A Masquerade in the Moonlight (31 page)

“Marguerite,
aingeal
, he muttered between kisses, for he could not stop kissing her any more than he could stop touching her or lose the feel of her soft breasts pressing against his chest as he rolled her over onto her back—any more than he could keep his fingers from moving between her legs, feeling her blooming beneath him, opening just for him, rising toward him with a hunger that nearly matched his own.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear, breathing heavily as he positioned himself between her parted thighs.

“You could never hurt me, Donovan,” she answered from what seemed to be a great distance, her voice filled with wonder, even determination. “Just please, please, don’t talk. Don’t stop. I want this, Donovan. I truly, truly want this. I have to
know
!”

He lifted himself slightly, taking hold of his manhood and positioning himself at the mouth of her womb, promising to be gentle, even as his every fiber cried out to plunge into her all at once and then ride her until they both were spent.

He planned to go slowly, but she foiled him yet again, wrapping her arms around his back and then lifting her hips sharply, so that he had to follow the ages-old rhythms and press himself into her, feeling the temporary resistance and dealing with it quickly, settling himself completely between her thighs, joining himself with her until it was impossible to tell where he left off and she began.

And then it started. She was so tight, held him so totally, body and soul. Balancing himself on his elbows, he looked deeply into her eyes, seeing that she had felt the pain, but refused to acknowledge it openly. He also saw the dawning amazement, the building hunger, the spiraling ecstasy that must be mirrored in his own features.

He began to move, slowly at first, then increased his tempo as her legs came up and encircled him, as she matched him retreat for advance, advance for retreat in their battle of desire, their first skirmish in what he knew had to be a lifelong engagement of wits and wills and love.

“Oh, yes, Donovan. it’s wonderful... unbelievable... more than I thought... more than I’d—
Oh! Oh, dear God!
”

Marguerite’s breathless admissions encouraged him, urged him on, until he had no choice but to slide his hands behind her back and hold her to him fiercely, his mouth claiming hers once more as he matched the thrusts of his body with those of his tongue... as his brain all but exploded with the ecstasy of it, the rightness of it, the sheer, all-encompassing glory that was Marguerite.

He lost all sense of time and place, of right and wrong, of the difference between this moment and the moments, days, and years to come. Life was now, life was Marguerite... her sweet body, her enveloping heat, the blazing fire that could consume him, would consume him, killing him so that he could be reborn, to begin again, with no life but the one he would share with his darling
aingeal
.

“Donovan,” he heard her whisper into his ear when at last it was over, as he lay on top of her, as he struggled to regain his breath, control his racing heart—and decide whether to apologize or thank her. “Donovan, I feel so strange.”

His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed mirth as he rolled onto his side and gathered her close, kissing the warm coppery hair that was so adorably mussed, so warm and alive. “Should I take that as a compliment, kitten, or would your comment be in the way of a criticism?”

His smile disappeared in an instant as she pushed against him, pressing a hand against his chest so that she was suddenly above him, glaring down at him, her emerald eyes not dewy with lovemaking but spitting green fire. “A word of warning. Never call me that, Donovan.
Never
.”

Thomas looked at her in confusion, then tried to tease her back into a good humor. “Kitten? Why not? You purr very nicely, as I’ve already told you, and if I’m correct, I have more than a few scratches on my back at the moment. Not that I’m complaining, for I’m not.”

She stared at him for a long time, seconds during which Thomas felt something very precious slipping away from him—something he suddenly realized he might never have had. Then she said quietly, “My father called me kitten. I won’t allow anyone else to do so, Donovan. Not even you. Now let me up. We have to return to Lady Jersey’s before Billie rouses and runs screaming through the place, searching for me.”

He watched, dumbfounded, as Marguerite moved to the edge of the mattress and stood, obviously unashamed in her nakedness, and began searching out her undergarments in the trail of clothing that led from the door to the foot of the bed. “That’s it? That’s all?” he asked, wondering if this was how all the women he had bedded had felt when he had finished with them and departed forever. “Am I missing something, Marguerite?”

She didn’t answer until she had picked up her gown and was frowning at it, as if wondering how she could don the thing without his assistance. “No, Donovan, I don’t think so. You miss very little. You’ve deduced that I’m up to some sort of mischief with the members of The Club. I won’t so demean myself as to deny it. You’ve deduced that I wanted you, that I would even assist you in making this evening possible. I won’t deny that either, for you’re many things, Donovan, but you’re not stupid. And, lastly, if my memory serves me, you also pointed out that we are from different countries, countries that will soon be at war with each other, and therefore we have little chance for any sort of future together.”

“The Club?” Thomas repeated, at last collecting himself enough to rise and begin looking around for his own clothing. His gaze fell to the sheet Marguerite had used to dry the moisture between her legs and he winced slightly as he saw the traces of blood she had left behind. Blood as red as the rubies around her slim throat. The comparison might be beautifully touching, if it weren’t so damning.

“See? You don’t miss a thing! Yes,
The Club
. That’s what my—what I call them. I don’t know what they call themselves if they have given themselves a name—probably something extremely high-flown and stupid. Donovan—this gown is wrinkled beyond belief! I can’t return to Lady Jersey’s.”

Thomas didn’t give a damn about Marguerite’s gown or whether or not she could go back to the ball or go straight to hell—as long as she took herself out of his sight before he murdered her. Pulling on his breeches, he searched about until he located his shirt and fastened half the buttons before realizing he was doing them up wrong. He ripped the shirt off, sending buttons flying everywhere, and banged drawers in and out, looking for a fresh shirt.

“I tell her I love her. I’ve
never
told another woman I loved her,” he muttered to himself as he continued around the room, locating his evening shoes and rescuing his waistcoat from where it had become hooked on the edge of the dressing table. “At least I never
meant
it before! I offer to marry her, be father to her child if there is one—and what do I get in return?” He picked up Dooley’s tooth glass and sent it winging against the far wall. “Not a whole bloody lot—that’s what!”

“You got what you wanted, and so did I. Now, if you’re quite done making an ass of yourself, Donovan, I’d like you to fasten my gown so I can leave.”

Thomas whirled about sharply to see Marguerite standing at the door, holding her gown to her at the waist, her feet still bare, her hair tumbling down past her shoulders, those damnable, damning rubies glinting in the candlelight. She looked like some sort of wildly beautiful pagan goddess, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to throw her down on the bed and make love to her again or if he could dare touching her without strangling her.

But then, just as he felt his Irish temper preparing to boil over in a towering rage, he saw the tears standing in her eyes, saw the redness around her kiss-swollen mouth caused by his mustache, and he was lost. “Ah,
aingeal
,” he said, walking toward her, his shirt still hanging open beneath his waistcoat, “what have I done to you? What have those men done to you that you trust none of us?”

“You think I hate all men? Donovan, you are prone to flights of fancy, aren’t you? Now, much as I’d adore standing here continuing this preposterous conversation, I must be on my way. Are you going to assist me or not?” She turned her back just as he put out a hand toward her and he began fastening the long row of buttons, unable to think of anything else to do.

Five minutes later, her coppery curls haphazardly contained by the jeweled hairpin, Donovan watched her shrug into the too-large cloak and pull the hood down over her eyes. He, too, was dressed, and the bloodied linen was stuffed in his own cupboard. He’d have some considerable explaining to do to Paddy, but he couldn’t think of that now.

He motioned for Marguerite to precede him to the door. They hadn’t spoken another word, although whole volumes hung between them, unsaid.

Then they were back in the coach, Marguerite sitting in one corner, as far away from him as humanly possible, while he told her he would return her to Portman Square, then fetch Mrs. Billings from the ball, explaining that Marguerite had taken suddenly ill and accepted a drive home from one of her good friends and his wife.

She nodded her head by way of answer, and said, “Lord and Lady Whittenham, Donovan. Billie already knows them and they weren’t in the ballroom this evening, so Billie won’t stumble over them as you lead her out,” then continued to ignore him.

As the coach drove out of Portman Square, Marguerite safely delivered into Finch’s competent hands, Thomas began uttering a colorful string of curses that lasted until he was once more threading his way through Lady Jersey’s moonlit garden, careful not to trip over any of the numerous couples taking advantage of the dark.

Surely there is nothing more wretched than a man, of all the things which breathe and move upon the earth.

— Homer

“I
hate him! I loathe the man! If he were to choke on a cherry pit in front of me I’d stand there laughing—yes, laughing—watching his loathsome, hairy face turn purple and his eyes bulge like sausages plumping on a skillet!”

Marguerite swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks and continued to pace in her bedchamber, hating Thomas Joseph Donovan, hating herself, hating the entire world.

She had sped past Finch last night and raced up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, locking that door and the one to her dressing room behind her, vowing not to leave again until they broke down the door and carried out her skeleton.

How dare Donovan say he loved her—and then have the audacity to think she’d believe him? As if she could! She had believed her father, and he had left her, hadn’t he?

Kitten, kitten. Kitten!

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—what was she thinking? She didn’t hate her father. She couldn’t. She loved him, had always loved him. Adored him.

Marguerite pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling her lips trembling as a new bout of tears threatened. First she had lost her temper, and now she was losing her mind! This was all Donovan’s fault He was the one who had brought up the insane notion that she distrusted men. Hated them, that’s what he had meant. She knew.

But she didn’t hate all men. Yes, she hated The Club. She had every right. But her father? That was utter nonsense. She couldn’t hate her father. She loved her father—
adored
him! It wasn’t his fault.

She closed her eyes, remembering against her wishes what she’d heard that last day, the day she’d been sitting in the very center of the Earl of Laleham’s pretty maze, dreaming of the day she would come to London for her first Season.

She had been so happy. Her mama had been feeling more the thing, even agreeing to take part in the house party, and even her grandfather was talking about Marguerite’s coming debut with something at least vaguely resembling enthusiasm.

But then she had heard the voices, her mother’s and that of a man, coming to her from somewhere near the center of the maze. She’d stayed very quiet, listening as the man spoke softly, intimately, overhearing bits and snatches that led her to believe the gentleman was about to propose marriage.

The notion depressed Marguerite at the same time it cheered her. Mama had been alone for so long, and although she did her best to put a brave face on things, Marguerite was sure she was lonely. It was one thing for Marguerite to miss her papa and another for Victoria to live the remainder of her life alone.

After all, Marguerite would be going to London soon, and everyone knew the object of that exercise would be to find her a husband. Not that it would be an easy task, for Marguerite knew she would compare any man she met to her beloved papa, and it would take an extremely exceptional gentleman to win her heart.

But once she was wed, her mama would be all alone at Chertsey, with only Sir Gilbert for company. Grandfather was growing older, another thought that did not appeal, but one that had to be faced. Perhaps marriage for Victoria Balfour was not such a terrible idea after all.

Who could it be? It was a small party, with only Lord Laleham’s closest friends in attendance—Sir Peregrine, Sir Ralph, Lord Mappleton, and Lord Chorley. Which one was about to become her mother’s new husband? She wouldn’t think of him as her stepfather, for that was a ridiculous notion. No one could ever replace her papa. Not really.