Page 16 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Without answering, she spurred the mare, passing Pembroke and effectively giving herself an unsporting head start. She heard the hooves of Pembroke’s stallion approaching behind her, and crouched lower in her saddle. His mount was undoubtedly faster, but she was so much lighter. She tucked her hat under her arm, not wanting it to blow off, and nudged the mare faster. The horse, she guessed, was enjoying this unexpected freedom as much as she was. A chance to test her limits, a chance to let herself go.
She reached the Serpentine a full length ahead of Pembroke.
“Scamp.” Pembroke was breathing heavily. “Scoundrel and cheat. You little wretch.”
“Guilty as charged.” She placed her hat back on her head at a rakish angle.
“You ride hellishly well. Do you ride to hounds in Northumberland?”
“We have a hunt somewhere nearby, but I don’t ride in it.” How could she? The local gentry would know she wasn’t the real Robert Selby. She had to hole herself up at Fenshawe, only venturing out for solitary, early morning rides.
“Who taught you to ride? Was it your father? Or was it a groom? If so, I ought to steal him away. Now, why the devil are you blushing? You’re a damned fine rider and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It was a friend who taught me.” It had been Robbie, of course. He had taught her to ride, she had taught him Latin and arithmetic and geography. A number of other things they had simply worked out together, in the way healthy young people often will when living under the same roof with scarcely any supervision. There was no way to think of those things in the presence of this man without blushing.
“A friend,” Pembroke repeated, and Charity realized he was considering that information in light of what she had implied the other day about not having dallied with a man since her school days. That had been no more than the truth, even if it had been misleading.
She was doing her best to be honest with him despite the essential lie underpinning everything. Surely there was some way she could be her true self—whoever that even was—in spite of all the things she could never be honest about. She didn’t know if that was the right thing to do, or ifrightwas even an option in this situation.
“What happened to this friend?” Pembroke continued, shooting her a sidelong glance.
“He died a little over two years ago.” She looked away when she saw a flash of sympathy in his dark eyes. The last thing she could accept was any sympathy about Robbie’s death, not when she had taken such shameless advantage of it. “We ought to get these horses back to your stable,” she added before he could say anything kind.
They rode to Charity’s house first so Pembroke could pay his respects to Louisa and Aunt Agatha. He seemed determined to win them over, which Charity found both endearing and hopeless.
Charity was surprised to find a man standing on the pavement, looking up at the street number and then consulting a piece of paper, as if confirming that he was at the right location.
“Can I help you?” Charity asked as she drew the horse up.
“That depends,” the man said. He was about fifty, with gray hair and a plain brown coat. “I’m looking for Robert Selby. My name is Maurice Clifton.”
Charity fought the urge to run inside, to slam the door behind her. But cowardice wasn’t on her long list of sins. “I’m Robert Selby,” she lied, smiling brightly. “And you must be Cousin Clifton.”
Now, why should the lad look like a startled rabbit? What kind of monster was this Clifton fellow for Robin to be looking at him that way? Alistair wanted to exert all his authority, send Clifton packing, and whisk Robin away from here. Instead he assumed a stony, watchful silence. That was his greatest asset as a marquess—simply existing, like a loaded and cocked pistol.
He watched Robin shake off that fearful look and manage a tolerable imitation of his customary lighthearted cheer. “Forgive me for not recognizing you, sir. I think I only met you once, when I was eight or nine.”
“Quite right, quite right, young Robert. No matter. I scarcely recognize you, myself. I didn’t expect to find you in town, Cousin. What brings you so far south?”
“My sister wanted a season. To be honest, so did I.” He smiled broadly, and Alistair wondered what Clifton had to be made of not to be susceptible to such a grin.
But the man remained unmoved, his mouth set in a grim line. “I wouldn’t have thought Fenshawe yielded sufficient income to support this sort of indulgence.”
No, that was simply too much. Strangers, no matter whether they were related, did not question one another’s finances. Alistair coughed.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. How could I! Lord Pembroke, this is my cousin, Maurice Clifton of Dorset.”
The cousin looked suitably impressed to be encountering a marquess. Good. Let him remember that if he thought to cause Robin any unpleasantness.
Alistair took his leave, parting with a cool nod for the cousin and a warm handshake for Robin, passing the mare’s reins into the hands of the groom who had followed them from the park.
Desire was one thing—bad enough, really. But this urge to rescue Robin, to prevent him from experiencing even the slightest inconvenience—that was something new. Something unsettling.
He felt protective of Gilbert but that had more to do with hoping his brother found some purpose in life and didn’t take after their father. There wasn’t a lot of affection or warmth between them. Alistair didn’t have a lot of either quality in his life and never had. Until he met Robin he hadn’t thought it possible.
He wanted time to turn this over in his mind, to discover what these unaccustomed feelings meant, but when he returned home he found Gilbert waiting for him in the library.
“Gilbert,” he said, ringing for tea. “Did we have an appointment?”
