Page 50 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Alistair had hired a nurse? Presumptuous, arrogant bastard. But how was Charity to send this woman away? She was rubbing the small of her back with obvious discomfort and looked to be in no condition to travel another mile. Besides, even now the coach was driving away.
Mrs. Potton—for that was how she introduced herself to a bewildered Mrs. Trout—pulled a crisp apron and a great quantity of knitting from her bag before stationing herself in the hard-backed chair by the bed.
“Take a walk, Miss Church. Get some air while the young lady sleeps. I’ve tended invalids much worse off than this lady.” When Charity did not move, she added, placatingly, “I looked after his lordship and Master Gilbert when they were nothing more than babies, and I’ve been in sick rooms for more years than you’ve been alive. I’ll do right by the lady.”
“My dear ma’am, I don’t doubt it. If there’s anything I’ve learned about Lord Pembroke, it’s that he doesn’t compromise his standards.” Alistair, interfering aristocratic shite that he was, required exact correctness from everyone around him. Surely if he had sent his own childhood nurse to care for Louisa, she could be trusted to do precisely that.
Charity slipped down the stairs and into the barnyard. The ground was still muddy from the other night’s storm and dotted with foul-looking puddles. She rucked up her skirts to avoid dirtying the dress, and set out along a lane that appeared to wind between the Trouts’ fields.
This countryside wasn’t so different from nearby Cambridgeshire—mostly flat, shockingly green. Nothing like hard, craggy, windblown Fenshawe. She had spent her years at Cambridge trying to gorge herself on what she couldn’t get enough of at home—sun, books, conversation. She had done the same thing these past weeks in London, only maybe more frenetically, because she knew the end was near.
She ought to be glad. The end of this part of her life was drawing to a close, but after that she could go wherever she wanted. She couldbewhoever she wanted. A forged reference—what was a harmless forgery after so many years of deception?—and she could have a post in Italy or India or any other warm and lively place. Surely, that thought ought to buoy her spirits, should it not? Instead she felt something like mourning, but for what she did not know. It was like imagining her own funeral.
A horse was coming down the lane, and she scrambled to the side, gathering her skirts close around her to keep them clear of splashing mud. But the horse came to a stop a few yards away.
“Robin, is that you? Of course it is. No bonnet, shaggy hair. It could hardly be anyone else.”
Alistair.She probably looked like a scarecrow, gangly limbs and straw-colored hair, all wrapped up in someone else’s clothing. Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked up at him. He had no right to appear even half so decadently perfect. His cravat was a marvel. His boots were shined to a mirror finish. Had he sent for his valet from London? She wouldn’t put it past him.
“You’re too big to ride Mab.”
“Hardly, and if you think I’ll ever again ride one of the innkeeper’s job horses, you’re sadly mistaken.” He slid off the horse and came to her side. “Since you’re out here and not in the sick room, I take it that Nurse Potton arrived.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Give me your arm and I’ll walk you back to the house.”
He pulled her gloveless hand into the crook of his arm and steered her down the lane. All this talking and bustling her about wasn’t like Alistair. She glanced up at his face and saw his jaw set firmly. Beneath his immaculately tied cravat, his throat worked as he swallowed.
He was nervous, or at least ill at ease. Likely he was terrified that she’d take him up on his offer of marriage. Well, she’d be gone soon and he’d have nothing to worry about. She nearly told him as much.Take heart, we only have to get through the next week or so, and then I’ll be as good as dead.But that would only have embarrassed him.
The fine wool of his coat was out of place on this muddy farmstead, but it was reassuringly familiar after the tumultuous past few days. She checked her impulse to rub her face against it like a cat. But as they walked, she let her fingers drift along his sleeve, down to the cuff where smooth wool met the warm leather of his riding glove. She didn’t let her touch linger there, but skimmed her hand back up to the crook of his arm. She wanted to memorize what Alistair felt like—expensive cloth covering lean muscle. Taking a deep breath, she could make out the scent of his customary shaving soap. Oh, he haddefinitelysent for his valet, then.
Suddenly, he seized her hand, checking its progress back down his sleeve. Presumably he didn’t appreciate being petted in such a daft manner.
But he kept his firm grip on her hand as they walked back to the house, intertwining their fingers. “How is Miss Selby?” he asked.
“Sleepy, and her head hurts. But there’s been no fever or any other cause for alarm.”
“Well, in that case I don’t mind telling you that I’d very much like to take her and Gilbert and knock their heads together for all the trouble they’ve caused. It’s just as well that they’re both too injured for me to do so.”
“They’re very young, and I suppose I can’t blame them for flights of fancy or rash actions. Louisa is usually so steady, I sometimes forget that she’s only eighteen.”
They had reached the door, but he still hadn’t dropped her hand. Now he raised his eyebrow and shot her a quizzical look. “Gilbert is precisely your own age, Robin. Four-and-twenty.”
“Is he? Well, I don’t think I was ever that young.”
“Ah, Robin.” He squeezed her hand.
“I don’t think you ever were either.” With her free hand she traced the line between his eyebrows.
“No, and thank God for it.” They stared stupidly at one another for a moment. Then, to her horror, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
“Alistair!” she cried, wiping her hand on her skirts. “Don’t you dare behave gallantly to me.”
His eyes were sparkling with merriment, damn him. “Forgive me. I couldn’t resist.”
“Like hell you couldn’t. I can’t wait to burn these godforsaken dresses.” Belatedly, she realized how ungrateful she must sound.
“Don’t even think of it,” he retorted, and for a minute she feared he was going to feed her some utter shite about how becoming the gown was. “At least pawn them.”
Now she was smiling at him like the besotted idiot she was. God help them.
