Page 42 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Yes! That was precisely it. Why wasn’t she glad? Not only to be married to a marquess—which objectively was a fine thing, Alistair was quite certain—but to be married to him in particular. They got along famously, did they not? That alone was more than most marriages had at the beginning. “I will never understand women.”
Furnival made a sound that Alistair interpreted as full-throated agreement. “I dare say Selby is as upset as you are, though.”
This was a level of insight Alistair hadn’t expected to find in Furnival. “Quite right. Selby’s furious with me.”
“With you? I dare say you did as best as you could. It’s not your fault the girl can’t listen to reason.”
“Exactly!” Oh, this was something, to have such a kindred soul at his side. Furnival was a treasure. A diamond. A—
“Excuse me, Furnival, but I need to speak to my brother.”
Alistair looked up and saw Gilbert looming over him. He looked angry—everybody was soangrytoday.
“You ought to have some brandy, Gilbert.” He held out the bottle but quickly reconsidered. “But you’ll need to order your own bottle. This one’s mine.”
The younger man made a frustrated noise and grabbed the bottle from Alistair’s hand, thrusting it at Furnival. He then took Alistair’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “I’m taking you home.”
This was an excellent idea. There was brandy at home, as well as enough wine to keep him going until he didn’t care about Robin or anything else. Gilbert was brilliant to have thought of it. “You’re a genius,” he said, squeezing his brother’s arm. “I never had any idea. Always thought you a bit poky.”
“You’re filthy drunk, Alistair, and need to stop talking until we’re in the carriage.”
The ride home did a good deal to discompose Alistair’s mind as well as his stomach. What had Furnival been talking about? Why were carriages so damned bouncy? So many questions.
“Public drunkenness, on top of whatever it was that happened at the Selbys’ house earlier.” Gilbert looked out the window, as if it pained him too much to see his brother in such a low state. “I hardly know what to think.”
Alistair tried to summon up some dignity. “What happened at the Selbys’ house was a marriage proposal.” And screwing against the wall, but they had been quiet about that. Hadn’t they?
“Right.” Gilbert snorted. “A marriage proposal. You didn’t even speak to Louisa about it.”
“Why the devil should I have said anything to Louisa?”
Gilbert slammed his hand into the seat. “Just listen to yourself. Christ. I literally never want to hear you speak ill of our father again. At least he was honest about who he was and who he loved.”
“It would have been more convenient for all of us if he had remembered to love his wife rather than a string of—”
“Mother never gave a damn about Father’s affairs. That was their arrangement and none of our business. And she’s been dead ten years, so I think you can stop pretending that your hatred of Father had anything to do with her.”
Pretending! Hatred! Alistair objected on every conceivable ground, but before he could manage to make his brain formulate a coherent response, the carriage rolled to a stop.
“Go to bed, Alistair,” Gilbert said when they reached the doorway. “Don’t let him have a drop to drink,” he told the butler. “You remember how the late marquess got when he was low.”
Hopkins, blast him, had the gall to bow his head and say, “I quite understand, Lord Gilbert.”
Alistair fell asleep on top of his bedcovers, still dressed right down to his boots, which meant that he was a dozen different kinds of uncomfortable the first time he woke up that night. And he must have woken a dozen times before the sun rose.
With dawn came a cottony mouth, a throbbing headache, and the realization that what he had offered Robin was a paltry thing compared to what she needed. He had rank and consequence, a reputation of unmarred respectability, and an adequate fortune. But they would only be shackles to Robin. She did not want to be dressed in a gown or kept in a fine house. She wanted freedom, and she couldn’t have it as Lady Pembroke.
The recollection that there were surely dozens of other women, all with more to recommend them than a smattering of freckles and a checkered past, who would jump at the chance to become his wife, did nothing to soothe him. By the time he had taken headache powder and rung for a bath, he was beginning to wonder whether he was as shackled by his fortune and position as Robin would have been.
The sun had set hours ago and the house had grown quiet. Charity climbed into her narrow bed more from lack of a better plan than out of any hope that sleep would come.
Surely, Alistair had known she would refuse his proposal. If he had wanted to continue their affair, he could have offered her a post as his secretary. That would establish her in his household, give them access to one another day and night, and not require her to don what now felt like a mortifying costume. She could continue as Robert Selby; she would not need to lose her friends or abandon her pursuits. The only problem was that she would need to continue stealing from Clifton.
But perhaps Alistair could have done something with his rank and fortune to quietly get Fenshawe transferred to Maurice Clifton. Entails could be broken, Clifton’s cooperation could be bought. Somehow.
These weren’t gifts she would ever have dared ask for, not from Alistair and not from anyone else. But what he had offered her instead—marriage, her mind simply reeled with the inanity of it—was so much more costly to him than a few pounds and a secretarial position, that she was astonished he hadn’t thought of it himself.
He must have not given this any consideration at all. He ought to be positively ashamed by his failure of imagination, his want of reason. If he had spent five quiet minutes turning the matter over in his stuffy little brain, he would have realized what a terrible marchioness she would make. He set so much store in being a model of rectitude, a pillar of sodding society. Even if, somehow, they managed to overcome the constant threat of her fraud and deceit being exposed, she would forever be making mistakes a real lady wouldn’t. She would cause him a lifetime of shame. Did he imagine that a change of costume and name would effect a transformation of her entire personality? Her identity, even?
