A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,33

for now, I believe Trickster would enjoy a gallop—to the small stand of trees at the first curve in the path—if your mount can keep up, that is?”

Thomas looked to the trees that were a good three hundred yards in the distance, then smiled at Marguerite. “For a fiver, Miss Balfour?” he asked, so that she longed to scream.

“Twice that, Mr. Donovan,” she replied with doubled determination to show the American her heels, then gathered herself to urge Trickster into an immediate gallop. “At the count of three?”

“You may go at three, aingeal, but I shall be the Compleat Gentleman and wait for the count of five.”

Marguerite deliberately eyed the gelding from its bony hindquarters to its overly long neck and ridiculously twitching ears. The horse should be shot; it was that ugly. “Really, Mr. Donovan? Very well, you’re on. One—two—three!”

Trickster responded wonderfully, leaping forward immediately, eager to stretch her strong legs in an out-and-out gallop. Marguerite lowered her body over the mare’s back, quietly urging her on, feeling the power of the animal’s muscles gathering and releasing beneath her, carrying her along as they skimmed over the ground, the slight breeze ruffled into an invigorating wind as they cut through it, heading for the trees, and victory.

Insult her, would he! She had been sat on her first pony before she could walk! Not only could she outride Thomas Joseph Donovan, but she could outshoot him, outfence him, outtalk him—even outlie him!

She and Trickster were no more than halfway between the starting point and the trees when she heard the thunder of hoofbeats behind her and dared to look back to see Thomas and the homely gelding gaining on her.

She couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her! The rawboned horse had metamorphosed, becoming beautiful, its fluid movements a poetry to watch, its rider low in the saddle, a part of a masterful whole, so that they had nearly melded to become one surging mass of power.

Man and horse blew past her as if she and Trickster were running in quicksand, leaving them nothing to do but follow as best they could, although Marguerite was sorely tempted to rein the mare in, turn for home, and leave the depressing defeat behind her.

But she wouldn’t do anything so mean-spirited, though she longed to with all her being. She had been bested fairly, and she had to acknowledge her defeat and congratulate the winner—even if it killed her! How could she have forgotten her father’s advice to always look below the surface? Clearly the ugly, rawboned horse had the spirit and heart of a winner.

By the time she had brought Trickster to a halt in front of the trees Thomas had dismounted and was leaning at his ease against one of them, barely breathing hard, his hands folded over his chest, his shock of tawny hair attractively windblown.

It belatedly occurred to Marguerite, as she looked at him, that they were now in one of the more secluded areas of the park. A heartbeat later, she wondered why that knowledge didn’t bother her as much as it excited her.

Thomas looked up at her, questioningly. “Ah, there you are, Miss Balfour. Did you take a detour? I missed you along the way—unless I was moving too quickly to notice near stationary objects. Do you like my horse? Ireland born and bred, you know—with long experience in outrunning the English. May I help you dismount, or do you wish to impress me yet again with your horsemanship?”

All thoughts of congratulating him on his victory evaporated in the heat of her renewed anger. “You know, Mr. Donovan,” she said, indicating that he might help her to the ground, “I believe I could detest you most completely, if only you weren’t already beneath contempt.”

He lifted his arms to her and, against her better judgment, she kicked free of the stirrup and allowed him to help her down, his touch at her waist sending unexpected shivers up her spine, a reaction she was determined to ignore. “We’ll rest the horses for a few minutes,” she said after feeling her feet once more firmly on the ground, “and then you may return me to Portman Square. It is not necessary, however, that we converse at all in the interim. I, for one, have nothing to say to you—and you never say anything of value.”

Thomas stripped off his hacking jacket and spread it on the soft grass with the grace Sir Walter Raleigh must have employed when draping his cape