A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,6
knew fleecing the enemy and routing the enemy were not exactly the same—although the former was jolly good sport.
His host and hostess had deserted their post at the head of the stairs, saving Thomas the tedious business of trying to remember their names and titles. Rid of the need to do the civil and expend any of his solid store of empty flattery, he contented himself by snagging a glass of wine from a loaded tray carried by a passing servant, then stopped just inside the doorway to take in the scene at his leisure.
The ballroom, besides being stiflingly hot and decorated to within an inch of ridiculousness with hothouse flowers and pink bunting, was packed almost solid with elite members of London society—which Thomas considered to be a damnable pity, for that exalted, almost incestuous group for the most part consisted of giggling pullets and cocks, flabby-armed old hens, and posturing roosters.
Thomas swept an elegant leg as Miss Araminta Frobisher tripped by on the arm of a gentleman whose evening coat sported buttons as large as dinner plates, unable to hide a grin as dear Miss Frobisher winked at him. A lovely girl, Araminta, and more than willing to stroll in any convenient dark garden with a man intent on capturing a few naughty kisses. If his quarry didn’t show his face soon, Thomas might rethink his notion of an early night and introduce dear Araminta to the accommodating, concealing stand of shrubbery he already knew lay just outside the French doors to the left of the ballroom.
The young fop with Miss Frobisher did not so much as nod a greeting to Thomas, for he was an Englishman and refused to bother with upstart “colonials.” He probably didn’t even see me, Thomas decided, which suits this colonial just fine, although the effete dandy might have learned something if he had only observed my attire and demeanor, for he looks even more queer in that rigout than a holy Sister in red taffeta.
Thomas, never one to waste time in false modesty, knew he cut a dashing figure as he lounged at his ease against a marble pillar, his taller-than-average, wide-shouldered, leanly muscular frame molded into well-cut midnight blue evening clothes à la that master of sartorial understatement, Beau Brummell. His mirror had told him his thick mane of tawny, sun-streaked hair and his unfashionable yet flattering mustache set off the deep bronze tan of his skin, as did the startling white linen tied so negligently at his throat and extending a discreet inch beyond his cuffs, drawing attention to square, long-fingered hands.
Hands that penned an editorial, turned a card, held a rein, cradled a blade, or played over a woman with equal, satisfying expertise.
Now his sky-at-dawning blue eyes, ringed as they were by overlong black lashes and edged with faint lines that crinkled delightfully whenever he smiled, surveyed the crowded ballroom as if in happy anticipation, his outward appearance one of a jolly enough fellow on the lookout for nothing more serious than an evening’s amusement.
Where is the bastard hiding? he asked himself, still genially smiling and nodding at passersby. He said he’d be here. And what sort of paper-skulled idiot am I to be taking an Englishman at his word?
His thoughts were momentarily diverted as he noticed a hulking, red-faced young peer who must have last seen his feet when his valet held them up to squeeze them into his black patent dancing shoes. The fool was actually attempting the intricate steps of a lively country dance, and looked as dashing and delicate as a sow caught in muck. Clod. Fully half of the Englishmen Thomas had met in his fortnight in England were featherbrained, posturing, pleasure-seeking idiots, and the other half were sneaking, conniving, back-shooting intriguers who would sell their firstborn for a thimbleful of gold.
No wonder his fellow Americans, those brave colonials still so despised by the English, had been able to thoroughly trounce them in their great war for independence. All that had to be done was to prick their island-wide pig bladders of pride and supposed superiority and watch them blow themselves back across the water to the safety of either their overheated ballrooms or their private counting houses!
Just as Thomas was about to turn away, planning to search the game room for his quarry—and perhaps play a hand or two while he was at it, for a man couldn’t be dedicated for twenty-four hours of every day—the red-faced peer let out a high-pitched yelp