Page 13 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“Precisely like the first time I saw the king, in fact,” he said dryly. “He, too, asked if I was a marquess and then fell back asleep.”
Charity let out a bark of laughter.
“But seriously, Robin, she can’t be your sister’s chaperone. Find someone more... alert, will you?”
She was taken aback. “I most certainly will not, not that it’s any business of yours.”
“Like hell it isn’t. Your sister—”
“Is a woman of sense. She doesn’t need some interfering busybody she hardly knows hovering over her.” Surely she ought to be more diplomatic to the man who was serving as their sponsor into London society, but she’d be damned if she’d allow Pembroke or anybody else to freely criticize her household.
Pembroke straightened his back, putting some distance between the two of them. When he spoke his voice was frosty. “I’m less concerned about your sister’s behavior than what people would say if they discovered she was scarcely supervised.”
“Well, you can stop being concerned because it has nothing to do with you. It was gracious of you to give Louisa an entrée into society, but that doesn’t mean you can muddle around in our lives.” Charity took a deep, steadying breath. “She’s my sister, and I have the situation in hand. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve left Miss Allenby on her own for too long now.”
It was all lies, of course. But she didn’t need Pembroke—in his magnificently tailored coat and glossy boots, so very splendid that he made these surroundings even drearier by comparison—to tell her so.
Was he supposed to apologize? Was criticizing one’s choice of chaperone the type of insult a man had to atone for? Alistair was not accustomed to making apologies of any kind, let alone over this sort of triviality. Especially since he was most obviously in the right. Nobody with eyes and ears could suppose that ancient lady asleep in the corner to be capable of chaperoning a girl in her first season. But Robin had seemed put out, and Alistair didn’t want a rift between him and his new friend.
Even thinkingRobinandfriendin the same sentence gave him a pleasant thrill. He wasn’t used to thrills being pleasant rather than unsettling.
For that matter, he wasn’t much used to friendship.
Surveying the room, he saw Gilbert very cozy with the beautiful Miss Selby. He didn’t like that one bit, but he wasn’t enough of a fool to do anything about it. If he suggested to Gilbert that perhaps he might want to chase after a girl in possession of more than two shillings to rub together, the pair of them would likely fall madly in love. So Alistair didn’t even let his gaze linger on the couple, instead turning his attention to where his half sister sat with Robin.
He didn’t like that either, oddly. They were looking at a new translation of something or another, and their heads were bent conspiratorially together over the open book.
Leaning against the wall, he watched them. Was this a romance? If so, why did it make him want to hurl his teacup against the wall? Surely it would be just deserts for Mrs. Allenby to see her eldest daughter wed to a minor Northumberland landowner whose income—according to the solicitors Alistair had charged with the task of looking into the Selbys’ background—amounted to less than two thousand pounds a year. Alistair ought to be delighted.
As he watched, Robin pushed that infernal hair off his forehead. Never in the history of polite society had a man so badly needed a haircut, and never had Alistair been so grieved at the prospect of a man’s hair actually being cut.
He knew that what he felt for young Selby was a kind of desire. And he knew himself well enough to understand that he felt this kind of desire for men as well as women. Thus far, he had been able—for the most part—to ignore this inconvenient urge when it applied to men. And so he would ignore his desire for Robin. Therefore, he assured himself, it could have no bearing on his distaste for the idea of Robin being married to Amelia Allenby or anyone else.
But when Gilbert rose to take his leave, bringing Miss Allenby away with him, Alistair felt a surge of relief.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Louisa said, dropping a curtsy, “I need to speak with Cook about dinner.”
That left him alone with Robin.
“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as the door shut, while the urge to make things right was still stronger than his sense of rectitude. “I shouldn’t have said anything about your aunt. Even though I’m right. But it’s your decision. A bad decision, but yours to make.”
For a moment Robin was silent, regarding him with an expression Alistair couldn’t read. “That’s your idea of an apology?” he said finally.
“Did I not do it right?”
“No, Pembroke. No, you did not.”
“Well, I’ve never done it before, so perhaps I want practice.”
“You’ve never—” he shook his head in disbelief. “I’m honored to have been your first, then.”
And damn it all to hell, but Alistair felt his cheeks heat.
“Your horrible apology is accepted,” Robin continued, finally smiling. One of his eyeteeth was crooked, and he had a small gap between his front teeth. Alistair couldn’t figure out which imperfection he liked more.
“Thank you,” Alistair managed. He took a step closer. “Miss Allenby’s mother—my father’s mistress, of course—was no older than your sister when she met my father.” Why the devil did he have this compulsion to air his family’s linens in front of Selby? “I may have exaggerated notions of what protection is required by young ladies.”
Robin watched him for another moment, his eyes boring into him. “Understandable.”
