Unmasked by the Marquess

by Cat Sebastian

  Even the reason she was present in this room tonight was rooted in a lie. She had begged a favor from him on false pretenses, although that lie now seemed almost comically insignificant in comparison to having masqueraded as a dead man and stolen another man’s inheritance. Falsifying a godparent seemed quaintly naughty as opposed to feloniously corrupt.

  But, no, that wasn’t the real reason she was here tonight, was it? Alistair was too accustomed to honesty to ignore the fact that he had invited the Selbys for his own purposes. He had intended to make them into a cautionary tale about what happened to those who pester the Marquess of Pembroke for favors. He meant to use Louisa Selby’s beauty to crush Mrs. Allenby’s plans for her daughter and to annoy his aunt.

  That was all before he and Robin had become friends, though. Had that friendship been a lie? Had he been deceived about that as well?

  “She’s quite lovely.” Furnival had appeared at his shoulder.

  “Who is?” Alistair asked.

  “Miss Selby, of course.” Furnival laughed.

  And so she was. Objectively, Alistair knew this, although the sight of her brought him no joy. Her gown was—well, her blasted gown was in annoying proximity to The Impostor, so he hadn’t quite gotten a look at it. “She’s a fine-looking girl,” he said.

  “A dozen men would see your ‘fine-looking girl’ and raise the stakes with gold rings and wedding vows.”

  He didn’t doubt it. As long as Gilbert wasn’t the bridegroom, he’d be glad to see Miss Selby wed and far the hell away from him. Were any of the contestants American? Canadian, perhaps? “I’ll wish her happy,” he said.

  “That’s not what I heard.” Furnival’s voice was a childish singsong.

  What on earth had the man heard? Had Gilbert confessed his intentions to this fellow? Alistair brought his voice to its chilliest and most aristocratic register. “Whatever you’ve heard, I assure you I wish the lady no ill will.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” Furnival had his head cocked to the side, like a dog not quite understanding his master’s command.

  He suddenly had an idea. “What do you know about them? You went to Cambridge with Selby, didn’t you?”

  “Selby? He’s always been exactly as he is now. You’d think that coming from the middle of nowhere he’d have been bashful or awkward, at least at first, but he wasn’t. He seemed so dashed happy to be there, as if he had waited his whole life to sit in a freezing lecture hall and then sneak out of lodgings to have a pint at the pub. You never regretted running into him, if you know what I mean.”

  Alistair most certainly did, more’s the pity. “He didn’t succumb to the usual undergraduate vices—gambling and women?”

  Furnival made a dismissive noise. “He didn’t have enough money for any of that. And I don’t know why, but I had the sense that he had a sweetheart waiting for him back home.”

  Ah. That was a notion Alistair had not thought of, but it added quite a dimension to the picture he was putting together in his mind.

  “I have to . . .” He gestured vaguely around the room, hoping that Furnival would infer that Alistair had to attend to a host’s duties.

  He watched Miss Church lead Miss Allenby off the dance floor. Really, it was a sad indication of his mindset that he could summon up only the merest whisper of disapproval at seeing that Allenby girl, the spit and image of their late father, present at Pembroke House. He was even able to acknowledge that she looked quite suitably pretty.

  But then all the glittering, dazzling movement in the ballroom seemed to slide to a stop as he caught The Impostor using her teeth to pull off a glove, finger by finger. It was the sort of thing one didn’t do in a ballroom, remove gloves with one’s teeth. No, it was something boys did when well out of sight of governesses and tutors. Captivated by the graceful, boyish—yes, boyish, there was no way around it, however disorienting he found it—charm of the action, he reached for his spectacles to get a better look. She began with the other glove, starting with the thumb.

  By the time she reached her littlest finger he was in a dangerous state of arousal.

  That would not do. Not at all.

  She was passing through the wide French doors to the garden, so that was where Alistair went too.

  It was ideal weather for a ball. Not so cold as to discourage forays into the garden, but chilly enough that a lady in gossamer fine silk might have to nestle close to a gentleman for warmth. But Charity Church was not wearing a gauzy confection. She wore an indifferently tailored coat and a waistcoat of silvery blue. Her pantaloons were snug to the point of indiscretion, to the point that his gaze skimmed along them, trying to divine a clue as to what lay beneath.

  Which really was not something the Marquess of Pembroke ought to do at a ball, examine the contents of his guests’ pantaloons. No matter how snug.

  She turned to face him, her pointy little chin held high. “Why did you follow me out here?”

  “Perhaps I wish to see my own gardens.” Perhaps he wanted to prove to himself that he was capable of acting like a gentleman, regardless of his anger, or his desire, or any bizarre combination of the two.

  Or perhaps he was simply running mad.

  “I doubt you could identify a single plant,” she retorted. “It’s beneath you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, my horticultural ignorance does seem to be the most remarkable aspect of this little tableau.” He let his gaze rake up and down her body. When he reached her face, he could tell even in the moonlight that she had blushed.

  “If you’re going to expose me, I wish you’d get it over with.” She dragged one ungloved hand through her hair, disheveling it even further. “I’ve spent the entire evening wondering if you’d do something horrid.”

  He had wondered much the same thing, but had concluded that the Marquess of Pembroke behaved impeccably to his guests, even the most disgraceful among them. But he didn’t feel like relinquishing the upper hand quite yet. “If I’m going to expose you, Miss Church, I’ll damned well take my time.”

  Her blush became even darker, until the freckles and flushed skin blended together. When had he developed an aptitude for double entendre? That seemed more in his father’s line. Perhaps it was in the blood. He took a step closer, wondering what other interesting propensities might be in the blood.

  She took a step back and he heard her dancing shoe crunch along the gravel that the gardeners had so painstakingly smoothed.

  Was she afraid? Did she think he would strike her? Abuse her in some other way? God almighty. “I’m not going to assault you, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I know that, Pembroke,” she snapped. “I mean to go further into the shrubbery, so that way if you call me by name again we won’t be overheard.”

  They retreated further into the garden, through masses of plants he most certainly could not name, until they were far enough from the ballroom that the music drifted unevenly on the breeze, sounding as if it came from underwater. She turned and faced him, her jaw firm and her eyes sparkling. She was brave, he’d give her that. What an undertaking this was, after all.

  He remembered the shadow of fear that had crossed her face when they saw one another across the ballroom. She had given him the power to ruin her. She hadn’t needed to tell him about her masquerade or the full extent of her fraud. She had, in fact, done so only to assure him that he was safe from being accused of having sodomitical inclinations. She could have let him worry about that, but she hadn’t. It was only right and proper for him to offer her the same service.

  “I’m not going to expose you or your sister, or do anything to harm you.” He spoke so gravely that it felt like an oath.

  Her eyes went wide. “Why not?”

  “Revenge, like horticulture, is beneath me.”

  She laughed, a small and startled sound, a mere echo of the champagne pop but close enough to make Alistair smile helplessly in return. Even when she clapped a hand over her mouth, evidently deciding that this was not a
laughing matter, he still smiled. God above, he had missed her. He had missed this.

  He was a bloody fool.

  “Miss Church,” he started.

  “Nobody’s ever called me that,” she said. “The Selbys all called me Charity—I was their housemaid. Then at Cambridge . . .” She fixed him squarely in the eye, as if daring him to take issue with her frankness. “I was Selby. I’ve literally never heard myself called Miss Church. It’s quite unnerving.”

  Alistair remembered the first time he had been called by his title. That had been mortifying, considering the many ways the last holder of that title rendered it a byword for licentiousness and profligacy. But “Miss Church” had no such connotations. It was a blank slate. She ought to be grateful. Then, as he regarded the dashing figure before him, he understood what she was saying. “You do not wish me to call you Miss Church.”

  She crossed and uncrossed her arms, as if she didn’t know what to do with her limbs. “I . . . I don’t know that what I wish is material in this situation.”

  Did she think that now was the time for deference? “A month ago I demanded that you stop calling me ‘my lord’ and you complied.”

  The silence stretched out between them. “But I have no other name for you to call me by,” she finally whispered.

  He took a step closer. “Robin,” he said softly. He was close enough now to catch the scent of lemon drops and greenery that always seemed to mark the air around her.

  “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head.

  He stopped. “Don’t do what?” he asked. He certainly had no idea what he was planning to do, so it would be helpful if she at least told him what he could not do.

  “Don’t call me that unless you mean to be my friend.”

  Friend. “Robin.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I’ve tried, but I don’t think I can stop being your friend.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, toying with her. Perhaps calling her his friend was part of his revenge.

  He didn’t look vengeful, though. He looked like his usual haughty, disdainful self, sizing her up like she was a horse he didn’t think stood a good chance of winning at Newmarket.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers and raised a single eyebrow by way of answer. That eyebrow did all kinds of things to her that eyebrows weren’t supposed to do.

  She felt her cheeks heat. “Are you looking for signs of . . . femaleness beneath my clothes?” She wanted to fold her arms over her chest but decided to brazen it out.

  His smile was slow and sinister and maybe a little wondering. “I think we both know that I don’t give a damn what you have beneath your clothes. Would that I did.” He paused, as if letting that sink in. “I am merely admiring how the blue of that waistcoat matches your eyes.”

  “But my eyes are gray,” she said.

  “Not when you’re wearing that waistcoat, they aren’t.”

  His gaze was even more unnerving now that he was looking at her eyes. “I’m sorry about having let you believe that I’m something I’m not. I feel dishonest and I wish—”

  “Pardon my ignorance, but I would imagine that you’re well practiced in feeling dishonest.”

  So he was not to let her off easy. “About the estate, of course I do,” she said, not wanting to mince words. “But not the clothing. I’ve been dressing this way for so long that it feels right. It always has, really.” She looked at him expectantly, hoping to read some sign of understanding on his face, and seeing only confusion. But he nodded, at least showing her that he accepted her answer, even if he didn’t understand. Hell, she wasn’t sure she understood either.

  “Well,” she continued, “there was one time I felt dishonest about . . .” She made a sweeping gesture that could have indicated either her clothes or her body, whichever he chose to believe. “That night in your library.” She forced herself to look him in the eye when she said it, expecting to see distaste or anger. Instead she saw his eyes darken ever so slightly.

  “As I said, I don’t give a damn about . . .” He made the same gesture, sweeping his hand vaguely through the air between them, and she imagined that she could feel his touch on her skin. “Never have.” He shrugged. “I don’t like being deceived, though.” There was something uncertain, slightly hesitant, in the tone of his voice that told her it was a request, not a chastisement. “But I don’t suppose anyone does.”

  “I am sorry I lied about your father being Louisa’s godfather.” But that wasn’t what he needed to hear, what she needed to say to make things right. “I won’t deceive you again.”

  “Somehow I doubt that you’re an open book, Robin.” His name for her sounded like a caress, like a reproach, like a promise.

  “That’s not the same thing,” she protested, but he had closed the gap between them and grasped her hands in his own.

  She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes now, because the top of her head only reached his nose and that was when she was standing ramrod straight.

  “Robin,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if it meant I missed you or Why are you putting me through this? Or maybe it meant something else entirely. One of his hands let go of her own and came to rest on the back of her head, gently cradling it.

  She closed her eyes as his lips skimmed over hers. His other hand settled on her hip. There was no pressure in any of it—both of his hands rested lightly against her, his lips barely touching hers. It was the ghost of a kiss, not nearly enough. She didn’t know whether it was because he was being respectful or simply ambivalent.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she deepened the kiss. Maybe she was too eager, maybe she was too bold. She was, as he had pointed out, no stranger to deception, but it was beyond her powers to pretend that she didn’t want this man.

  His shoulders felt strong and broad under her touch, and she could feel his muscles shifting when he tightened his grip on her, drawing her closer against him, fitting their bodies together. When his tongue stroked her lower lip, she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Is there something amusing I ought to know about?” He was doing that haughty aristocratic thing with his voice again, but she could tell he wasn’t serious because he was smiling too.

  “Pembroke—”

  “Absolutely not.” He kissed the corner of her still-smiling lips. “The time for that has come and gone. It’s Alistair, or you can gracefully sidestep the name issue.”

  “Alistair,” she breathed. “Get back to kissing me.”

  And so he did. One of his hands stole inside her coat and waistcoat and she could feel it, hot like a brand against her lower back, separated from her skin by only the thin linen of her shirt.

  She kissed his jaw. Really, she could spend all night appreciating the way that coarse stubble rasped against her lips. Every inch of him was so impeccable, polished and refined and perfectly coiffed, but then there was that stubble, hinting at vast wells of ungentlemanliness. She nipped at the soft skin of his neck and he muttered an oath, his hands clamping down on her hips like a vise.

  This was probably another level of deviance to add to her ever-mounting list, but she wished she could see them. She wanted to see him in his perfect evening clothes and barely rumpled hair, his strong arms wrapped around her own similarly but less elegantly attired body. What she would have given for a looking glass.

  She wanted more of him. She needed more. She leaned into him, trying to press her body against his, chasing the sensation she was craving. He groaned at the contact, and she felt the proof of his desire hard against her belly.

  Good. She liked that, knowing that he was as far gone as she was. If she dropped to her knees and worked open the front of his breeches, he wouldn’t stop her. But she wouldn’t do that to him, wouldn’t ask him to take his desire off its short leash. Not in the garden at his own ball, at least.

  She eased back, letting some cool night air slip between them. She lightened her kisses
until they were merely what was strictly necessary to maintain contact between her lips and his body.

  And then she finally took her lips away too, and dared to look at his face. Would he look scandalized? Regretful? She promised herself that she wouldn’t care what she saw there.

  He looked slightly dazed, as if he had been spun around a few too many times in a game of blind man’s bluff. She waited for him to say something. “I . . .” he started, and shook his head. Still looking faintly distracted, he took her hand and pressed it into the placket of his breeches. The gesture was so coarse, the very last thing she would have expected from him. “I’ve never been this hard in my life, not without actually, you know.”

  You know? She was delighted by this coyness. “I do know,” she said, gripping him through the fabric and feeling his erection leap in approval. “But we’ll leave that for another time.” She patted it consolingly.

  The sound he made was practically a growl, and she thought her face would split in two if she smiled any more broadly.

  A few bars of music drifted in from the ballroom. “You ought to go back. Somebody will notice that you’re gone,” she suggested, wanting to give him an easy excuse. They couldn’t stay out here all night.

  “Not so fast,” he murmured. “This is a waltz. Nobody in their right mind would expect me to waltz when I’ve avoided all the other dances.”

  She would never understand why he didn’t dance. “I love to waltz. Louisa and I practiced it for hours.”

  He took her hand and drew her back toward him. “Dance with me,” he whispered in her ear, resting his other hand on her waist as he steered her into a slow circle.

  It didn’t feel even remotely right, and she realized that it was because she was used to dancing the gentleman’s part. But she tried anyway, with the result being that they trod on one another’s toes and bumped gracelessly and repeatedly into one another.