Page 6 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“Because it’s fun?” She danced every chance she had. Of course she only knew the men’s parts in most dances, she and Louisa having practiced until they were certain that neither of them would disgrace themselves in London ballrooms. The men did rather less twirling and leaping but it was still more excitement than one was usually allowed to have. “Well, I suppose that if a single dance with me conferred all manner of prestige, I’d be stingy with my dances too.”
“Stingy with my—” He broke off and threw his head back in a burst of surprised laughter, forcing Charity to the unfortunate conclusion that he’d still be quite handsome even as a costermonger.
The young man who had been standing nearest to Louisa glanced toward them, evidently startled by the sound of laughter.
“I didn’t mean to accuse you of stinginess, my lord,” Charity apologized.
“Yes you did. And no more of this ‘my lord’ flummery. You aren’t a servant. Call me Pembroke or—if you discover some hidden aptitude for respect—Lord Pembroke.”
He then beckoned to the young man, whom he introduced as his brother, Lord Gilbert de Lacey, and wasn’t that a grand mouthful. She, in turn, presented both gentlemen to Louisa, who curtsied so charmingly that one might have thought she practiced the gesture in front of her looking glass nightly.
Perhaps she did, come to think of it. Louisa had approached this season in London with all her usual industry.
Only then did Charity become conscious that the four of them were the objects of significant curiosity. The park was crowded with gentry, in carriages, on horseback, and on foot. Pembroke must not have been exaggerating his consequence because it was plain that the ladies peering out of their phaetons and the gentlemen pulling their horses to a stop all wanted a better look at the strangers who were talking to Lord Pembroke and his brother.
Charity recognized this as her cue to leave, to take Louisa away while interest was at its peak. “Good day,” she said, tipping her hat slightly. “And thank you.” To her surprise, the marquess caught her gloved hand and grasped it, holding it in place as if he had planned to shake hands and then thought better of it.
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Selby.” His voice was low enough that only she could hear.
Through the layers of leather, she felt the warmth of his palm and the strength of his grip, hotter and more forceful than she would have expected from a man who seemed so cool and haughty. She felt a small thrill travel through her body, the pull of attraction accompanied by a troubling realization: if this nobleman could make Louisa’s fortune with a single dance, what disaster would befall them if they got on his bad side? What would happen if he learned the truth about them, or even any small part of the truth?
The seed of a horrible, wonderful idea had taken root in Alistair’s mind. This girl, this beautiful blushing country mouse from the wilds of Northumberland, was the answer to his problems. If he managed things right, he could deploy this little miss like artillery fire and rid himself of the Allenbys, of his aunts, of all the dissolute hangers-on that had been plaguing him since he succeeded to the title.
He would hold a ball, something his aunts had been hassling him about from the moment the servants had taken down the black crepe that marked his father’s death. But instead of this ball giving his aunts an opportunity to serve as Pembroke House’s de facto hostesses, he would use the event to launch lovely Miss Selby into the highest circles of society. He would invite Mrs. Allenby’s eldest daughter. But Miss Selby was far, far prettier than Amelia Allenby. In fact, nobody would pay even the slightest attention to any other woman at the ball besides Miss Selby.
In one fell stroke, he would infuriate his aunts, checkmate Mrs. Allenby, and teach a lesson to anyone who ever thought of asking him for anything. He could be utterly proper and even generous to a fault, while managing to shake off all the grasping relations and tawdry connections who wanted to hang on his sleeve.
In the back of his mind lurked the suspicion that this would not play out terribly well for Miss Selby. There was no way that she was prepared to go straight from a country schoolroom to the circles of society that he was dropping her into. It would be a matter of weeks before she made a misstep; he neither knew nor cared what kind of error she would make, only that it would cast her out of society and that he wouldn’t lift a finger to assist her.
He smiled to himself. Nobody would ever ask him for a favor again. The estate he had worked so damned hard to restore and the reputation he had dragged out of the gutter would both be safe.
“What the devil was that about?” Gilbert asked when they returned to Pembroke House. “Father had a goddaughter? You’re having a ball? This has to be a hoax.”
“Perhaps I’m feeling magnanimous.” Alistair swung off his horse and handed his reins to the groom.
“Ha!” Gilbert landed lightly on the ground and followed Alistair inside.
“You scoff, but maybe I envision myself as a sort of genie in a lamp, granting the wish of everyone who asks.” And it would work out precisely as well for the Allenbys and Selbys as it did for those poor sods in the story.
Gilbert snorted. “Oh, definitely a hoax, then.”
“You’ll receive your invitation in a few days and then you can decide for yourself whether it’s a hoax.” He tugged off his gloves and handed them to a waiting footman.
“Selby, though. Never met him before. His sister says he went to Cambridge, which explains why we’ve never crossed paths. But he seems a likable fellow.”
Wrong. He seemed like an overgrown schoolboy, all gangly limbs and untidy hair, to say nothing of the epidemic of freckles that covered the bridge of his nose. His manners, while pretty, lacked polish. He had utterly failed to acquire the tone of tactful boredom that all London gentlemen adopted, his clothes were indifferently tailored, and he had the nerve to approach a total stranger to ask for favors.
And yet, Alistair had the unsettling sense that if there had been better light in the library the other day, if he had a chance to properly see Selby, he would have gladly granted the impertinent boy’s slightest wish.
It was not a comfortable thought. Likely this was how his father had ruined himself, throwing his money and reputation away on any charming personage who crossed his path.
No, that was not right. Alistair was made of sterner stuff than his father. He could do what was required of him, he could behave like the gentleman he was. He could resist temptation. It didn’t matter in the least that when he closed his eyes he had a vivid picture of Selby’s slight frame stretched out beneath Alistair’s own, of Selby whispering impertinent requests into his ear.
He would let this temptation pass, as he let all temptations pass.
Chapter Three
By all rights, the evening ought to have been predictable to the point of boredom, just another dinner party at Pembroke House. Alistair hadn’t even given it two consecutive minutes of thought since telling his secretary who to invite. He took it for granted that his cook would prepare dishes that were sufficiently grand, that the butler would uncork something appropriately impressive, and that the rest of his servants would do all that was needed. As for his guests, they would also do what was expected of them, which in this case was to carry home the tale of who else had sat around Lord Pembroke’s table. Alistair had gathered the principal players in his little scheme, a sort of dress rehearsal for the ball he was holding the following month.
