Chapter Nine
Marcus was only peripherally aware of Socrates and his minder—or at least, he’d made certain not to glance toward the other side of the room, where Rosamund was on all fours. Again. He ought to have considered, before hiring such a pretty woman to be his dog’s companion, that minding a young, energetic dog would involve her in activities such as crawling around on the floor. Or perhaps another person hired for the job wouldn’t have found it necessary to do so. But Rosamund wasn’t someone to do things by half, he had observed, and while that was in many ways an admirable quality, at that moment he could not appreciate it.
He realized that he didn’t even know her last name, and he’d been dreaming about her, dreams that were far from chaste. But why should he know her last name? She wasn’t supposed to be someone to whom he gave any thought at all.
Yet, he had still not recovered from the sight of her standing in his bedchamber, returning his avid gaze with what he knew— he knew—was desire. It had thrummed between them like an insistent pulse.
He tried telling himself now that the moment had only been a temporary madness, some remnant of erotic dreams on his part, some shock on hers, but he knew this wasn’t true. All the more reason to make certain he did not allow his attention to wander to her.
Being intentionally unaware of what was going on across the room, though, meant that he wasn’t prepared for Socrates to come speeding toward him like a cannon blast. Marcus reacted to the sudden approach of his dog by stepping backward. His arm hit the mantel, knocking into a small, ornate clock, which tipped over the edge.
He reached for the clock, but he had to step to the side at the last minute to avoid crushing Socrates, who was dancing at Marcus’s feet. He was startled when his arm knocked into Rosamund, sending her backward. He hadn’t realized that she’d raced across the room and was also reaching for the clock.
Marcus jerked around, the clock in his hand, and there was Rosamund, sprawled on the floor. “Rosamund, Good God! I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
Socrates rushed over and began to lick her face. Marcus picked the dog up and handed him to his grandmother.
“I don’t think so,” Rosamund said, but then she put her hand to the floor as she tried to stand, and he saw her wince.
“Yes, you are.”
“It’s nothing. I only bumped my hand.”
But he ignored her and dropped to his haunches. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her hand.
“If you insist, but it’s nothing.”
He took hold of her hand, which was small and capable looking. A red mark was spreading in the area around her wrist.
“You must have hit your hand against the table leg. You’ll surely have a substantial bruise. The doctor should look at it to make sure that you haven’t done any further damage.”
“That’s really not necessary,” she insisted.
“Humor me,” he said, ringing for a servant. “I can’t undo being the cause of you falling and injuring yourself. At least allow me to arrange proper care.”
“You really didn’t—”
But a maid appeared at that moment. She was given instructions to send for the doctor and given Socrates to bear away. Fortunately, Dr. Cranwell was already on the estate, seeing to a footman, and it seemed likely he would be along shortly.
“That was quite clumsy of you, Marcus,” Lady Tremont pointed out as the maid left the room amid the plaintive whining of the disgruntled Socrates. “You quite knocked Rosamund over.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he said grimly. “And I am abjectly sorry, Rosamund.”
“It was an accident, my lord,” she said. “You couldn’t have known I was there.”
“But I should have known you were there.”
She laughed. “Why, are marquesses omniscient?”
Lady Tremont sniffed. “They like to think so.”
“I just should have known,” he said.
“I merely took a tumble, and I’m sure the doctor will agree it’s nothing.”
But Dr. Cranwell, when he arrived, did not say her injuries were nothing.
Marcus and Lady Tremont left the room while she was examined. The doctor was as courtly and gentle with her as he might have been with a delicate flower, which Rosamund suspected had a great deal to do with him believing she was a guest of the marquess. In her borrowed dress, she didn’t look much like a servant, and no one had explained to him who she was.
“I’m afraid your shoulder will be sore for a day or two, miss,” he said, “and your hand in particular should not be used. Rest will be the best thing.”
“Thank you, but—”
A knock sounded at the door, followed by Marcus’s voice asking if he might come in. Dr. Cranwell opened the door and proceeded to alert the marquess that the young lady had indeed sustained injuries from the fall, injuries that, while not serious, required rest. Rosamund opened her mouth to protest being discussed like she was an invalid, but Dr. Cranwell kept talking.
“The young lady ought to rest for at least three days, and she must not use her right hand at all during that time.”
This was getting to be ridiculous. Her hand might be a little sore, along with her shoulder, but her hurts were mild and hardly limiting. She didn’t want to be ungracious, but she had a purpose here and a real need for the wage she was to earn. “But Socrates—” she began.
“Will be fine,” Marcus said.
“Socrates?” repeated a puzzled Dr. Cranwell.
“My dog,” said Marcus, as if that explained anything. As though on cue, the sound of a dog howling somewhere in the house could be heard. Rosamund hid a smile at the doctor’s look of befuddlement.
Marcus saw Dr. Cranwell out, then turned to her.
“Well, then, Rosamund, where would you like to rest? In here? The library perhaps? Or if you prefer, I can assist you to your chamber.”
“You’ve been very kind, my lord. But as I’ve told you, I really don’t feel much injured at all. Dr. Cranwell was being unnecessarily cautious, as I’m sure you know.”
“I know nothing of the sort. You had a fall, and you need time to heal.”
“My lord,” she said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice, since he was being thoughtful, even if he was also being ridiculous, “I’m only a little bruised, and I certainly don’t need to sit around resting.” She stood up. “See? I am perfectly fine.”
“Rosamund,” Marcus said sternly, “you are to follow Dr. Cranwell’s orders. Please sit.”
She didn’t need to sit, but his commanding tone did not invite argument. She sat—for the moment. “But they are entirely unnecessary! I am not hurt.”
“Your hand is bruised.”
“I have done far worse to myself walking clumsily through a doorway, and I have certainly never required rest for such a thing.”
“Nonetheless, I insist that you follow Dr. Cranwell’s instructions.”
“My lord”—she was beginning to feel exasperated—“I am here to be a companion to Socrates, and I intend to do so.”
“Rosamund, please. Even if putting your feet up for a few days won’t make you feel better, your doing so will make me feel better.”
“Oh,” she said, startled by the kindness in his tone. “Well, that is extremely—really, excessively—considerate.”
“Think nothing of it. Socrates can wait a few days for you to recover.”
She laughed. “How can you say that when, at this very moment, he is howling like a banshee?”
One corner of Marcus’s mouth curved up, and her stomach fluttered at the boyish amusement in his eyes. “He is making an unholy racket, isn’t he? One almost has to admire it, considering he’s such a small fellow.”
“Yes, but he’s also a dear little fellow.”
“Not so dear when he’s getting underfoot.”
“I’m sure it’s hard not to be underfoot when one is a small dog.”
“Are you always so unfailingly patient?”
As they talked, Marcus was having the worst time not looking at Rosamund’s mouth, which was the color of a ripe berry. He forced his eyes to move to a neutral place on her face, but her chin was charmingly pert and her forehead interesting in a way that he would not have expected of a forehead.
He was vastly relieved that she was not much hurt, but wasn’t it just as well for him if she was consigned to a room where he was not? Because, far from putting her out of his mind, he kept getting ideas about her, ideas he should not be getting when he wanted more than anything to see Poppy again. Already, his grandmother had suggested several families with members who might fit the initials on the necklace clasp, and Marcus had begun mentally drafting letters delicately inquiring whether these families had any members named Poppy. He would mention having found something engraved belonging to her that he wished to return.
There was the possibility of success, and nothing could have pleased him more.
But even simply standing near Rosamund was making him itch to close the gap between them and touch her.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I shall make certain you’re settled for the afternoon, then I’ll go see to Socrates, lest my grandmother’s servants all give notice en masse.”
Her brows drew together in vexation, which only made her more adorable. “I really don’t wish to collect money I have not earned.”
“None of us can have everything we want,” he said, cheerfully cutting her off. “Now, resting place?” He grinned. “Not the final one, of course.”
Her lips quirked a little at his joke. “If you insist—”
“I absolutely do.”
“Then I should be quite happy to spend some time in the library.” She actually looked happy at the thought of spending time in the library.
“Do you like to read?”
“Reading,” she said with a giddy sigh, “is just about the best thing there is.”
Marcus liked to read also, but on the issue of it being just about the best thing there was, he felt that Rosamund was sorely misguided. Being an innocent, she was surely unaware of other choices that could easily best books.
What if you showed her about those choices? It wasn’t as if he was engaged to Poppy, or courting her. For all he knew, she had forgotten him. As a single young woman, Poppy could not simply write to him or visit. But there were a hundred little ways she could have arranged to contact him—by showing up at events where he would be, contacting his sister Kate, asking someone to introduce them. She might even have sent an anonymous note. Marcus knew he would have been creative if he’d been in her shoes.
And, what argued in particular for her contacting him again, he had her pearls. She had to know where she lost them, since she would have felt the tug when he accidentally grabbed them as she was dashing off wherever it was that it had been so urgent for her to go.
For the first time, he felt the tiniest bit annoyed with Poppy. Why did she have to be so mysterious? Why couldn’t she make some effort to contact him, even if it was only a note to his mother to ask about the return of her pearls? He felt certain that she’d been as enchanted as he had been that night.
He had not, until now, considered the possibility that he might never find her, but now he did. Only for a moment, because he did have hope. He was going to write those letters that afternoon, and there was every chance something might come of them.
Socrates gave a particularly pathetic howl as Marcus helped Rosamund to stand. She thought of protesting that obviously she didn’t need assistance standing, since she’d done it unassisted a minute ago, but clearly Marcus would not be gainsaid, so she accepted his hand up.
The minute their hands touched, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of his skin stole up her arm, and she had the sense, from his quick intake of breath, that he’d felt something too.
He gently tugged her upright and placed her hand on his arm, then led her out of the room and along the corridor. Socrates was still howling piteously, but all she could think about, shamefully, was the springy feel of Marcus’s muscles under her hand. His shoulders had felt like that too, on the night of the ball, resilient with firm muscle and leashed strength, and she wanted more than anything to touch them again. As they walked through the corridor, she felt his eyes on the side of her face several times, and a blush warmed her cheeks, but she kept her eyes facing forward.
“I was hoping he would tire himself out and fall asleep,” Marcus said after one particularly plaintive wail, “but his volume doesn’t seem to have diminished at all.”
She was grateful for an innocuous topic of conversation, anything to keep her from thinking about Marcus’s arm and how it had been bare that morning when she’d seen him in bed. “He is a dog who feels things keenly.”
“He is currently the bane of my existence.”
She glanced at him. “Oh, come now, you know you adore him.”
“I’m certain I’ve never said such a thing.”
“But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it,” she teased, even as she told herself it was foolish to be playful with him. What could possibly be the point of such banter when what she needed was for him to treat her like any other person in his employ? But she couldn’t resist the pleasure of talking with him. “I imagine, if nothing else, his presence makes you think of your mother.”
He sighed. “She is a remarkable woman, but I still don’t understand why she thought I needed a lapdog. However, I have in general learned it is best not to inquire too deeply into the motives of the women in my family, because they’re frequently diabolical, even if they are well-intentioned.”
“Diabolical seems a little strong.”
“You haven’t met my sister Alice. She’s never encountered a piece of what she likes to call social news that she doesn’t believe it’s her mission to verify. She’s sixteen, but she knows as much about the affairs of the ton as the oldest dowager.”
“She sounds fun.”
“She is a terror, but she’s our terror.”
Rosamund could easily imagine him as a wonderful older brother. In truth, despite the alternately friendly and chilly ways he’d treated her since hiring her and the fact that he was annoyingly besotted with a memory of her, she liked pretty much everything about Marcus. Which really was terrible.