A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,48
because I am the sole heir to his considerable fortune. I am only here because he insisted, dear, generous man that he is. You see, Uncle said I should see something of life before putting on my caps.”
“What? What? Your caps? You’re far too young and beautiful to think of any such nonsense,” Lord Mappleton protested, somehow having become possessed of Miss Rollins’s left hand, which he was fondling with more than friendly interest as his fingers toyed with the large pearl and diamond ring on her second finger. “And I should be greatly honored to take you up tomorrow—show you a bit of the sights and all that rubbish. What? What? I say, is that a tear I have spied out in your eye, Miss Rollins? No, no! I won’t hear of it. I am totally unmanned by female tears. Never could abide them without my own heart fairly breaking. You must be happy, my dear, for your smile is like that of the angels, and we mere mortals cannot survive without it.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes at this bit of flattery directed at Miss Rollins. Lord Mappleton, in her eyes, had become the living definition of “an old fool.” Her father would have been pleased, although not even he could have predicted his lordship should have grown so pathetically eager to court young—not to mention, rich—females as he edged closer to a pitiful old age. Why, Lord Mappleton must be near to dropping onto his knees right here in the box to thank the good Lord that the rich Miss Rollins found him attractive. In any event, it was fairly apparent Georgianna already held the fortune-sniffing man in the palm of her hand.
“Oh, Lord Mappleton, how above all that is wonderful it is to meet such a gentleman as yourself,” Georgianna trilled, beaming at him as his usually florid face went a deep shade of scarlet. “And such a sweet, handsome man as well. I am overcome, your lordship, truly I am.”
Marguerite wrinkled her brow and inclined her head in admiration. She hadn’t thought it possible for Miss Rollins to sound more singularly cloying and stupid than Lord Mappleton, but she had done it. Why, Marguerite could almost hear the banns being announced.
“Please, please,” Lord Mappleton insisted, dabbing at Miss Rollins’s damp cheeks with his own handkerchief, obviously pleased that the young lady’s assessment of his character and appearance coincided with his own. “You must not be so formal. Call me Arthur.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, your lordship... I shouldn’t... oh, but how condescending of you, your lordship—I mean, Arthur.” Her eyelashes came into play once more as she beat them furiously in Lord Mappleton’s direction. “And in return you simply must call me Georgianna.”
“God’s teeth! Did you ever hear such sickening drivel?” Sir Gilbert boomed from the shadows, echoing Marguerite’s silently expressed sentiments exactly. “Nobody told me the farce was to take place in our box. Marguerite? I hope you’re happy now, gel, because I’m quite put off my feed, and probably will be for a sennight.”
Poor Grandfather, not to know what is happening, yet be forced to witness it. She’d have to make it up to him somehow. It seemed to Marguerite Lord Mappleton’s tickle had invaded her own throat, and she turned away to cough into her fist just as the first performance of the evening was about to begin. Relaxed, and silently congratulating herself for the initial success of her plan for his lordship, she deliberately turned her concentration to the stage.
That relaxation lasted only until the end of the first act and the appearance in the box of Thomas Joseph Donovan—whom she had distinctly instructed to stay away from her until tomorrow night. Couldn’t anyone be trusted anymore? The man was like a jack-in-the-box, showing up without warning everywhere she went. She turned to glare at him as he entered without invitation, hoping to depress his pretensions without saying a word. The last thing she needed was his too-discerning presence.
“Sir Gilbert!” Thomas exclaimed, bowing to her grandfather while succeeding in winking at Marguerite at the same time. So much for insulting the man. His hide was obviously much too thick to be punctured by something so tame as a pointed stare. “My friend, Mr. Patrick Dooley, and I thought we espied you out from our position in the pits,” he said, straightening. “So good to see you again, sir. You too, Mappleton. I perceive you’re keeping your reputation for being a success with the ladies intact.