Page 27 of Unmasked by the Marquess
By the time she reached her littlest finger he was in a dangerous state of arousal.
That would not do. Not at all.
She was passing through the wide French doors to the garden, so that was where Alistair went too.
It was ideal weather for a ball. Not so cold as to discourage forays into the garden, but chilly enough that a lady in gossamer fine silk might have to nestle close to a gentleman for warmth. But Charity Church was not wearing a gauzy confection. She wore an indifferently tailored coat and a waistcoat of silvery blue. Her pantaloons were snug to the point of indiscretion, to the point that his gaze skimmed along them, trying to divine a clue as to what lay beneath.
Which really was not something the Marquess of Pembroke ought to do at a ball, examine the contents of his guests’ pantaloons. No matter how snug.
She turned to face him, her pointy little chin held high. “Why did you follow me out here?”
“Perhaps I wish to see my own gardens.” Perhaps he wanted to prove to himself that he was capable of acting like a gentleman, regardless of his anger, or his desire, or any bizarre combination of the two.
Or perhaps he was simply running mad.
“I doubt you could identify a single plant,” she retorted. “It’s beneath you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, my horticultural ignorance does seem to be the most remarkable aspect of this little tableau.” He let his gaze rake up and down her body. When he reached her face, he could tell even in the moonlight that she had blushed.
“If you’re going to expose me, I wish you’d get it over with.” She dragged one ungloved hand through her hair, disheveling it even further. “I’ve spent the entire evening wondering if you’d do something horrid.”
He had wondered much the same thing, but had concluded that the Marquess of Pembroke behaved impeccably to his guests, even the most disgraceful among them. But he didn’t feel like relinquishing the upper hand quite yet. “If I’m going toexposeyou, Miss Church, I’ll damned well take my time.”
Her blush became even darker, until the freckles and flushed skin blended together. When had he developed an aptitude for double entendre? That seemed more in his father’s line. Perhaps it was in the blood. He took a step closer, wondering what other interesting propensities might be in the blood.
She took a step back and he heard her dancing shoe crunch along the gravel that the gardeners had so painstakingly smoothed.
Was she afraid? Did she think he would strike her? Abuse her in some other way? God almighty. “I’m not going to assault you, for heaven’s sake.”
“I know that, Pembroke,” she snapped. “I mean to go further into the shrubbery, so that way if you call me by name again we won’t be overheard.”
They retreated further into the garden, through masses of plants he most certainly could not name, until they were far enough from the ballroom that the music drifted unevenly on the breeze, sounding as if it came from underwater. She turned and faced him, her jaw firm and her eyes sparkling. She was brave, he’d give her that. What an undertaking this was, after all.
He remembered the shadow of fear that had crossed her face when they saw one another across the ballroom. She had given him the power to ruin her. She hadn’t needed to tell him about her masquerade or the full extent of her fraud. She had, in fact, done so only to assure him that he was safe from being accused of having sodomitical inclinations. She could have let him worry about that, but she hadn’t. It was only right and proper for him to offer her the same service.
“I’m not going to expose you or your sister, or do anything to harm you.” He spoke so gravely that it felt like an oath.
Her eyes went wide. “Why not?”
“Revenge, like horticulture, is beneath me.”
She laughed, a small and startled sound, a mere echo of the champagne pop but close enough to make Alistair smile helplessly in return. Even when she clapped a hand over her mouth, evidently deciding that this was not a laughing matter, he still smiled. God above, he had missed her. He had missedthis.
He was a bloody fool.
“Miss Church,” he started.
“Nobody’s ever called me that,” she said. “The Selbys all called me Charity—I was their housemaid. Then at Cambridge...” She fixed him squarely in the eye, as if daring him to take issue with her frankness. “I was Selby. I’ve literally never heard myself called Miss Church. It’s quite unnerving.”
Alistair remembered the first time he had been called by his title. That had been mortifying, considering the many ways the last holder of that title rendered it a byword for licentiousness and profligacy. But “Miss Church” had no such connotations. It was a blank slate. She ought to be grateful. Then, as he regarded the dashing figure before him, he understood what she was saying. “You do not wish me to call you Miss Church.”
She crossed and uncrossed her arms, as if she didn’t know what to do with her limbs. “I... I don’t know that what I wish is material in this situation.”
Did she think that now was the time for deference? “A month ago I demanded that you stop calling me ‘my lord’ and you complied.”
The silence stretched out between them. “But I have no other name for you to call me by,” she finally whispered.
He took a step closer. “Robin,” he said softly. He was close enough now to catch the scent of lemon drops and greenery that always seemed to mark the air around her.
