Page 37 of Unmasked by the Marquess
What would happen if he tried to steer a course toward his own notion of rightness, rather than always leaning hard on the rudder away from what his father had done?
With a sigh of frustration, he rolled over. He wouldn’t idly dally with Robin, but his heart—which organ he had evidently finally determined worthy of notice—insisted that it was wrong to abandon her. Marrying her, though... he tried to imagine Miss Charity Church beside him in this awful bed, gazing up with him at the lewd motto of the family she had married into. He wasn’t even entirely sure who this elusive Miss Church was—she didn’t feel like Robin in his mind—but whoever she was, she would hardly be the most objectionable feature in this appalling room.
He was all too aware that this was not a strong argument in favor of a future wife, a future marchioness, no less. But he was Lord Pembroke, and if he determined that Miss Charity Church was to be his, then he pitied anybody who got in his way.
Six days without so much as a note. Charity was quite proud of herself for having bypassed sorrow and gone straight to irritation.
She had told him that she didn’t want any part of his regret or shame. But that had been naive. She had no control over whether he regretted being with her. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure he had any control over it. As far as she could tell, sometimes he wallowed in fits of rectitude the way a dog might roll around in something that smelled interesting but a trifle confusing to its tiny, sadly limited brain. Pembroke’s bouts of moral superiority were no better than one of the Fenshawe hounds covered in goose shite.
Wherever he was, therefore, was of no interest to Charity. Sooner or later he’d return and she’d give him a bath. Metaphorically speaking.
Purely out of curiosity, and certainly not out of any pathetic longing, she walked past his house to check for any signs that he had left town. And there it was—the door knocker had been removed and the curtains were drawn. That did nothing to put her mind at ease—even if he had been called away on urgent estate business he could have found time to dash off a note.
When she arrived home she found Gilbert, Louisa, and Aunt Agatha in the drawing room.
“Gilbert, where has your brother run off to?” She kept her voice casual.
“Alistair?” he asked, as if there might be some other brother he had forgotten about. “I couldn’t guess.”
Charity didn’t know whether to feel better or worse that Alistair hadn’t even let his own brother know his whereabouts. On the one hand, this wasn’t a special excommunication meant particularly for her. On the other hand, she was falling in love with a thoroughgoing bastard.
Because that’s what this was. Love, or something near enough to it. It would end in heartbreak, but in Charity’s experience it generally did. That knowledge was never enough to stop it from happening, though, and thank God for that. Imagine if people carried their hearts around like fragile birds’ eggs, carefully preventing the smallest crack or injury. Everybody would keep a polite distance, safe and protected and utterly alone.
She loved Alistair, arrogant piece of work that he was, and very likely he loved her back. But she knew there was no future between the Marquess of Pembroke and herself. Not that long from now, Robert Selby would disappear.
By the looks of things, that would be soon indeed. Gilbert was plainly smitten with Louisa. Charity hadn’t the faintest notion as to why he hadn’t yet made a formal offer, but had to assume it was forthcoming. Instead, the pair of them clammed up whenever she entered the room. Could Louisa imagine that Charity would try to prevent the match? Even if Charity had any authority over Louisa, which they both knew she did not, an offer from the childless Marquess of Pembroke’s only brother would be nothing to sneeze at, even though Louisa could doubtless have done better. But if they found an added thrill in thinking their romance a forbidden one, then who was she to ruin their fun?
Even now, they were sitting stiffly on the sofa where a moment ago their heads had been bent together.
“Did he not send you a note?” Gilbert asked Charity.
“No. I suppose he didn’t send you one either?”
He looked at her blankly for a moment. “Why would he do a thing like that?”
Charity wondered if Louisa could possibly have fallen for a lackwit. “Perhaps to let you know where he was?” she suggested.
“Yes, yes, I knowpeopledo that. I would do that, of course. If I were to leave town, naturally I’d send a note to those who might miss me.” He darted a quick, candid look at Louisa, and then both of them blushed. “But Alistair would never.”
No, he wouldn’t, would he. Such a gesture would be too considerate, it would make people wonder if he actually gave a damn about them. Much safer to avoid any indication of friendship entirely. She was being unfair to him and she knew it, but she was in too ill a humor to care.
Gilbert, evidently unable to proceed in his wooing with Charity as an audience, left shortly thereafter.
Charity sat on the side of the sofa vacated by Gilbert. “Lou, has he offered for you?”
She blushed even redder. “Yes.”
Why the devil was she only now hearing about it? True, Louisa didn’t owe her anything, but they were friends, weren’t they? Sisters, of a sort? Louisa was not like Alistair; she did not keep others at a distance for no purpose other than pride. “And did you accept?” She was frustrated by this coolness that had sprung up between them, and she could hear an unintended note of irritation in her voice.
“I know I shouldn’t do anything without your consent.” Louisa was looking at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. “Technically, you’re my guardian.”
Charity shook her head impatiently. She was nobody’s guardian. Louisa would need her signature—false, forged, and utterly illegal—on the marriage license, but that was the end of Charity’s involvement. “Why haven’t you spoken to me about this, though?”
“I know you have grander plans for me and I don’t want to disappoint you.” Louisa never wanted to disappoint anybody and she seldom did. “Besides, it’s awkward to speak of these things. I don’t know how to even begin. You haven’t told me of your plans with Lord Pembroke, have you?”
Charity felt like all the air had been sucked from the room and replaced with smoke. How on earth had Louisa figured out that there was anything between them? Was it that obvious? Was that why Alistair had left—fear of exposure? “I don’t precisely have plans with Pembroke.” That was God’s own truth. Her only thought was to enjoy being with him while she still could.
“But there’s something... happening, I suppose. And you haven’t mentioned it.” She took Charity’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m not reproaching you, only saying that I know these matters are difficult to speak of.”
