Page 28 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“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 meantI missed youorWhy 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.
