Page 55 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“Louisa says the soil in Kent is perfect for...”
Alistair let Gilbert prattle on. He was not interested in Miss Selby’s thoughts on Kentish agriculture, but was pleased to notice that Gilbert was. For how many months had Alistair been troubled by his brother’s lack of direction, worried about his aimlessness? Perhaps Miss Selby was the influence he needed.
While Gilbert and Louisa were fussing over one another’s bruises and bandages, Alistair caught Robin’s eye. “Perhaps you’ll take some air with me, Miss Church,” he suggested, offering his arm. He didn’t know what else to call her even though Gilbert and Miss Selby were perfectly aware that Alistair had met her as Robert Selby, and Charity Church hadn’t been her name for some years.
No sooner had they stepped outside than they were besieged by chickens. “What the devil do they mean by this?” Alistair asked while fending off a winged attacker.
She shot him a look that was pure mischief. “They’re paying you a compliment. I’ve been feeding them, so they likely think anyone I keep company with can be relied on.” From the pocket of her gown, she produced a handful of seeds and scattered them on the ground before her.
“You’ve been feeding chickens. Deplorable.” That would explain the new profusion of freckles on her cheeks, if she had been hatless in the barnyard this past week.
“Well, you keep sending more of them. Mrs. Trout has her hands full. And if you’re thinking of sending her any more tokens of your esteem, consider a sack of chicken feed.”
“I’ll send her twenty guineas worth of chicken feed, if only you’ll leave menial labor to the domestics.”
Now she looked at him with a curious expression. “What am I if not a domestic, my lord?”
“You’re a thorn in my side and a great many other things besides, but I wish you’d chiefly think of yourself as the future Lady Pembroke.”
She snorted, tossing another handful of seeds. “I thought we had been through this already. There’s no way for me to marry you or anyone else without Louisa’s name being dragged through the mud.”
“I’ve thought of a way.” He had turned the matter over in his mind for days now and kept arriving at only one solution. “A way that won’t harm Miss Selby. We go sailing. Gilbert, Miss Selby, you, and me. You’d be dressed as Robert Selby at the outset of the trip. But when we come back, you’d be dressed as Charity Church. We would explain that there was an accident and Robert Selby fell overboard, and in due course we could have him proclaimed dead even without a body.”
She was silent for a moment, tracing an arc in the dirt with the toe of her boot. “I’m to fake my own death, then.”
“I know it’s not ideal, but I can think of no better way for you to end the role.”
“The role,” she repeated. “Right.” She turned back to the chickens, and this time threw seeds so hard that the birds scattered nervously and let out a chorus of squawks. “And we’re simply to hope that nobody ever picks up on the resemblance between the late Robert Selby and Charity Church—pardon me, I mean the Marchioness of Pembroke.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“We would have to live a retired life in the country, only coming to town when strictly necessary. Besides, I don’t think you realize how different you look in a gown. Even I didn’t recognize you at first.”
She narrowed her eyes and he saw that her fists were clenched at her sides. “You don’t think I realize the difference attire makes? As far as living in the country, you would hate that. You dine out and attend dances and balls and plays six nights out of seven. I can’t imagine you cooped up in the country.”
“You have it all wrong.” He had no need for those entertainments. He had thrown himself into that social whirlwind only to see more of her. And—oh. Understanding hit him like a brick in the head. He might not miss London life, but she would. He had seen with his own eyes how happy she was to be gadding about town; with clever company and entertainment she had flourished. He couldn’t give her that. It was humbling, knowing that there was something he could not give her. “Perhaps we could travel,” he offered, knowing it to be a paltry substitute.
“We could,” she said with a smile that was so false it was terrifying. “With the result that it would only take longer for anyone to notice the resemblance. Besides, how long would it take foryouto notice the jeers and jests at our expense? I’m not a lady. You can put me in a gown far finer than this one and I still won’t be a lady. And I don’t want to be. I’m much happier in breeches and boots anyway.”
Part of him wanted to protest that surely she could make the one small sacrifice that would allow them to be together? She could wear breeches under her gowns, perhaps, if she was so fond of them. She was wearing a dress today to allow her to be with Miss Selby; could she not do so for him?
But he knew it wasn’t fair to ask; there was a difference between the span of two weeks versus the rest of her life.
Could he, the Marquess of Pembroke, have a wife who dressed—nay,lived—as a man? Not if he wanted to be respectable, he couldn’t. He would be quite cast out from decent society. The gossip would last the rest of his life, and likely longer. With this one choice, he’d bring himself lower than his father ever had been.
Robin was avoiding his gaze, instead resolutely focusing her attention on a chicken who was getting caught in her skirts. He bent and picked up the animal. With his other hand he tipped her face up to his own, and pressed a kiss onto her cheek. The chicken squawked anxiously and hopped to the ground. “Quite right,” he said. “I’ll never ask you to wear a gown.” It felt like a small concession, really, if it allowed him to have her by his side.
“I have my own suggestion,” she said. The sun glinted off her hair, turning it to ribbons of gold and bronze. She had done something with combs and pins to disguise the shorter length, but a strand had come loose. He reached out to tuck it behind her ear, but she stepped back. “We go on as we did in London,” she said. “I carry on as Robert Selby, we spend as much time together as we please. You hire me on as your secretary if—”
“I don’t want a secretary,” he protested, taking one of her hands and pulling her to him. “I want a wife. And what of Clifton? Is he to continue to be deprived of his property?”
“I don’t give a damn about him or his property. He can rot. Fenshawe can rot.”
“I don’t think you mean that, Robin. It would weigh on you. Anything we had would be tainted by the wrong we had done.”
She let out a sob. “I know that. I do. But what else is there? All I want is you, Alistair.”
He ought to agree. Hewantedto agree, to simply say that he felt the same way. He could take her in his arms and kiss her and everything would be right. “I won’t make you my mistress.”
“Mistress! Ha!” She tugged her hand out of his grasp. “Is that what you consider me presently? Your mistress?Mistressmakes it sound like there’s something sordid about it.”
