Page 14 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“I meant no insult to your sister by comparing her to Mrs. Allenby, of course.”
Another pause, and Robin moved a step closer, close enough so that Alistair could discern the maze of freckles on his face, close enough that he could see that Robin’s eyes, which he had at first supposed to be gray, now appeared to have flecks of every color. The closer he got, the more glimmers of blue and green and amber he could discern. And he wanted to get a good deal closer.
“I didn’t think you did,” Robin said.
“Why does she not like me? Your sister, I mean.”
Robin opened his mouth, and for a moment Alistair thought he meant to deny it. “Louisa thinks I’m overawed by your rank, that I do whatever you say because I’m cowed by all your wealth and consequence.”
A month ago, Alistair would not have been dismayed to learn that an acquaintance was impressed with his standing. In fact, he would probably have thought it his due. Hell, itwashis due. But the idea that Robin Selby was humoring him, accepting his weak apology, listening to his shameful explanations of his father’s disgrace, for no reason but to ingratiate himself? That made his heart sink.
“Is it true?” he asked.
Robin regarded him steadily with those disconcerting eyes. “Do you want it to be?”
“No, of course not. Besides, if you’re toadying up to me, you’re doing a mighty poor job of it. I’ve seen nothing but cheek and impertinence from you.”
Robin laughed, a single mirthful crack that seemed to warm the room by several degrees, and Alistair found himself smiling in return. Here, in this shabby room, he was happier than he could ever remember being.
“I have in the new novel from the Minerva Press, if you care to take a look,” Alistair said as casually as he could manage.
“Do you really?” Robin asked brightly. They were lurking near the back wall of Lady Pettigrew’s music room, whispering like schoolboys, while a Swede imported specifically for this occasion performed on the cello. Alistair usually attended his aunt’s entertainments out of obligation mingled with something like mortification of the flesh, as if he might invest himself with virtue by enduring a night of tedium. But with Robin for company, he hadn’t been bored once.
“It arrived in this month’s shipment from the bookseller.” He omitted to mention that the bookseller had sent the novel only because Alistair specifically asked for it, which he had done after overhearing Robin and Miss Allenby discuss their shared love of Gothic novels. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but you’re welcome to borrow it. I’ll send a footman with the book in the morning.”
“Do you mean it?” His eyes lit up. “Don’t bother with the footman. I’ll come by your house tonight, after I bring Louisa home. If that’s all right, that is.”
“You’re more than welcome. The place is all at sixes and sevens in preparation for the ball, but the library has so far been spared.”
Robin hadn’t been to Pembroke House since the day he had come begging for favors. That seemed like years ago now, and Alistair felt strangely giddy and nervous to think of Robin in his house.
Perhaps that was why Alistair had that extra glass of brandy. And then the one after that.
By the time he arrived home, he was in a state of nervous anticipation. He found himself puttering around the library like the worst kind of housemaid, stacking and restacking piles of books and papers, lighting a branch of candles, stoking the fire until it blazed.
And all this for the visit of a man who was of no consequence, a lad of four-and-twenty whom nobody had ever heard of before last month.
He poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it in one gulp.
When the butler announced Robin’s arrival, Alistair was in the state his father had called “pleasantly well-to-live.” This, according to the late marquess, who anyone would have to concede was an expert on all matters related to drink, was a state of intoxication somewhere in between “a trifle disguised” and “outright foxed.” Alistair, who rarely drank more than a single glass of brandy or wine, only knew that his insides felt warm and his mind mercifully clear of his usual cares.
This, he suspected, was how everyone else felt all the damned time.
“Good evening, Pembroke!” Robin called cheerfully as he entered the room. He was dripping wet.
“What the devil happened to you?” Alistair’s voice sounded thick and remote to his own ears. “It looks like you’ve been thrown into the Thames.”
“I brought Louisa home and sent the hackney on its way, thinking I’d walk here. But by the time I reached Oxford Street it had started to rain, which of course meant there wasn’t a single hackney to be had.”
“Take off that coat and give it to Hopkins,” Alistair ordered. “And come sit by the fire.” A footman, who had no doubt been alerted to his lordship’s guest’s alarming state, was already standing by with a sheet of toweling.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Robin said. “There’s no sense in my drying off and warming up when I’m only going to get soaked again on the way home.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll take my carriage.”
Robin still hadn’t taken off his dripping coat. “It’s only water. It rains in Northumberland too, you know.”
“I’m certain your constitution is admirable, but my book is less hardy, and if you intend to bring it with you, you’ll do so in my carriage.” He used the tone that brooked no disobedience, precisely how he’d command a stable boy to do as he was bid. He would not stand in his own house and allow Robin to go off and catch a chill. “Moreover, the carpet you’re standing on didn’t need to be doused this evening, so kindly remove that dripping garment, let Hopkins restore it to some semblance of correctness, and sit down by the hearth immediately.” Alistair knew he was being overbearing, but Robin was shivering.
