A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,107
chagrin, and now I am ruined. I have no choice but to take myself off to Scotland or Wales or some other such godless place and begin again. But before I leave, Miss Balfour—Marguerite—I wish to tell you something.”
She shifted on her chair and declared heatedly, “Marguerite Balfour, you are by far the most outrageous, impertinent, most perfectly horrible creature it has ever been my misfortune to bear-lead, and I would like nothing more than to dunk you head and ears in the ocean, just to see you splutter!” She bobbed her head a single time, nearly dislodging her purple turban. “There! I’ve said it, and I’m not sorry!”
Marguerite looked at Mrs. Billings for a long moment, watching a tide of hot color rise in the older woman’s cheeks. And then she smiled in real enjoyment. “Why, Billie—you do possess some backbone after all. Good for you! I think I’ll ask Grandfather to increase your wages. That, and a letter of recommendation once the Season is over—a letter that is so glowing it will bring tears to your eyes to read it.”
“Increase—increase my wages?” Mrs. Billings looked to either side of her, as if expecting a rocket to explode in the midst of Lady Southby’s musical evening, then peered intently at Marguerite. “And a recommendation? Why?”
“Why?” Marguerite repeated, smiling. “That’s simple enough, Billie. You already are convinced I’m beyond redemption, so that I no longer have to listen to your endless homilies on the correct behavior expected of a young girl just Out. You have a gratifying respect for the damage I can do a person if I’m opposed in any wish to get my own way. And lastly, but still important, it would fatigue me greatly to have to find another such informed, conformable lady willing to turn her head the other way while I go about the business of ruining myself. In short, I cannot lose you Billie. You are the epitome of incompetence, and I despair of seeing your like again.”
“You’re a horrid, horrid creature, Marguerite Balfour,” Mrs. Billings said feelingly. “I shall pray for your immortal soul.”
“Do that, Billie,” Marguerite answered, seeing Donovan moving toward the same window she and Laleham had passed through not that many minutes ago. “But you will remain in my grandfather’s employ?”
“For my sins, yes.”
“Good. I see Miss Clemmons is approaching the harp for our first selection. Now why don’t you sit here like a good little chaperone while I escape what is bound to be a most unfortunate interlude? Feel free to pray quietly while I am gone—your prayers joining with those of dearest Maisie, who is doubtless even at this moment determinedly beating down the good Lord’s door with her entreaties for mercy. Or perhaps you’d rather busy yourself adding up how much more money you will be making to turn a blind eye to my affairs?”
Mrs. Billings tugged on Marguerite’s skirts, detaining her as Donovan disappeared onto the balcony. “You will be back for me yourself this time, won’t you?” she inquired plaintively. “Not that I didn’t enjoy Mr. Donovan’s company—for he is a quite entertaining gentleman.”
“So it has been rumored, Billie. And yes, this time I will return for you—eventually. Now smile, and pretend to enjoy Miss Clemmons’s performance. I’m off to toss the remainder of my reputation to the four winds.”
Marguerite skirted the edges of the large room, barely causing anyone to turn her way, and quickly exited through one of the low-silled windows before Miss Clemmons had murdered more than four chords of what was probably well-written music. She squinted to see in the rapidly descending darkness as she felt her way to the centrally located wide stone steps leading down into Lady Southby’s gardens. “Donovan?” she whispered loudly. “Where the devil are you hiding yourself? I can’t be gone above thirty minutes.”
She had just reached the soft grass when she felt a hand grasp her wrist, and she was pulled under the trees and hard against a male chest. “Donovan!” she exclaimed, bracing her hands against his shoulders.
“I received your note,” he said, his eyes roving over her hungrily, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. “Marguerite, you can’t mean what you wrote.”
She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “But I did, Donovan. I meant my apology with all my heart. And, yes, I want us to be together, but there can be no more talk of marriage. I—I have matters to settle before I can think about the future.”