A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,123
keep a monkey should pay for the glasses he breaks.
— John Belden
Thomas sidled up behind the magnificently gowned creature wearing the high powdered wig and whispered, “Would you care to share the dark with me, mademoiselle?”
“Donovan!” Marguerite whirled around to face him, showing him the black, heart-shaped beauty patch that sat just to the left of her full, pouting mouth. Her mischievous emerald eyes nearly outshone the Harlequin design decorating the golden eye mask that matched the shimmering liquid gold-on-gold of her striped silken gown. The scent of roses perfumed his nostrils. She snapped open her fan and began coquettishly fluttering it beneath her chin. “La, good sir, and how did you know me?”
“That was easy, aingeal,” he said, taking her hand and quickly leading her down the walkway he’d discovered earlier, a dark, narrow path that well suited his plans for Marguerite Balfour. “I merely searched for the most beautiful woman here. Besides,” he added, grinning down at her, “I am intimately acquainted with that small, delightful mole just at the base of your throat, remember?”
”We can’t disappear for long, Donovan,” Marguerite said, just as if he hadn’t made her blush behind her eye mask. “Billie has been marvelous to me, and I’m doing penance for past indiscretions by being on my most excruciatingly best behavior this evening. After all, it isn’t Billie’s fault she’s such a hopeless twit. However, I’m not heartless. You may kiss me, monsieur, if you so desire. Such things are allowed at masquerades, or so I’ve been told, especially as this is the Dark Walk and a favorite haunt of lovers.”
Thomas shook his head, enticed by her teasing air, but unfortunately aware of their surroundings. “I’d rather not begin anything I couldn’t finish, and, by the looks of that gown, we’d both only end up weeping in frustration. May I offer you my compliments?”
“On my excruciatingly lovely gown? Why, thank you, kind monsieur. I’ve had a fascination with these outlandish styles since my childhood. Once, when I was very young, I was sitting in church and—”
“Not on your costume, darlin’, although it is rather fetching, in a forbidding sort of way. I doubt the ladies who wore them ever dallied successfully in a garden.” He threw back the hood of his black domino and pushed the matching eye mask up onto the top of his head. “I was complimenting you on your Balbus. However did you manage it?”
She turned her head, avoiding his eyes. “I have a friend who ingeniously found employ for some days this spring as one of the Tower gardeners.”
“Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? He would be the same friend who played the Balbus hawker this afternoon and, I do believe, is also so handy with a fuzzed card. I finally got a good peek at the eyebrow, you understand. It’s a most betraying feature, and I can understand why he takes such pains to hide it. A familiar feature as well. Rather reminiscent of Miss Rollins’s most unique feature, as a matter of fact.”
Marguerite turned back to him, smiling widely. “Oh, you’re good, Donovan. Very good. And so busy! May I gather you saw him with Stinky?”
He lifted her gloved hand and began pressing kisses on the soft skin at the inside of her elbow. “Hmm, and you taste good, aingeal. Like fresh, sweet cream. Yes, I saw him. That’s two, isn’t it? Tell me—who topples tonight? Mappleton? Harewood? Not Laleham. Not yet, at least.”
“Allow me to correct my last statement, Donovan. You’re not just good. You’re very good. And tonight it’s Arthur who will fall. You will stay out of my way, won’t you? Not that it matters, for it’s too late now to stop my plan from coming to fruition.”
Thomas couldn’t help himself. He allowed her to lower her hand, holding it tightly in his, then asked the questions that had been burning in his brain. He had to, for he knew that somehow, some way, these men stood between him and complete happiness with the woman he loved. “What did they do to you, Marguerite? What hurt did they deal you that they should be punished? Do they even know? They couldn’t, and still be your friends.”
Marguerite looked at him for long moments, and he could see she was balancing her need for secrecy with her love for him. At last, when he was about to beg her forgiveness for having broken his promise not to question her, she said quietly, “I believe that