Page 65 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“Try mine,” he said, handing her his own spectacles. Perhaps they had both inherited poor eyesight from some distant de Lacey ancestor.
She fitted the spectacles to her face, although they were too large and likely too strong for her. He watched her eyes roam across the page of newsprint, widening when she got to the end.
“Presumed dead.” Her brows drew together in confusion. “But you said you believe he’s well.”
“Yes. I’m sorry to say that I don’t think either you or I will see Mr. Selby anytime soon, perhaps never again in this world. But I believe he is well.”
She gave him a firm nod and handed him back his spectacles. “I see.” She was very young, he recalled. Eighteen. Too young to be alone in her sorrow.
“Do you want me to send for your mother?” he offered.
She shook her head, and he impulsively caught her hand and squeezed it before heading back through the crowd and out into the street.
Upon returning to Pembroke House, he told Hopkins that he was not to be disturbed and proceeded directly to the library. Sitting on the sofa, he could have sworn that he still smelled Robin’s fresh green scent, like springtime and lemon drops. He remembered the taste of her lips, and if he closed his eyes he could almost feel her fingers stroking his jaw.
This room, he wanted it burned to the ground. Would he ever sit here without recalling the time he had spent here with Robin? For that matter, would he ever do anything without recalling Robin? Would he even want to?
He poured himself a brandy. Before his senses started to dull, he penned a letter to Gilbert, explaining the contents of the newspaper article and his belief that the accident was feigned as part of Miss Church’s effort to allow Fenshawe to pass to the cousin. Gilbert would need to tell Louisa.
It was an imprudent letter, one that should not be written. The very fact of it proved Alistair’s complicity in criminal undertakings. But Gilbert needed to know. Alistair forbore writing an admonition to burn the letter upon receipt—Gilbert could exercise his own judgment, and Alistair no longer cared. He resolved to get his brother’s temporary Lake District address from the infernal Miss Cavendish on the morrow.
His emotions were a welter of confusion, anger tied up with loss and regret. Worst was the certainty that he could have managed things better. Surely there had to have been some way he could have convinced her that she was the only person he wanted to spend his life with, that even if their marriage made him a scandal and an outcast, his life would be immeasurably better simply for having her in it. He was ashamed of himself for not having shown Robin what she meant to him while he had the chance, for having let her believe he cared for his status and good repute more than he cared for her.
From the ground floor he heard the sound of a small commotion, followed by the tread of slippered feet heading upstairs. He scrambled upright, suddenly and irrationally hopeful. He knew it couldn’t be Robin. For her to come here, of all places, would be reckless beyond belief, but what if—
The door opened, and Mrs. Allenby walked through. “There you are,” she said with obvious relief. “All in one piece.” She came closer and peered at him. “Not too badly foxed, I should say. No plans to do anything desperate?”
Hopkins waited at the threshold, plainly mortified at having let an intruder into his master’s inner sanctum. Well, it was too late for that, he supposed. He gestured for the butler to leave and shut the door.
“My dear madam,” he said, trying and failing to bring his voice to its haughtiest tones. “I have no idea what I have done to deserve the honor of this visit. Do you not at this very moment have a salon to be presiding over?”
“To hell with the salon, Pembroke. Amelia told me about poor Mr. Selby and I came to see if you needed anything. I knew you’d be quite alone. It’s not the sort of loss you could openly grieve, I’m sorry to say. But you must see that you cannot be alone, my dear.”
“I’m quite at a loss.” He summoned up all his reserves of chilliness. “Forgive me for being obtuse, but—”
“Enough.” She spoke sharply. “The more you go on this way the more concerned I become. My heart breaks for you.”
“You misunderstand. He is not dead.”
She put a hand over her bosom and he saw tears spring to her eyes. “You poor child.”
Oh, fantastic. She evidently thought him delusional with grief, which he supposed was the only logical explanation for his insistence that Robin was not dead despite a newspaper article saying otherwise, but what was surprising was that she seemed truly distraught for him. Why should she care? And as forpoor child—he simply could not let that stand.
He gritted his teeth. “I am two years younger than you, madam.”
“True, but you’ve been on ice these last fifteen years. You’ve done no living at all in that time. You’ve guarded your heart so closely, and then the one time you let your defenses down,thishappens.” She took one of his hands and chafed it between her own. “Now, I cannot leave you alone. If there’s someone else you wish to summon instead, I’ll leave. But I won’t leave you alone.”
There wasn’t anyone else. Gilbert was hundreds of miles away, and nobody else could be allowed to know the extent of Alistair’s grief. She was wrong. He didn’t need company. He didn’t need anyone, least of all Portia Allenby, to bear witness to his misery. But as she rubbed his hand—the sort of gesture he might expect from Mrs. Potton, or from his own mother if his mother had been the affectionate sort—he felt his control slip away.
“How did you know?” he finally asked.
“I’ve seen how Mr. Selby looks at men, or rather how he doesn’t look at women. He was spending so much time with you, and one never hears about you with women.”
Alistair wanted to interject that one never heard of his liaisons with women because he was discreet, a concept she might not be overly familiar with, but he decided that was rather a moot point by now.
“And then you came to Amelia tonight,” she continued, “plainly overwrought, so of course I knew.” She led him back to the sofa. “When was the last time you ate?”
He sat. “I don’t recall.” He must have had lunch, but couldn’t remember.
