A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,105

I believe he hasn’t a single scruple.”

Lord Laleham smiled, stepping in front of Marguerite so that she could not advance to one of the stone benches and sit down. “I have always known you were an intelligent young lady, Marguerite, ever since you were little. Do you remember my visits to Chertsey—and your excursions to Laleham Hall? Those were wonderful days, with your parents and I such good, good friends. Why, we were almost a family.”

Marguerite felt a chill sweep across her shoulders and pulled her pale pink shawl closer around her. Why was he doing this to her? Why was he bringing up old memories, old hurts? “My family is all gone now, William, except for Grandfather.”

He took hold of her hands, bringing them to his chest. “You can begin another family, my dearest Marguerite,” he said, his voice low and faintly fevered, his dark eyes boring into her very soul. For the first time in her recollection, he seemed not quite in control of himself. “I am reluctant to embarrass you, but that man Donovan has been bruiting it about that he plans to make you his wife. Yet you have just now told me you dislike him. That’s good, Marguerite. Very good and most reassuring. Your Selkirk lineage is perfect. You are entirely too precious to throw yourself away on just anyone. Why, with the right man at your side, Marguerite, you could become the beloved matriarch of a dynasty.”

Was he suggesting a marriage between the two of them? No. That was impossible. William was twice her age—more! She must have misunderstood. But wait! He seemed overly concerned with her lineage, as if he had already considered a union with the Selkirk family. Had he been the one in the maze? The one who had proposed to her mother? It was possible. Anything was possible. Marguerite opened her mouth, not knowing what she could answer, and then heard herself ask, “A dynasty? Really? As you would have done with Victoria?”

She watched, unable to look away, unable to move, as his skin seemed to tighten over his cheekbones, pushing the blood from his face. “Perhaps you are still laboring under the strain of your recent indisposition, my dear, to have even considered such a possibility. I was Geoffrey’s friend. His very good friend.”

“Yes, yes you were, William,” Marguerite agreed, remembering her father’s diary, remembering her mother’s admission of a year ago that her father had taken his own life. She pushed her suspicions from her mind, but not too far, for she would consider them again later, when she was alone. After all, it could have been William that day in the maze. It had to have been one of them. Why not William? “You must have been devastated when my papa died so suddenly.”

Still Laleham held her hands in his, her knuckles brushing against the folds of his cravat. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath when he opened his mouth, to utter what she immediately knew was a lie. “I always thought he had a poet’s frail constitution—but his death was still so sudden. Your dear mama never really recovered from her loss, did she?”

Beware the man without weaknesses. Marguerite heard her father’s words ringing in her head. He hadn’t heeded his own warning, but she would. She did. She had no plans to involve herself personally in Laleham’s destruction. Sir Ralph would do it for her, thanks to his fear of death, thanks to his new pursuit of eternal life. To gain his “Shield of Invincibility” Ralph would spill all his secrets—and all of William’s secrets—to his trusted fortune-teller, thus giving her all the ammunition she would need to destroy the man. But it was so difficult not to call Laleham on his lies, so very difficult to stand here, smiling, and listen to his assertions of friendship, his nearly declared proposal of marriage. A dynasty? Dear God—did William possess a weakness after all?

Marguerite blinked rapidly, tears that were close to the surface anyway now helpful to her as she said, “Dear, William. Such a good friend, and yet you don’t know. I had thought—I had always assumed... William, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Papa did not die peacefully as you were told. He—he hanged himself in the gardens. Grandfather told me everything last year, after Mama died. You see, it was she who found him there. It was she who ever after suffered from a