A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,49
Every time I see you, it’s with another beautiful young creature dangling from your arm—and such lovely jewels she’s wearing. Why, they dazzle the eyes! I envy you, your lordship, truly. Good evening, Miss—ah! I believe we haven’t as yet gotten around to introductions. Miss Balfour, if I remember correctly, recent practice has made you an acknowledged expert in this category?”
Marguerite gritted her teeth. Obviously Thomas wasn’t about to go away, and she had no other choice but to introduce him to everyone, a task she performed with more civility than grace, doing her best to avoid looking at him, for he appeared simply splendid in his evening clothes.
And his hands, Marguerite remembered, watching him take snuff, her breathing somehow no longer an involuntary act, but one she had to concentrate on in order not to sigh audibly. Yes, he had the most intriguing hands—square, strong, long-fingered, callused, and yet scrupulously clean. Would she ever forget the touch of those calluses on the tender skin of her thigh? Would she ever wish to forget or ever stop longing to feel that touch again? That touch and the nebulous “more” that her senses told her still awaited discovery.
“Lord Mappleton, I’ve just had the happy notion of adjourning from this crowded box for a few minutes to seek out a bit of exercise and some refreshment with the ladies,” she heard Thomas suggest, his words penetrating her brain only muzzily, as if heard from a distance, for she had been concentrating more on his full-lipped mouth than on what he was saying.
“What a lovely idea!” Georgianna trilled before Marguerite could muster a negative reply meant to cut off Thomas at the knees for his insufferable suggestion. “I should adore above all things the opportunity to stroll the area with dear Arthur by my side, for I should then be the envy of every woman in attendance this evening.” She hopped to her feet, pulling Lord Mappleton out of his chair, and preceded him into the aisle. “Marguerite?” she asked, fluttering those eyelashes once more, “you will join us, won’t you? I fear I could not walk with dear Arthur unless we were properly accompanied.”
“I’d rather not leave my grandfather,” Marguerite ground out from between clenched teeth, wondering if Miss Georgianna Rollins wasn’t being too obvious in her intention to impress Lord Mappleton with her rapidly growing admiration. Just as quickly she amended that thought, knowing his lordship had no problem believing every woman in the world most naturally and inevitably adored him.
“Oh, go with them, Marguerite,” Sir Gilbert ordered, readjusting his bulk in the uncomfortable chair. “Let them bill and coo somewheres else for a space. Embarrassing, that’s what it is, watching the pair of them. I’m only surprised he hasn’t pulled out a glass to inspect those stones hanging around her neck, not to say he’s sniffing after a fortune or anything. No, no. I’d never say that. Think it, yes, but never say it! Ha! Mrs. Billings—hand me that pillow before you go back to chattering with your new friend. I’m going to sleep, and damn the lot of you!”
“Good idea, Sir Gilbert,” Dooley seconded cheerfully, seating himself beside the man. “I could use a bit of a nap m’self. Been a long day, one way or another. Go along, Tommie. I’ll stay here with these nice ladies,” he ended, nodding his head in the direction of Mrs. Billings and the second chaperone. “You won’t be minding it if I was to snore once and again, now would you, ladies? You can give me a hit, like my sweet Bridget does, if I get too loud.”
Sir Gilbert gave a hoot of laughter and sat forward, peering at Dooley. “Mayhap I won’t nap after all. Irish, ain’t you? I thought so. Know any good stories, like your friend Donovan? Marguerite! What are you doing sitting there looking like some dashed waxworks dummy? Don’t say I’ve embarrassed you with my plain speech, because it won’t fadge. You’re the one brought me here, remember? Should have known I wouldn’t be happy about it. Go on now—take yourself off for a bit and let us old men talk.”
Torn between the knowledge that Georgianna had put forth exactly the sort of idea she herself should have fostered and the intriguing mental image of how Thomas Joseph Donovan’s grinning, knowing, American face would lose its triumphant look if she were to pull him forward, launching his insufferable body over the railing and into the pit, Marguerite