose early the next morning and put on one of the gowns that had been packed for her by the Boxhaven House maids. The cream muslin was miles prettier than anything she’d worn since she was a child, and it fit surprisingly well. She felt a spring in her step as she left her bedchamber, but she reminded herself not to get used to such luxuries.
As instructed, she knocked lightly on Marcus’s door. There was no response, so she opened it a few feet, her eyes sweeping quickly past the form that lay unmoving on the bed under a coverlet. Socrates was lying on several folded blankets on the floor next to his master’s bed, an adorable scene that made her smile partly because of how much Marcus clearly disliked being associated with adorableness. Socrates opened his eyes, and she gestured for him to come out. He yawned but made no move.
She must have leaned against the door then, because it inched inward and creaked lightly. Marcus groaned a little and shifted, turning on his side to face her, and the coverlet slipped low on his body. She froze as she realized he was naked, or at least the part of him she could see was naked.
And, she saw as her heart pounded wildly, he was still asleep.
Having been kept a virtual prisoner in Melinda’s house since the age of fifteen, Rosamund had had no occasion even to glimpse a man’s naked torso, never mind the naked torso of a man she’d been dreaming about for months. Though she ought to have looked away or simply closed the door, she couldn’t make herself do it. Nor was Socrates cooperating, because his eyes had drifted shut again.
She tossed propriety to the wind and looked her fill.
She had danced closed to Marcus, on the terrace at Boxhaven House, and felt his athletic grace as he’d deftly guided her, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the dark ruffle of hair across an endless expanse of muscled chest, or the way the flat plane of his stomach arrowed downward and disappeared under the edge of the coverlet draping low on his hips. The arm falling carelessly across his chest was long and lean, the chiseled curve of his biceps evident even in his relaxed state.
He was beautiful and strong, and she felt an almost irresistible pull toward him across the space of the room. She swallowed, as if seeking relief for a thirst that could never be quenched.
He opened his eyes.
It took only a moment for him to take in the fact that she was standing in his doorway looking at him. He sat up abruptly, the coverlet falling even lower, which apparently didn’t bother him at all, because he made no move to adjust it.
“Rosamund? What are you doing?”
“I—” Her voice sounded throaty and hesitant, and she tried again, more forcefully. “I came for Socrates. Socrates, come.”
Socrates jumped up as though he’d only been waiting for her command.
“Socrates, stay,” Marcus said, crossing his arms, which made them look more muscled. Socrates paused on his pile of blankets, ears pricked to his master’s voice. She swallowed, half giddy with a sort of fearful excitement. She wasn’t afraid of Marcus, but she was afraid of what the increasing slant of his dark brows might mean.
“He needs to go—” she began, but Marcus cut her off.
“You were lingering, weren’t you?”
“Lingering?” she repeated, the astute look in his eyes making the hairs along her neck prickle.
“I felt someone, a presence in my dream, just before I awoke. It was you, looking at me.”
“No, I—”
“Rosamund,” he said, and the husky, questioning note in his voice whispered volumes to her. He was not immune to her. Even from across the room, she felt the intensity in his gaze, and her skin warmed. To feel Marcus want her again, as he had that night, chased every other thought from her head.
“Rosamund,” he said again, “come here.”
Come here. The sensual fog that had been gathering in her brain immediately cleared, however much she didn’t want it to.
No gentleman lying in his bed would have asked a lady to come closer to him. But he didn’t think she was a lady, and thus his interest in her, his dog’s companion, could only be the interest of a man looking for a dalliance.
She gathered all her self-control and said, “Socrates, come,” with as much authority as she could muster. Like a long-overdue rescuer, the dog raced gleefully across the room, and she quickly closed the door behind him.
Fortunately, Socrates’s excitement to go outside gave her an excuse to rush along the corridor after him, away from Marcus’s room and wild thoughts of rumpled sheets and warm skin. They reached the garden without meeting anyone, for which she was deeply grateful, since she didn’t feel capable of composing a sensible thought. All her mental energy was going toward banishing tempting thoughts of Marcus.
He was not an easy man to ignore, as she’d discovered during the coach ride after he’d made it plain that he saw her as nothing more than the companion of his dog. She couldn’t fault him for that, since being hired as Socrates’s companion was the only reason she was even in Marcus’s presence.
But she knew how it felt to be the focus of all his attention, and just now she’d felt it again, that consuming, wonderful feeling that Marcus wanted her.
Which he couldn’t, not in the way she wanted him to want her. He was a marquess, and she was a nobody. He might be attracted to her—she knew now that he was—but the only way he could possibly see her would be as the kind of woman who might be a mistress, and she could never bear that.
Did he ever think about Poppy? Had that night at the ball meant even a little bit as much to him as it had to her? She would never know, of course, since as the companion of Marcus’s dog, she would not be having any kind of conversation with him that would hint at such matters.
She and Socrates reached the garden, where he happily set about sniffing pretty much every blade of grass while Rosamund tried, with limited success, to replace thoughts of Marcus with thoughts of sensible things, such as names for the dress shop she might establish, or patterns for gowns she could make. When Socrates had finished in the garden, she took him to the kitchen to see if there might be some scraps for his breakfast.
Two young scullery maids were at work in the kitchen when Rosamund and Socrates entered, and they squealed when they saw him. One of them covered him with kisses, while the other patted his head, leaving a puff of soap that made both the women giggle. Even Cook, a woman with quite a bit more gravitas than the maids, was charmed by him, and she gave him a scandalously large portion of a beef pie that was on the table.
“The marquess’s dog must eat well,” Cook explained when Rosamund raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps not too many rich scraps would be best,” Rosamund said, thinking of his digestive troubles of the day before.
Some plain chicken was found, and some peas, which he liked remarkably well.
“Like a little lord,” the maid with the soapy hands cooed as she set down a bowl of water. “And such a handsome fellow.” She giggled. “Just like his master.”
“That will do, Bessie,” Cook said, but with the kind of smile that suggested she did not disagree.
Rosamund had been considering what she and Socrates might do next. It wasn’t as though he was a child, who might be entertained with a book or paper and pencil, but as his hired companion, she intended for him to be happily occupied and not, in the unfortunate way of young dogs, causing trouble and making messes. Also, there was the matter of grooming, since the fur on his ears was long and looked prone to tangles. Perhaps he would sit by the fire while she brushed him, she mused as they went up the stairs to the main floor.
But Socrates had ideas of his own, and he abruptly took off at speed through the corridor and across the foyer. Rosamund was forced to run after him, passing a maid polishing a table and giving her a smile that she hoped looked as though she knew what she was doing. Rosamund was, it turned out, not as fast as an energetic lapdog, and before she could catch him, he disappeared through the open door of the drawing room.
As soon as she came into the room, Rosamund realized why Socrates was so excited. Marcus was there, with a remarkably handsome older lady who must be his grandmother, Lady Tremont.
“Excuse me,” Rosamund said from the doorway as Socrates ran to his master and dropped adoringly before him into a sitting position. “I’m terribly sorry. He got away from me.”
Lady Tremont, whose gray hair was pulled into a smooth, elegant coil and whose tall, still trim figure gave hints as to the origins of her grandson’s lean physique, subjected Rosamund to a thorough scrutiny. “Who are you, young lady? And why have you brought a dog into my drawing room?”
Lady Tremont’s voice was pleasant, her demeanor graceful, her gown subtly flattering, and nothing about her beyond her hair and a few wrinkles that had dared to form around her eyes and mouth suggested a person who’d lived quite a few decades. Rosamund supposed she must have always been vigilant about wearing a hat.
“Rosamund came with me, to help with Socrates, my dog,” Marcus said. “I did tell you I had brought him.”
“When you said you’d brought a dog, I thought you meant a hunting dog, but this”—Lady Tremont indicated Socrates with the swirl of a slender digit—“is a lapdog. I never figured you for a fellow who’d want a lapdog.”
Rosamund almost laughed at the pained expression that flitted over Marcus’s face. “He was a present from Mother, and he has an inordinate attachment to me. And by that I mean he howls incessantly if he feels I’ve abandoned him. Rosamund has accompanied me here so that she can be a sort of companion to him.”
“But this is absurd, Marcus! You are indulging this dog, and he will become spoiled and end up ruling your household.”
“I think I will manage to keep him from dominating my household,” Marcus said dryly. “But he is still young and in need of training.”
Socrates, perhaps sensing that it would behoove him to cultivate the goodwill of his hostess, condescended to sniff Lady Tremont’s shoe, causing the older lady’s eyebrows to drift slowly upward.
“Already he has made some improvement,” Marcus continued, “because he now tolerates Rosamund.”
“I see,” Lady Tremont said, still looking at Socrates. Finally, she turned sharp blue eyes on Rosamund, which, while there was no reason for the older lady to guess there was anything amiss with her nephew’s dog-minder, was still not a comfortable experience. “Interesting.”
Rosamund was eager to leave. “If I may, I’ll collect Socrates and take him somewhere else.”
“Certainly,” Marcus said.
“Oh,” said Lady Tremont, looking at Socrates, who had curled his little body into a tidy circle on the blue rug with his head resting on his paws, “you may as well let the creature stay. He doesn’t look as though he’ll cause any trouble. And he is rather adorable.”
“Ma’am?” Marcus sounded truly puzzled, and Rosamund couldn’t blame him. Lady Tremont looked as though she’d be more comfortable arranging a bunch of flowers into artful perfection, or judging the subtle variations among different-quality silks, than enduring the close company of an animal.
Lady Tremont lifted her chin airily. “He’s of a suitable size to be inside the house, and he might as well get used to the drawing room, since if he can’t bear to be parted from his master for long, that is where he will often be. Now, where were we, Marcus?”
And with that, Rosamund was released to attend to Socrates, who was nosing around the feet of a divan she dearly hoped he was not planning to nibble.
“As I was saying, what is it about this young lady?” Lady Tremont said to Marcus. “Is it just that she’s a mystery to you? In truth, you hardly know her.”
“She’s different,” Marcus said. “Special.”
Rosamund could not help but wonder about this conversation, which sounded like he might be speaking of Poppy, though it seemed odd that he should wish to discuss her with his grandmother. She sneaked a look at them as she knelt to direct Socrates’s little teeth away from a decorative tassel.
“And I venture to guess you found your mystery lady quite pretty as well?” Lady Tremont said.
“She is utterly memorable.”
Rosamund started, knocking a book off a nearby end table, and Marcus and Lady Tremont stopped talking and looked at her.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, replacing the book and hoping her blush wasn’t noticeable. But they were discussing her!
Her first reaction was excitement that Marcus hadn’t forgotten her, that he had found the time they’d spent together as memorable as she had.
This was followed by something more than disappointment. If he’d really found her so special and memorable, why didn’t he know her now?
She acknowledged this was an irrational complaint, since only disaster could be in store for her if he discovered that the servant he’d hired to watch his dog was his enchanting lady from the ball. But still.
She was blocking Socrates from chewing the tassel for the sixth time and wondering if she could make a discreet exit by encouraging him to dash out of the room, when she glanced toward Marcus and saw him showing something to his grandmother. Rosamund barely stifled a gasp as she saw her pearls.
He held the necklace out for Lady Tremont’s inspection, apparently unaware that across the room from him, a woman was nearly expiring. “Right here on the clasp, you can see the initials.”
Rosamund had forgotten about the initials. The pearls had belonged to her mother’s mother. But surely it would be extremely difficult for anyone to discern to whom they belonged, never mind connecting them to Rosamund herself. Or, for that matter, for anyone to deduce that the granddaughter of the couple represented by those initials was currently on all fours on a rug a dozen feet away.
“And you say she gave her name as Poppy?” Lady Tremont mused.
“Yes, though that could be short for Persephone, Penelope, or any of a number of other names.”
It was short for Penelope, her middle name, and Rosamund’s stomach fluttered crazily.
“It could,” Lady Tremont agreed, peering at the clasp as though it might be induced to yield its secrets through sheer intimidation. “Woodward, Wentworth,” she mused. “Wilkes.”
As the W in the initials referred to Rosamund’s mother’s maiden name, she felt a moment anxiety that Lady Tremont might stumble on that name and begin to make connections. But then she realized that, for once, her father’s unusual surname might be to her advantage, since they were unlikely to consider her mother because of Rosamund’s father’s infamy.
Marcus and Lady Tremont then proceeded to have a long conversation about who Poppy’s relatives might be, and Marcus revealed that he had taken tea with no less than eight families of the ton trying to find out. Rosamund might have felt thrilled that she’d made such an impression on him—and, of course, she didn’t want Poppy to be forgotten—but what she was starting to feel was annoyed.
How easy it was to become smitten with someone at a ball, when you were both at your best. But her “best” hadn’t been who she was at all. Her clothes had been borrowed, her persona a sham.
Marcus had been real, of course. He really was a marquess, and he really was handsome and wealthy and a good man. But now, as she listened to him sing the praises of the wondrous Poppy, he was also a little insufferable. She’d spent far longer sitting with him in the coach yesterday, alone, than she’d spent with him at the ball, and he certainly hadn’t been swooning over her then. In fact, he’d become downright unpleasant in the coach, and since they’d arrived at Lady Tremont’s, he’d behaved as though he hardly noticed her.
Well, except for the moment in his bedchamber, when she’d felt his desire like a live thing across the space of his room, desire that answered her own.
But she was not so naïve that she didn’t know that men might desire women with whom they had no other interest. It happened all the time. But she couldn’t bear the idea that Marcus would see her that way.
Of course, she couldn’t expect a marquess to become enchanted with a servant, or even to really see such a person. But the fact that he didn’t seem to feel anything beyond lust for her now meant that the timeless connection she’d thought they shared the night of the ball wasn’t something that would endure once all the sparkle of the night was brushed away. Marcus, still caught up in the dream of his mystery lady, simply hadn’t realized this yet.
Preoccupied as she was, she hadn’t noticed that Socrates had disappeared under the divan. He emerged now, with what proved to be a dancing slipper in his mouth, and Rosamund shook off her thoughts.
“Dearest, you know that’s not yours,” she told him, attempting to take it away from him. This, of course, was the game, and after a few feints as she tried to snatch it, Socrates took off across the room toward Marcus, who stood by the hearth.