A Masquerade in the Moonlight (4 page)

Now here, Thomas thought as he swiftly tossed off the remainder of his wine and discreetly pitched the empty glass into a nearby pot holding a large, wilting palm, was an opportunity no gentleman of initiative could pass by without hating himself in the morning.

Pushing away from the pillar, his eyes roaming the length of Miss Opportunity’s demurely clad body and finding himself well satisfied by what he saw—and even more pleased with what he imagined but could not see—Thomas approached, bowing as he said, “How unremittingly rude of that fellow, abandoning you this way.” Straightening, he smiled at her from beneath his mustache.
Oh, yes, this was a most delectable morsel.
“And you’ve been abandoned, fair lady, never doubt it. My name is Donovan—Thomas Joseph Donovan, to be precise about the thing—and I could not help but notice your plight. May I possibly be of some service?”

“Possibly.” She coolly returned his assessing look, not seeming in the least discomfited by either his laughing blue eyes or his preemptive introduction, so that he quickly amended his assessment of the young lady to include at least a modicum of brains along with her considerable beauty. “Do you dance, Thomas Joseph Donovan?” she asked, smiling up at him, displaying a most enticing dimple just to the right of her full pink mouth.

No milk and water puss, she! Englishwoman or not, Thomas decided, there had to be at least one enterprising Irishman hanging from the shady side of her family tree. He could love this cheeky miss—for at least a fortnight, which was a full week longer than Thomas Joseph Donovan’s loves usually lasted. He grinned in spite of himself, and the brogue he’d long ago lost but never really abandoned leapt to the fore as he deliberately set out to charm her. “Aye, and that I do, miss. Would it be asking me to partner you that you’d be?”

“What do you think, Mister Donovan?” she countered, tilting up her faintly belligerent, eminently adorable chin. “My chaperone is at the other side of this ballroom, which is almost to say she is in far-off China, and I cannot face the thought of attempting to thread my way through this throng without a companion. Enough gossip tags along after me as it is. You did offer your assistance, I believe?”

“That I did,
aingeal
girl.”

“Oh please, sir, don’t spoil your kind offer by becoming impertinent. I once had an Irish nanny, you see, and I know you are not to address me so familiarly, even when using the brogue. An angel, indeed! I have already been forced to rout one importuning creature this evening, and it would fatigue me to have to repeat myself. No, sir, what I require necessitates a
gentleman’s
cooperation. I assure you, it will add greatly to your consequence to be seen with me, for I’m considered all the crack, you know, if a hair notorious. Although I would suggest you stop grinning like a bear beneath that ungodly growth beneath your nose and attempt to project a more civilized countenance. Wide grins, sir, are frowned upon by our society, which highly values the bored, blank stare of ennui. And now, Mr. Donovan, if you please—your hand?”

A woman with fire! And she invites me into the flames!
She held out her gloved hand and Thomas accepted the challenge eagerly, recklessly, feeling the fragile strength of her fine-boned fingers as they rested in his palm. What an intriguing, bewitching bundle of contradictions—extraordinary beauty, delicious wit, and an acerbic, slashing tongue that, if he was not careful, could slice and stab and leave him mortally wounded.

Ah
, he thought, intimately squeezing her slim fingertips,
but what a glorious way to die!

“By the way, Mister Donovan,” she said as they rejoined the set, “my departed partner, the not-quite-so-Honorable Julian Quist, is a dear friend of yours and, as he became unexpectedly indisposed, poor fellow, he graciously introduced us so that I would not be alone on the dance floor. You do understand my chaperone, Mrs. Billings, will wish to be apprised of this information once you’ve returned me safely to her side.”

Thomas felt himself being further bewitched by the young woman’s intriguing, green-as-shamrocks eyes while he conveniently dismissed his mission of the evening, ignored the notion that a small fortune most probably awaited him in the card room while Araminta and the shrubbery awaited him without, and mentally shelved the idea he was supposed to be disgusted by English men and bored by English females. “Dearest Julian,” he drawled, fluidly guiding his partner into the next movement of the country dance. “It can only be hoped he makes a rapid recovery—upon which time he might complete our introduction.”

The young woman’s free hand flew to her mouth, covering a sudden giggle that momentarily stripped away her air of brittle sophistication, revealing a charming, adorable child. “Oh, dear! I have been remiss, haven’t I? Do you know, I don’t believe I have ever introduced myself before, as that office has been performed by others. It does limit one’s acquaintance, this business of correctness, doesn’t it? Very well. My name, sir, is Marguerite Balfour. I, like you, have a second name, but I have not allowed anyone permission to employ it within earshot since I turned five, decided I detested it, and summarily rejected the thing. Do you mind?”

Mind?
Thomas didn’t believe he would mind if the sun was snuffled like a candle and all the stars fell into the sea—as long as he could hold the hand of the beautiful, spirited Marguerite Balfour as the world died. Or at least until she cried out in ecstasy as he introduced her to one of the more enjoyable delights of living.

And seeing no reason to postpone the commencement of what he hoped would be a whirlwind courtship leading to a blissfully satisfying capitulation in some darkened back garden in their not-too-distant future, he told her so just before the movement of the dance separated them, saying quietly, “I would be exceedingly honored to be your companion tonight, Miss Balfour, and your devout slave forever more. Do you know, dear creature, that you are extremely beautiful?”

“Yes, Mr. Donovan, I do,” she replied matter-of-factly a moment later, as the movement of the dance brought them together once more. He watched the dimple reappear, and longed to trace it with his fingertip, his lips, his tongue. “I am told about my beauty almost unceasingly from morn till evening, and I blush to report that such shallow flattery no longer has the power to set my silly, girlish heart aflutter. Now, sir, do you believe you have it within you to say something original? If not, I would appreciate greatly if you would allow a soothing interlude of silence to be our only companion save this atrocious music that has us hopping about like agitated frogs leaping from lily pad to lily pad.”

Thomas held fast to Marguerite’s hand as she made to draw away to enter into the next movement of the dance, causing her to look up at him, he was gratified to see, in some small confusion. Why should he be the only one who suddenly felt baffled by this highly unusual conversation? “Originality fails me, my dear lady, so forgive me if I quote from the bard—‘Kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.’”

Marguerite’s emerald eyes flashed fire for a moment, and then she laughed. “I think not, Mr. Donovan. ‘I’ll not budge an inch,’” she told him, turning another line of Shakespeare’s
Taming of the Shrew
to her advantage. “And before you recite any more, Petruchio, I believe I should inform you the set has ended, and you have as yet to relinquish my hand. Or are you indulging a lifelong yearning to be the center of attention?”

Thomas looked to his left and right, surprised to see that all around him couples were departing the dance floor, the majority of them heading for the stairs and the supper rooms situated on the lower floor of the mansion, and the musicians were leaving their chairs and instruments as they disappeared behind a curtain. This wasn’t like him. What manner of minx was this, that he should be so captivated by her that he hadn’t noticed?

He inclined his head slightly to Marguerite, then slipped her hand through his crooked elbow as he ushered her in the general direction of the stairs. “You will do me the honor of going down to supper with me, won’t you, my most beautiful, most enchanting Miss Balfour?” he asked quietly. “I am but newly arrived in London, and have so few acquaintances I fear I shall fall to gaming or some other such destructive pursuit if I am left too long to my own devices.”

“Of course I would like to join you for supper, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite replied sweetly. “I would like it above all things—if only so that I might amuse myself listening to your outrageous flummery and your accent that smacks of America, yet hints of Ireland. But only if you agree to continue in the same vein as you have begun, as I believe I am enjoying myself. Before he attempted to destroy my gown with his hulking foot, Mr. Quist was prosing on about his plans to pen an ode to my dimple. You have noticed my dimple, haven’t you, Mr. Donovan? According to Mr. Quist, it is a most amazing feature. Does it not likewise inspire you to poetry—or are you stymied, Shakespeare’s vast accomplishments not having extended to include the subject of dimples, at least not to my knowledge? Come, come, now, Mr. Donovan. I have grown to expect at least one cloyingly sweet dollop of flattery per minute, or I shall be forced to believe you have lied, and do not truly adore me.”

“You’re making a May game of me, aren’t you, Miss Balfour?” Donovan asked, vaguely discomfited by her outspoken manner, and also feeling oddly naked, as if she had not only pierced through his none-too-subtle flirtation and seen clear to the bottom of the inch deep depth of his commitment, but that she despised him for it. How strange to discover this first real hint of intelligence, not in any of the men he had met thus far, but in a slip of a girl. Perhaps this game wasn’t worth its possible cost.

Out of the corner of his eye he espied a gentleman—
the
gentleman, as a matter of fact—advancing toward them, and seized upon the chance to rid himself of this beautiful, but entirely too discerning female before he was tempted to either box her ears or rush her onto the balcony and kiss her senseless.

“How unfortunate,” he said, assuming the role of frustrated swain. “Here comes the gentleman I promised to meet with this evening, Miss Balfour. We have important matters to discuss—dreadfully important matters. How could I have forgotten? No, no—don’t tell me, for I already know. I was blinded by your loveliness, distracted from my mission, and have nearly disgraced myself in my own heart. I have placed my own pleasures above the considerations of my government, on whose behalf I am on these shores at all. Please, dear lady, allow me to return you to your chaperone, so that I might yet do some good tonight.”

Marguerite frowned, looking to the man Thomas was now staring at in, he hoped, mingled alarm and greeting. “Lord Mappleton?” she asked, turning back to Thomas once more. “Arthur is somehow involved with the Lord of the Treasury, isn’t he? These government doings are so very much above a woman’s simple intellect, of course—but I do believe I’m correct. And you say
your
government has sent you to speak with him? Then you are an American after all. How very droll.”

“We are attempting to avert a war between our two countries, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said, waving to Lord Mappleton, who had been momentarily delayed, as he had stopped to kiss a young debutante’s hand, holding on to the kid gloved paw a moment too long, Thomas noticed.
Randy old goat.
“Not that I would think to parch your lovely ears with such dry talk.”

“No, indeed, sir,” Marguerite countered sweetly, snapping open the fan that hung from her wrist on a riband and waving it coyly beneath her chin. “I should be most fatigued if you were to prose on forever about your country’s most distressing Embargo Act—passed by your legislature in 1807, I believe, and supposedly aimed at both France and my own country—or if you were to speak of this stubborn business of perversely forbidding England to exercise its sovereign power to ask its own citizens to serve their country in time of war.”

“You’re boarding our ships, interrogating our crews, and pressing good Americans into naval service for your own gain,” Donovan was stung into replying before he could stop himself. “I’d hardly call that neighborly.”

Marguerite’s smile was dazzling. “Ah, so you are here in the role of diplomat, Mr. Donovan? Yes, yes, I can see that you must be. And will you also bite off Lord Mappleton’s head in order to serve your government, or do you reserve your vehemence for innocent females who merely parrot lessons learned in the schoolroom?”

“My most profound apologies, Miss Balfour,” Thomas countered, stepping away from her slightly in order to bow over her hand, deliberately lowering himself to meet her expectations. “I am a boor and a brute, and I should be flogged on the morrow for reacting in such an ungentlemanly way. I grovel before you, abashed at my crude behavior, and too overcome with remorse to continue to be a pleasant supper companion to anyone of such fine sensibilities as yourself. Please allow me to return you to your chaperone, so that I might flee the scene of my crushing faux pas posthaste, seek out a dark, deserted alleyway, and hurl myself on my sword.”

“If you are expecting me to attempt to dissuade you from any such melodramatic gesture, Mr. Donovan, I suggest you rethink the matter, as I believe I have wearied of our little game,” Marguerite replied tersely, withdrawing her hand from his purposely limp grip. “And there is really no need for you to seek out my chaperone, for Lord Mappleton here will be happy to escort me down to supper. Won’t you, Arthur?” she inquired sweetly, turning to hold out her hand to the portly gentleman who had at last torn himself away from the debutante (who appeared greatly relieved to see him go), and was now hovering close beside Marguerite, busily wiping at his perspiration-sheened brow with a large handkerchief.

Lord Mappleton’s fleshy jowls quivered like blancmange as he shook his head in obvious confusion. “What? What? Take you down-to supper? Odds fish, gel—ain’t that what we was planning all along? Check your card! I’m sure I had you put me down for supper. Can’t expect me to dance, now can you? Not with this gout! Oh, hullo, Danton. Recognize the mustache. Silly thing, ain’t it? How d’you keep it from dripping marmalade at breakfast? Never mind, I don’t really care. Well, now, fancy meeting up with you here.” He frowned and waggled his head once more, so that he resembled nothing more than a benign English bulldog. “Was I supposed to?”