Page 69 of Unmasked by the Marquess
She spun in a circle so he could admire her.
He leered wolfishly at her. “You look like a corsair.”
“I know!” she said, clapping her hands together in satisfaction. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
He took her hand and reeled her in so she was standing in between his legs. “I’m going to have you on this desk, you know,” he said, his voice low and silky. She felt his hand skim along the curve of her backside.
“Very likely,” she said. “But not today.” She sank to her knees.
“Oh, hell.” He sank back further in his chair, though, giving her access to the fall of his breeches. Twisting his fingers in her hair, he tilted her head so she had to look at him. “This is the first time your hair has made any sense at all. It’s pirate hair. Almost long enough for a queue, but not quite.”
With his thumb, he traced her lower lip, but she caught it in her mouth and lightly sucked it.
He swore under his breath.
For weeks she had felt lucky to be desired by a man who was open-minded enough to tolerate her strange attire. But it occurred to her now, looking at his darkening eyes and feeling his erection hardening beneath her touch, that it wasn’t a question of toleration. He liked this. He liked her, funny clothes and odd hair and the entire in-betweenness of her. She wasn’t an ordinary woman, but he wasn’t an ordinary man either. They fit together, and it felt right.
Agreeing to marry Alistair had been the biggest gamble she had ever taken, because she wasn’t wagering only her own security and happiness but his as well. He was confident that he could find a way to satisfy Clifton’s demands; he had assured her that he would be able to weather any scandal that resulted from their union. She wouldn’t rest easy, though, until she had seen with her own eyes that she hadn’t brought shame and sorrow upon him. It was all well and good for him to say that he wanted to make sacrifices for her, but until he knew what that meant it was only pretty words.
She freed him from his breeches and drew him slowly, inch by inch, into her mouth, savoring his heaviness on her tongue, enjoying every groan and shudder she elicited from him. Even if things went horribly awry, they would have this. They would have one another, they would have the way their bodies connected. She only hoped it wouldn’t be spoilt by shame and resentment.
“Robin,” he said some time later. “Tell Keating to pack your bag. Let’s get back to London where you can make an honest man of me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Before they left Broughton, Alistair wrote a letter to Maurice Clifton, requesting the honor of his presence at Pembroke House to discuss the matter of the Fenshawe inheritance. The man said he wanted a death certificate, but Alistair was willing to wager that he’d accept something else. Not necessarily something less—for as tempting as it was to punish Clifton for his attempt to blackmail Robin and implicate Alistair himself, the fact remained that under the law Fenshawe ought to be his, and Alistair would do his part to set things right.
He and Robin both wrote to Gilbert and Louisa, begging that they cut short their trip and return to London for the wedding. Because even though Robin had declared that she would sooner die than have a proper wedding at St. George’s Hanover Square (“if you think I’m going to deck myself out with orange blossoms and walk down an aisle, you can go sod off,” the future marchioness had declared), Alistair wasn’t going to get married in a hole-in-corner manner. No, for his plan to succeed he needed this marriage to be properly witnessed and then freely discussed.
He would not have anyone, least of all Robin, think that he had the smallest particle of shame or reservation about this marriage. He was having her and holding her for the rest of his life, rumors and scandal notwithstanding. He was the Marquess of Pembroke, and that had to count for something. People could say what they liked; ladies could whisper behind their fans and men could give him the cut direct. But he was still one of the highest ranked men in the nation. If he held his head high, confident that he was as correct and gentlemanly as he ever had been—no,morethan he ever had been—then that would put paid to most scandal-mongering.
Not all of it, though. He wasn’t that naive. But what did he care if a couple of prigs turned their backs when he walked into White’s? They were free to do so, and he’d simply know them for the fools they were. Those dear to him would know better.
That was something else Robin had done for him. A few months ago he hadn’t cared much for anyone, and he had been confident that nobody cared at all for him. Now he knew that he had a handful of people who valued him for more than his rank and his fortune.
When they arrived at Pembroke House, he addressed Hopkins in his blandest tone of voice. “This is Mrs. Selby, soon to be Lady Pembroke. You’ve met her before as Mr. Robert Selby. Youthful pranks, you understand. She’ll stay in the green bedchamber until the wedding.”
Hopkins, not even raising an eyebrow, merely replied, “Quite right, my lord,” and that had been the end of it. Alistair knew the rest of the staff would follow suit, and if they had a problem with the new marchioness, they were free to find other employment.
Robin took this all in stride as well, deploying her customary charm on the befuddled housemaids. Things might be awkward for a while, but he couldn’t really envision a world in which people didn’t like his Robin, however little she conformed to their expectations.
While Robin settled in, Alistair wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Pettigrew, to whom he announced his forthcoming marriage in much the same terms as he had used to Hopkins. He wrote that her presence at the ceremony was essential to his happiness, by which he knew she would infer that her nephews and grandchildren would not be able to look to the Marquess of Pembroke for favors unless she bent to his will.
The next letter was to Mrs. Allenby, and it contained much the same information, but without the implied threat, because he didn’t doubt for the slightest moment that all the Allenbys would celebrate his marriage under any circumstances.
Maurice Clifton arrived the next morning. Judging by his appearance, he had only now arrived in London and come directly to Alistair. Good.
“Mr. Clifton. I won’t keep you for too long,” Alistair said without rising from his chair. “I’m to marry Mrs. Selby, your cousin’s widow.” With some satisfaction, he watched the blood drain from Clifton’s face. “As you may be aware, the future Lady Pembroke is a high-spirited young lady inclined to merriment and pranks, including masquerading as her husband in order to attend university. My understanding is that this has caused you some difficulties regarding the inheritance of Fenshawe.” This was a statement, not a question. Clifton had no information that Alistair required, and he wanted to make that perfectly clear.
Clifton opened his mouth as if to speak, but Alistair held up his hand and continued. “You will acknowledge that Mrs. Selby conducted herself with your awareness and consent. You, Mrs. Selby, and Lady Gilbert de Lacey will all attest that this was always the understanding between the three of you as well as your late cousin. You will have a death certificate within the month, possibly sooner since I cannot marry her without it.” Nivins was already obtaining the cooperation of the vicar and magistrate near Fenshawe; likely Alistair would wind up paying for repairs to the church bell tower or some such thing.
Alistair watched as understanding seeped into Clifton’s expression. By going along with Alistair’s scheme, he would get Fenshawe and render himself an ally to the Marquess of Pembroke. By fighting Alistair, he would have a powerful enemy and spend years litigating his inheritance.
Clifton nodded, but his lips were pressed into a tight line. “I am to say that I knew my cousin sent his wife to Cambridge—the mind simply boggles, if you’ll excuse me for saying so—and yet told no one. And that even after he died I did not protest her use of his name?”
“Precisely!” Alistair said encouragingly, as if praising a dog for learning a new trick.
“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
