A Masquerade in the Moonlight (17 page)

“Oh, Lord Mappleton, how above all that is wonderful it is to meet such a gentleman as yourself,” Georgianna trilled, beaming at him as his usually florid face went a deep shade of scarlet. “And such a sweet, handsome man as well. I am overcome, your lordship, truly I am.”

Marguerite wrinkled her brow and inclined her head in admiration. She hadn’t thought it possible for Miss Rollins to sound more singularly cloying and stupid than Lord Mappleton, but she had done it. Why, Marguerite could almost hear the banns being announced.

“Please, please,” Lord Mappleton insisted, dabbing at Miss Rollins’s damp cheeks with his own handkerchief, obviously pleased that the young lady’s assessment of his character and appearance coincided with his own. “You must not be so formal. Call me Arthur.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, your lordship... I
shouldn’t
...  oh, but how condescending of you, your lordship—I mean,
Arthur
.” Her eyelashes came into play once more as she beat them furiously in Lord Mappleton’s direction. “And in return you simply
must
call me Georgianna.”

“God’s teeth! Did you ever hear such sickening drivel?” Sir Gilbert boomed from the shadows, echoing Marguerite’s silently expressed sentiments exactly. “Nobody told me the farce was to take place in our box. Marguerite? I hope you’re happy now, gel, because I’m quite put off my feed, and probably will be for a sennight.”

Poor Grandfather, not to know what is happening, yet be forced to witness it. She’d have to make it up to him somehow.
It seemed to Marguerite Lord Mappleton’s tickle had invaded her own throat, and she turned away to cough into her fist just as the first performance of the evening was about to begin. Relaxed, and silently congratulating herself for the initial success of her plan for his lordship, she deliberately turned her concentration to the stage.

That relaxation lasted only until the end of the first act and the appearance in the box of Thomas Joseph Donovan—whom she had distinctly instructed to stay away from her until tomorrow night. Couldn’t anyone be trusted anymore? The man was like a jack-in-the-box, showing up without warning everywhere she went. She turned to glare at him as he entered without invitation, hoping to depress his pretensions without saying a word. The last thing she needed was his too-discerning presence.

“Sir Gilbert!” Thomas exclaimed, bowing to her grandfather while succeeding in winking at Marguerite at the same time. So much for insulting the man. His hide was obviously much too thick to be punctured by something so tame as a pointed stare. “My friend, Mr. Patrick Dooley, and I thought we espied you out from our position in the pits,” he said, straightening. “So good to see you again, sir. You too, Mappleton. I perceive you’re keeping your reputation for being a success with the ladies intact. Every time I see you, it’s with another beautiful young creature dangling from your arm—and such lovely jewels she’s wearing. Why, they dazzle the eyes! I envy you, your lordship, truly. Good evening, Miss—ah! I believe we haven’t as yet gotten around to introductions. Miss Balfour, if I remember correctly, recent practice has made you an acknowledged expert in this category?”

Marguerite gritted her teeth. Obviously Thomas wasn’t about to go away, and she had no other choice but to introduce him to everyone, a task she performed with more civility than grace, doing her best to avoid looking at him, for he appeared simply splendid in his evening clothes.

And his hands
, Marguerite remembered, watching him take snuff, her breathing somehow no longer an involuntary act, but one she had to concentrate on in order not to sigh audibly. Yes, he had the most intriguing hands—square, strong, long-fingered, callused, and yet scrupulously clean. Would she ever forget the touch of those calluses on the tender skin of her thigh? Would she ever wish to forget or ever stop longing to feel that touch again? That touch and the nebulous “more” that her senses told her still awaited discovery.

“Lord Mappleton, I’ve just had the happy notion of adjourning from this crowded box for a few minutes to seek out a bit of exercise and some refreshment with the ladies,” she heard Thomas suggest, his words penetrating her brain only muzzily, as if heard from a distance, for she had been concentrating more on his full-lipped mouth than on what he was saying.

“What a
lovely
idea!” Georgianna trilled before Marguerite could muster a negative reply meant to cut off Thomas at the knees for his insufferable suggestion. “I should
adore
above all things the opportunity to stroll the area with dear Arthur by my side, for I should then be the
envy
of every woman in attendance this evening.” She hopped to her feet, pulling Lord Mappleton out of his chair, and preceded him into the aisle. “Marguerite?” she asked, fluttering those eyelashes once more, “you will join us, won’t you? I fear I could not walk with dear Arthur unless we were properly accompanied.”

“I’d rather not leave my grandfather,” Marguerite ground out from between clenched teeth, wondering if Miss Georgianna Rollins wasn’t being too obvious in her intention to impress Lord Mappleton with her rapidly growing admiration. Just as quickly she amended that thought, knowing his lordship had no problem believing every woman in the world most naturally and inevitably adored him.

“Oh, go with them, Marguerite,” Sir Gilbert ordered, readjusting his bulk in the uncomfortable chair. “Let them bill and coo somewheres else for a space. Embarrassing, that’s what it is, watching the pair of them. I’m only surprised he hasn’t pulled out a glass to inspect those stones hanging around her neck, not to say he’s sniffing after a fortune or anything. No, no. I’d never say that. Think it, yes, but never say it!
Ha!
Mrs. Billings—hand me that pillow before you go back to chattering with your new friend. I’m going to sleep, and damn the lot of you!”

“Good idea, Sir Gilbert,” Dooley seconded cheerfully, seating himself beside the man. “I could use a bit of a nap m’self. Been a long day, one way or another. Go along, Tommie. I’ll stay here with these nice ladies,” he ended, nodding his head in the direction of Mrs. Billings and the second chaperone. “You won’t be minding it if I was to snore once and again, now would you, ladies? You can give me a hit, like my sweet Bridget does, if I get too loud.”

Sir Gilbert gave a hoot of laughter and sat forward, peering at Dooley. “Mayhap I won’t nap after all. Irish, ain’t you? I thought so. Know any good stories, like your friend Donovan? Marguerite! What are you doing sitting there looking like some dashed waxworks dummy? Don’t say I’ve embarrassed you with my plain speech, because it won’t fadge. You’re the one brought me here, remember? Should have known I wouldn’t be happy about it. Go on now—take yourself off for a bit and let us old men talk.”

Torn between the knowledge that Georgianna had put forth exactly the sort of idea she herself should have fostered and the intriguing mental image of how Thomas Joseph Donovan’s grinning,
knowing
, American face would lose its triumphant look if she were to pull him forward, launching his insufferable body over the railing and into the pit, Marguerite only nodded and climbed the shallow steps that led out into the hallway without asking for assistance, brushing past Thomas as if he were some vile creature she could not bear to touch.

She had taken no more than three quick steps on the vividly patterned carpeting when Thomas took hold of her elbow, slowing her pace. “Aren’t you going to tell me you’re glad to see me,
aingeal
? I’ve been longing for another sight of your pretty face ever since leaving you this morning.”

She smiled at a passerby, then attempted, unsuccessfully, to pull her arm free of Thomas’s grip. “I told you I didn’t wish to see you again until tomorrow night. I’ve had hounds that took direction better than you, Donovan.”

“But none half so adoring as I, I’m convinced,” he responded silkily, so that she longed to batter him around the head and shoulders with her reticule. “Now stop frowning, or someone will think we’re having a lover’s quarrel. Besides, aren’t you going to ask me about my very painful injury, suffered since last I saw you?”

Marguerite had seen the wrapping around his right hand, but had refused to care. “Not unless it might prove fatal. If that were the case, I should be prepared to have a fireworks launching by way of celebration. Is it a life-threatening injury?” she asked him with a blighting smile. “And, please, Donovan, I must beg you don’t tease me with false hopes.”

“I’ll not be dying anytime soon, darlin’,” he answered, helping her to thread her way through the crush of people surrounding a table where refreshments were being served, Lord Mappleton and Georgianna following behind, his lordship asking some rather pointed questions about the size of her uncle’s fortune. “It’s only a bruise, I think, although painful enough. Would you wish to kiss the hurt away for me, the way my sainted mother did whenever I scraped myself?”

“Thank you, no. I’d much rather throw myself off the roof of this building,” Marguerite answered quietly, still smiling at acquaintances who were moving about in all their jewels and finery, eager to see and be seen by the rest of the
ton
. “But, just out of curiosity, what did you do to hurt yourself—put your hand somewhere else it didn’t belong and have someone swat it with a mallet?”

“Nothing so exciting. I merely punched a man.”

Marguerite stopped in her tracks, to look up at him inquiringly. Georgianna and Lord Mappleton were still talking nineteen to the dozen behind her, but she had ceased to listen. “Punched a man?
Hit
a man?” she asked, suddenly feeling chilled in the overheated room. The blockhead shouldn’t be let loose without a keeper! How could he come to their country as an emissary from his government and then go around bashing people? “Who? Why?”

“The Earl of Laleham,” Thomas told her, his tone maddeningly calm and unconcerned, “and I did it because he asked me to. Very agreeable fellow, the earl, and although I haven’t talked to him since leaving Gentleman Jackson’s this afternoon—where I was the guest of Sir Ralph Harewood—I did have some flowers and a container of gruel sent round to his residence. But he may not appreciate my gifts for, now that I’ve had time to think on the thing, he may have asked me to spar with him because he overheard what I said about my deep affection for you.”

Marguerite was no longer chilled. She was icy cold. Thomas had hit the Earl of Laleham? He had milled down William Renfrew? William knew that Donovan was courting her—if anyone could call his outlandish assault on her emotions
courting
? First Arthur, then Perry, and now Ralph and William. Did he know about Stinky as well? How could he have stumbled into such a viper’s nest? Dear God! Was the American a total lunatic? She looked up at him warily as the remainder of what he had said penetrated her brain. “Gruel? Donovan—don’t just stand there. Explain yourself, you grinning jackanapes.”

Thomas grimaced as he scratched a spot just below his right ear with his bandaged hand. “Why, I rather suppose I broke the man’s jaw,” he said, then grinned, so that she longed to punch him herself. “I at least cracked it. Paddy said I gave him a ‘wisty castor,’ whatever that is. But it was all in sport.”

“So is bear baiting, or so I’m told,” Marguerite spat out, not caring that anyone close by might hear her. “Of all the stupid, paper-skulled, idiotic,
dangerous
—Donovan, no matter how important you think your mission in England is to your government, I suggest you leave here at once. Pack up your belongings and stow yourself away on the next ship heading to Philadelphia. It served you once, it may save you now.”

“Run away? And leave you, my darlin’? Impossible.” He began to steer her toward a narrow, twisting corridor, away from the crush of bodies.

“Wait!” she protested, realizing what he was about. “We can’t leave Lord Mappleton and Georgianna.”

He continued along as if her words had meant nothing, taking her farther from the light of the chandeliers and the safety of numbers. “Why shouldn’t we leave the two lovebirds alone? That is what you’re doing tonight, isn’t it? Setting his lecherous, money-mad lordship up with your little blond beauty—not that I can say I’m overly enamored of her eyebrows. You see, I already know you invited him here this evening. Quite the matchmaker, aren’t you?”

Marguerite planted her feet firmly, refusing to move another inch. She was human enough to acknowledge she was thrilled Donovan was handsome, intelligent, and exciting—but did he have to be so bloody
smart
to have immediately seen what Lord Mappleton could not? “You are one for imagining things, aren’t you, Donovan? Why ever would you think that I would have any interest at all in throwing Arthur and Georgianna—a young woman who foisted herself on me for the first time only this evening, by the way, and whom I am not quite sure I like—at each other’s heads?”

“I don’t know, darlin’. For the sport of the thing?” Thomas suggested coolly, stepping closer to her as she backed up until she was against the wall, figuratively as well as literally. He tipped up her chin with his crooked index finger, then rested his other hand against the wall beside her head, effectively blocking her only avenue of escape. “There couldn’t be any other reason, could there?”

Another reason? Damn him! Another man—any other man—would be content to see her as a silly matchmaker. Why did he have to look deeper? Marguerite suppressed a shudder born in reaction to Thomas’s closeness—both to her and to the truth. “You can be excessively disagreeable, Donovan,” she told him, shifting her eyes rapidly from side to side as she attempted to look into his without allowing him to see into hers and read the sudden apprehension she felt.

“But you love me anyway, don’t you?” he drawled, his teeth very white beneath his mustache.

He was so close to her. So very close. She was having trouble thinking, difficulty pretending. Was that what happened to people who wove a web of deceptions—they reached a stage where they could no longer recognize or remember the truth? “On the contrary. With very little urging, I could learn to loathe you with some intensity.”