Unmasked by the Marquess

by Cat Sebastian

  His eyebrow hitched up once again. “Why would I?”

  “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.

  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.”

  “To let people know what kind of show they’re in for? Like when the circus sends a boy into town ahead of the caravan, shouting about all the oddities one can see for a penny?”

  Alistair had to choke back a laugh. “And who is the circus freak in that metaphor? It can’t be your sister.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, affecting a mock-philosophical tone. “Perhaps we’re all circus freaks at the end of the day.”

  “Is that from Tacitus too?” Despite his best efforts, Alistair felt a smile tug at his mouth.

  “Were you listening to us?” Selby asked brightly. “Miss Allenby is brilliant. She reads Latin, which is remarkable enough, but she also reads Greek.”

  Alistair did not care one jot who read Greek and who didn’t, and momentarily forgot why he had invited the Allenby girl in the first place. “Miss Allenby is my father’s natural child,” he said, suddenly conscious that he was trying to warn Selby off Amelia Allenby. What did he care if the lad made an unfortunate match? It would serve him right for being so impertinent, after all. And wasn’t that what Alistair wanted to do, teach all these hangers-on why they shouldn’t beg him for handouts and favors?

  Selby didn’t seem surprised at the revelation, though. “That explains the resemblance.”

  Alistair was taken aback. “Resemblance! I think not. She has orange hair and freckles.”

  “Your eyes—”

  “Her eyes are blue, and mine are brown. You’re having me on.” But he’d let him have his little joke, if it kept him nearby.

  “I meant the shape.” His mouth was twitching in a repressed smile. “And of course your hair. Your hair is almost black, but it has a reddish tint, especially near the bits of gray.”

  He must have looked affronted, because Selby hastily continued. “No, don’t look like that,” he protested. “It’s handsome! Very distinguished.”

  Alistair was about to sarcastically offer his thanks when Selby touched him lightly on the arm and said, all earnestness, “It goes well with the title and the money. Stern lord of the manor, and all that.”

  Once again, he had to stifle laughter. “Why, you insufferable wretch. Indeed, one would never know that you had only recently arrived in London. All the best people discuss a marquess’s graying hair in his own drawing room. Very polished manners. Very refined. The freak show metaphor is seeming increasingly apt.”

  Selby laughed, another pop of champagne, and Alistair felt gratified out of all proportion that he had amused the fellow.

  And that Selby thought his infernal gray hair handsome.

  Only after his guests had left, and Alistair was surveying his now-empty drawing room, did he realize that he had sadly underestimated both of the Selbys. If their success tonight had been any indication, they would take the town by storm. No doubt his dinner guests would spend tomorrow spreading word of Lord Pembroke’s charming protégés. By the evening of the ball, everyone would be falling over themselves to meet brother and sister. T
hey would have vouchers to Almack’s and invitations to all the season’s best events. No doubt they could even rustle up some connection to present them at court if they put their minds to it.

  It also occurred to him that their names were going to be inextricably tied up with his. He had, he realized belatedly, taken a risk in associating himself with such unknown, untested figures. His scheme of using them to deter future requests did not depend on their manners, but if either of them erred in the slightest, it would reflect on his judgment.

  He had been so caught up in his own petty desire to score a point off his aunts and Mrs. Allenby that he had lost sight of what truly mattered—his name, his family reputation. He had worked tirelessly to restore the honor his father had discarded.

  And he had let a momentary whim cause him to jeopardize it entirely.

  Charity wasn’t surprised to discover that at White’s, the gentlemen threw money around like they were emptying the contents of an ash can. She enjoyed cards as much as the next person, but when the lordling sitting across from her tossed three golden guineas into the center of the table, she felt positively puritanical in her distaste.

  Or maybe she simply was jealous. Imagine having enough money to wager pound after pound on a silly game of vingt-et-un.

  Imagine living a life so comfortable that losing a few pounds at a game of cards seemed exciting. It was nothing to the gamble Charity and Louisa had taken.

  “I’ll sit the next hand out,” she said, sliding her chair back from the card table.

  She made her way to an unoccupied settee in a dark corner of the room, intending to render herself as unobtrusive as possible for the rest of the evening, until she could make her excuses and return home to Louisa.

  “Wise,” said a gravelly voice. Lord Pembroke lowered himself beside her, and she wondered how long he had been watching. She felt the seat cushion sink towards him under his heavier weight. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re too drunk to hold their cards and begin wagering on what color waistcoat will be worn by the next man who walks up the stairs.”