A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,28
thighs... to plunge his manhood past her veil of virginity... and home... to spill his seed deep inside her as she arched her back in ecstasy and called out his name....
“William? Ah, William—there you are, standing in that dark corner! Your man said I’d find you in here. Hatching vain empires again, are you?”
William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, turned away from the window to nod a perfunctory greeting to Sir Ralph Harewood. “Possibly, Ralph,” he answered blandly, taking up a seat on the curved back couch in the middle of the room, his spine straight, his two feet firmly on the floor, “but with two exceptions. I, unlike Milton, am not blind to reality, and our empire, as you term it, will be the product of planning and determination, and not the result of application to either Heaven or Hell.”
He smiled invitingly, indicating that Sir Ralph should seat himself on the facing couch. “And now, how are you this fine morning, Ralph? Filled to the brim with good news of our impending success, I trust.”
“Not particularly, William,” Sir Ralph said. “And I’ve not yet found my bed, unlike you, who rise at the black backside of dawn. I’ve come to tell you, the American is useless.” He crossed one booted leg over the other as he slumped against the cushions, his even, nondescript facial features composed in what a close observer might believe to be a frown. It was difficult to tell with Sir Ralph, who rarely displayed any recognizable expression, whether it be one of fear, or amusement, or even intelligence.
Sir Ralph, William had long ago decided, was like a blank slate, and you could write on him what you wished, drawing your own conclusions as to what lay hidden behind his eyes. If you cared to delve that far, of course, which most men didn’t. It was enough, in this age of selfishness, to assume a man like he was simply an agreeable sort, a man who believed what you believed, felt what you felt, and wanted what you wanted. No one, save William, would ever be moved to declare Sir Ralph had an ounce of ambition.
Like and yet unlike himself, William concluded, patiently waiting for his friend to expand on his statement. William knew the face he himself presented to the world, the image projected by his dark good looks, the distinguished smattering of silver that had appeared at his temples these last few years, his aristocratic features, his exemplary carriage and air of impeccable breeding. Only the world could look as long and as hard as it wished and still not discover the real William Renfrew. Not even Ralph Harewood, his friend since childhood, could do that.
Sir Ralph was the optimal second-in-command, the ideal agent and, if necessary, the perfect dupe. He was an able conspirator, capable of issuing orders and outwardly playing the part of the leader of their little coterie, but he was as expendable as any of the others. He didn’t know that, but William did. Everyone was expendable. Everyone was replaceable.
Everyone, that is, save for his consort. Except for Marguerite, who would give him fine, strong sons who would insure the new monarchy.
William steepled his long fingers in front of his face and looked over his fingertips at Sir Ralph. Apparently the man had said all he was going to say on the subject of Thomas Donovan. “That’s it, Ralph? You’re into making pronouncements this morning and no more? Perhaps you are fatigued and feel unable to expound on your words without some sort of impetus from me. All right then. I shall put it to you directly. Why is the American useless?”
“Because he’s an ignorant ass, I suppose,” Sir Ralph returned, shrugging. “I can’t imagine why Madison sent him, unless the American president is only toying with us and doesn’t truly mean to involve himself in what could be viewed in some quarters as questionable covert operations. I mean, diverting arms and money from our own war effort to America, purposely weakening our own troops when we are at war with France—why, even Bonaparte might not consider that sporting. Only remember what happened to Benedict Arnold, William. He was universally despised, even here, once he’d attempted to turn West Point over to Clinton. Stinky bragged to me just last week how he and some of his cronies had been drinking heavily one night a few years ago, gotten themselves fairly well into their cups, and then ridden out to piss on