A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,18

always competent Maisie over the styling of her coppery curls rather than to simply trust the woman’s judgment.

Her attire was her battle raiment, and she was about to face her adversary. His name wasn’t Lord Mappleton, or Sir Peregrine, or any of the rest. His name was Thomas Joseph Donovan, and he was, in his own way, as potentially ruinous to her peace of mind as William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, her father’s “enigmatic” W.R.

Where Lord Laleham was seemingly without weakness, “without any visible failing” she might exploit, Thomas Joseph Donovan was without fear—a faintly mad, reckless sort who possessed a glib tongue, a quicksilver personality impossible to pigeonhole, and a wealth of intelligence and discernment hidden deep inside his open, laughing, seemingly guileless blue eyes.

His extremely appealing blue eyes.

She had known he was in with Sir Peregrine that afternoon. She had known it because she had asked Grouse, whom she had seen hovering outside in the hallway, pacing and biting on his thumb, terrified to reenter the room and inform his employer there wasn’t so much as a sliver of cheese to be found to serve his guests.

Ordinarily, Marguerite would not have burst in on Sir Peregrine for she was, after all, a well brought up young lady, no matter how devious her motives. But the impulse to see Thomas Joseph Donovan again, to see him in his official capacity, had been too intense to overcome. That—and she detested admitting this to herself—and the opportunity to bait him with her plans for the evening, just to see if he took the hook in his mouth.

But now it appeared he had no intention of furthering their acquaintance.

Didn’t he feel the same excitement she did when they spoke, when they so much as looked at each other, the thrill of the hunt that skipped down her spine when she’d recognized a fellow conspirator, the physical attraction that she had assumed to be mutual?

A dangerous attraction.

Surely he would come.

He had to come!

“Marguerite, my dear, I hesitate to interrupt your thoughts, but I fear I should mention you’re wringing your hands. Such worrying of your gloves is potentially injurious to the kid, which is unconscionably dear, and the action is not quite as ladylike as I should hope.”

Mrs. Billings’s carefully couched censure, delivered with the older woman’s usual “the meek shall inherit the Earth” condescension, touched Marguerite on the raw, although she knew her chaperone meant well. She always meant well, more was the pity. But upbraiding Mrs. Billings would only prompt the woman to issue a lengthy apology liberally sprinkled with advice about even-tempered misses catching more beaux than do uncivilized Hottentots. Knowing this, Marguerite only smiled apologetically at the woman, then folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Do forgive me, please, Billie,” she said sweetly, employing the chastened tone her late father could have told Mrs. Billings meant Marguerite was just inches from committing mayhem. “I do my best, but I still most obviously require your continued tutelage in order to acquire the correct measure of town bronze necessary to be a credit to my grandfather.”

Mrs. Billings patted Marguerite’s cheek. “Such a sweet child, to think of Sir Gilbert. As I tell all the other chaperones while you are whirling so gracefully around the dance floor, this charge of mine is sure to be the crowning achievement in my career of introducing young ladies to society. If you behave, that is. Now sit up straight, do, or else your shoulders will become permanently stooped.”

“I exist only to please you, Billie,” Marguerite said, straightening her already erect posture, then covertly searching the crowded area around the top of the staircase from beneath her eyelids.

Damn you, Donovan! Where are you? My dance card is nearly full. Or am I wrong, and the hint I dropped so heavily in Perry’s office this afternoon should have been tied to a red brick and aimed at your grinning head? Oh, what’s the matter with me, that I should abandon my quest even for one evening, and indulge myself in this mad attraction?

“Good evening, Miss Balfour. Have you misplaced someone, that you’re peering so intently at the knot of people doing their best to monopolize our host and hostess?”

“Donovan,” Marguerite whispered under her breath, turning her head swiftly, just in time to see him smiling down at her, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Wasn’t it just like him to sneak up on her, to discover her searching for him? And he knew she had been looking