A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,52

as he quoted John Wesley in, to her, a most deliciously blasphemous way, “‘... I am never in a hurry.’ You’ll learn that when I first make love to you. And trust me, dearest Marguerite, I will make love to you. Long and slow and delicious love to you.”

And then, before she could think of anything clever to say to deflate his arrogance, he pushed himself away from the wall and offered her his arm, leaving her to realize she had been maneuvered into all but begging for his kiss, just to be rejected.

“Now, come along, Miss Balfour,” she heard him add as she fought down her rapidly flaring anger. She had shown him too much as it was; she could not afford to hand him yet another weapon by revealing her terrible, debilitating temper. “I’ve promised your grandfather some lemonade,” he continued. “Besides, I’m looking forward to the second act of the amusing little romance being played out between Lord Mappleton and the so accommodating Miss Eyebrows. You have an odd way of amusing yourself. Tell me, what sorts of meddling mischief do you have planned for Sir Peregrine and your other aged admirers—or are you going to make me guess?”

So much for good intentions and notions of self-preservation! Marguerite’s wrath caused her tongue to ignore the warnings of her brain. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about—and I hope William lops off your head and has it pickled!” she declared in all sincerity. Then, ignoring his proffered arm, she stomped past him, back the way they had come, vowing never, ever to speak to the man again!

CHAPTER 7

“Optimism,” said Candide, “is a mania for maintaining that all is well when things are going badly.”

— Voltaire

Thomas nudged a mound of clothing from the chair to the floor and then deposited his long frame in the space he had cleared, his legs flung out in front of him, his head leaning back as he stared up at the ceiling. Lord, he was tired. He’d barely slept all night, thinking about the disappointment on Marguerite’s beautiful face when she’d realized he had led her on, only to refuse to kiss her.

He had been thinking about it, but had not enjoyed the memory of his small victory. But then, cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s face never was a pleasant experience. She’d punish him tonight—he was sure of it. Punish him, and then give in, just as he would give in, both of them losing a little, both of them winning. Their battles only added fuel to the fire that smoldered between them.

Today, however, still had to be gotten through, and he and Dooley had important matters to discuss. He mentally shoved his plans for Marguerite to the back of his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the real object of his mission to England. “All right, now that the breakfast dishes are gone—let’s go over it again, Paddy. Start with Mappleton.”

“I don’t know why, boyo. We’ve been around and around this a million times already this morning.” But Thomas just met his inquiring gaze with a determined stare. “Oh, all right. You won’t give over until we’ve done it a million and one times.” Dooley sighed and bent to pick up the clothing Thomas had tossed aside, none of it his, and began to return it to the places it belonged. “Lord Mappleton is associated with the Royal Treasury. That’s where the money is kept, boyo, in case you’re wondering. The way we’ve figured it so far, he’ll be the one who funnels us the funds that are supposed to be going to the war against Napoleon. From the little I’ve seen of his lumbering lordship, and from what you’ve told me of the creature, I’m surprised they let him anywhere near anything so important.”

“Birth, Paddy,” Thomas responded, still staring at the ceiling, refusing to dwell on the knowledge that Marguerite’s birth and position and his were as dissimilar as that of a queen and a chimney sweep. “Birth and breeding—or, in Mappleton’s case, maybe it’s inbreeding. Stick a ‘your lordship’ or a ‘your grace’ in front of a man’s name and these English think they know everything. Mappleton doesn’t know his way out of a room, but no one will admit it, which should serve us well. Stupid, vain, and with a pronounced weakness for a well-turned ankle or, as was the case last night, an impressive pair of eyebrows—as long as there’s a fortune involved,