Page 7 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Amelia Allenby was there, looking indecently like their father, and talking Selby’s ear off about some Greek or another. No, make that a Roman. Tacitus, by the sound of things, so at least it wasn’t one of those fellows who wrote about nothing but orgies and so forth. Selby, to his credit, was holding up his end of the conversation, as if Roman historians were in any way a normal thing to discuss around a Mayfair dining table. The girl’s mother had been quite right to worry about her becoming a bluestocking.
Gilbert was supposed to be sitting next to one of Lord Martin’s very marriageable and sufficiently dowered daughters, but somebody had made mischief with the place cards. Instead he was deep in conversation with Selby’s pretty sister. A handful of other gentlemen eyed the pair jealously.
Alistair was coming to understand that Louisa Selby was not a country bumpkin, nor was her brother an overgrown schoolboy. Dressed in unrelieved white, her hair in a simple twist that ought to have been the height of dowdiness, she was almost too beautiful to look at. All she had to do was smile and nod and she would have been considered the toast of the ton, but she seemed to be holding up her end of conversation.
What precisely she had talked about, Alistair could not say, because he had been too busy studying the lady’s brother.
Robert Selby was charming.
He was disarming.
Alistair, unfortunately, could attest to Selby possessing both those qualities because he found that he was both charmed and disarmed. It was embarrassing, but there you had it. Every time he let his gaze stray toward Selby he felt the corners of his mouth twitch up inanely.
Surely he ought to be above such things.
After the ladies left the table, Alistair watched Selby lean back in his chair, idly taking long puffs off a cheroot that he held between two fingers. He was listening to young Furnival prattle on—the two of them had been to Cambridge together—and occasionally laughing in response to whatever his companion was saying.
Selby’s laugh was like the sound of champagne being uncorked, startlingly sudden and bright, the sort of sound that made everyone in the room turn around and take notice. Alistair felt like he heard it not with his ears but with his entire body.
Furnival said something about a horse he had running in Newmarket, and Selby laughed again. Alistair noticed a few other gentlemen smiling in response, as if Selby’s laugh was contagious, like typhus or scarlatina. Hell, Alistair realized he was smiling too.
This had to stop.
“What club do you belong to, Selby?” he called down the table.
Selby instantly turned to answer his host. “I haven’t joined one.”
“I’ll put you up for White’s,” Alistair offered. Why was he doing this? What did he care whether Selby joined his club?
A crease appeared on Selby’s forehead. “White’s? Isn’t that a Tory club? I don’t think I’m—”
Alistair waved his hand dismissively. “That’s not of the slightest importance.”
“But—”
“My dear fellow. I don’t care if you’re a Whig or a Jacobite or an outright revolutionary. The fact is that you must join White’s if you wish to make the right sort of connections.” Another fact was that Alistair didn’t like the idea of Selby joining some other club and laughing like that when Alistair wasn’t around to hear it.
Furnival and Lord Martin, both members of White’s, murmured their assent.
“That settles it,” Alistair said, gesturing for the footman to refill the brandy glasses.
Selby laughed again, causing a lock of hair to tumble forward onto his forehead. He pushed it back, wreaking havoc on his hair, not that it had been terribly orderly even at the start of the evening. Really, he ought to cut it. It had no business falling onto his collar like that, flouting all standards of decent grooming. Surely that was why Alistair wanted to smooth it into place using his own hands.
Later, in the drawing room, Alistair leaned against the door frame, watching Selby charm a dowager countess while his sister played the pianoforte. Maybe Selby sensed Alistair’s gaze, or perhaps he was just tired of talking to Lady Edgeware, because the next thing Alistair knew, Selby was striding across the room to him.
“Thank you for inviting us tonight,” Selby murmured, too low to interrupt his sister’s playing. “It was kind.”
It was nothing of the sort. “That’s not why I asked you.”
“Oh, I know that. Did we pass muster?” Selby asked softly, with a sly look up at Alistair.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alistair retorted. He fumbled in his coat pocket for his spectacles, which he hadn’t worn at dinner. It always felt slightly ludicrous to wear spectacles while in evening clothes, as if he might be called upon to balance an account book at any moment. But he’d be damned if he’d pass up a chance to see this impertinent fellow in sharp focus.
“I assume you asked us here to make sure we weren’t barbarians who would disgrace you at your ball. You wanted to make sure we knew how to act in company.”
Now that Alistair had his spectacles on, he could fully appreciate Selby’s impish grin. He wished he had left them in his pocket. It was impossible to retain a sense of gravity while looking at that impudent mouth, that pert chin.
“No,” Alistair said slowly, trying to master himself. “That’s not why I invited you.” Strictly speaking, the Selbys would satisfy his needs even if they had barnyard manners. “I thought to let a few people get a glimpse of your sister, to set the stage for the ball.”
