A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,31
be polite—at least until she had the impertinent American alone, at which point she just might throttle the man, “may I introduce to you Mr. Thomas Joseph Donovan of County Clare and, more lately, of the city of Philadelphia. That’s in America, Grandfather. Mr. Donovan? My grandfather, Sir Gilbert Selkirk.”
“I know where Philadelphia is, gel!” Sir Gilbert exclaimed, slamming a fist against the tabletop. “An American, is it? Splendid! I always wanted to meet an American. Tell me about the wild Indians, my boy. Finch!” he called out sharply. “Get your spindly shanks in here. More coffee! Another cup! Don’t you know how to serve a guest?” He smiled at Thomas, waving his hand as if to encourage him to speak. “Well, don’t just sit there. Get on with it, lad. Tell me about the scalpings, the massacres. Humor a bloodthirsty old man!”
A full hour later than she had wished to leave, Marguerite was standing in front of the Portman Square mansion, outwardly calm and inwardly seething.
It no longer mattered to her that she was looking her best, clad in a forest green riding habit and military-styled shako hat, her hands enclosed in matching green kid gloves.
It no longer concerned her that she had spent the better part of an hour dressing for this ride in Hyde Park, with Maisie outdoing herself in fashioning her mistress’s long, heavy hair in a fetching-single braid, then winding it artfully at Marguerite’s nape so that it did not interfere with the jaunty placement of the shako, which was tilted forward ever so daringly over her left eye.
It did not thrill her that her mare, Trickster, was dancing about on the cobblestones as the groom held the bridle, eager to be off, or even that the often uncooperative London weather was perfect for a ride.
How could she be happy about any of these things, when Thomas Joseph Donovan was to be her companion for the next hour or more—her unchaperoned companion, no less—his insufferable self riding next to her on the ugly, rawboned, mud-brown gelding he must have hired from some second-rate public stable?
How could her grandfather have been so beguiled by the man that he had suggested, nay, demanded, they take themselves off for a fine gallop without the bother of having to worry about a groom following along behind them on an inferior mount? Could he have been so taken in by the glib American—or his young age—that he had lost all his usual concerns for his only grandchild’s reputation? Donovan must be beside himself with glee!
Oh, how she’d like to turn on her heels and leave the fellow standing in the street with nothing but his atrocious horse and his overweening arrogance for company.
“Allow me to be of assistance, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said, interrupting her internal tantrum. She sliced a look in his direction, to see he was cupping his hands together, forming a cradle for her to use to step up onto the sidesaddle.
“I’ll use the mounting block, thank you Mr. Donovan,” she replied coolly. “I would avail myself of your kind offer only if I were wearing spurs, and could satisfy my curiosity as to whether or not you bleed insincerity when you are pricked.”
And then, before the groom could step forward to assist her, she stepped up on the mounting block, slipped one black-leather-boot-clad foot into the stirrup, and mounted Trickster with the effortless grace of the superior rider. “Are you coming, Mr. Donovan,” she asked, looking down at him, “or shall I ask the groom to give you a boost up?”
Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, for Thomas merely executed an elegant leg in her direction, then took three quick steps toward his mount. The last step was a mighty bound that launched him into the air as if he had been shot from a cannon, so that his palms hit firmly on the gelding’s rump momentarily before pushing off again to grab the reins, so that Thomas landed in the saddle from behind, without once touching the stirrups.
“Coo!” the groom exclaimed, obviously impressed. “Ain’t never seed that a’fore, yer worship. Yer did that slick as Cook’s fat tabby cat catches itself a mouse.”
“And he didn’t even split his buckskins, more’s the pity. Can we be off now?” Marguerite gritted out from between clenched teeth, her riding crop biting into her palm as she squeezed her hand into a fist. “Or would you first care to balance on your hands as you ride once around the square, like