A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,65

it is just that—a role.”

Sir Ralph’s fingernails bit into his palms. But he said nothing. Like it or not, he had to follow where William led. They all had to, for they all shared a secret that could destroy them. They needed each other, could not trust each other, and were bound to any insanity in order to believe they were still all powerful, invulnerable—the omnipotent members of their own secret society. It was the way it had been for almost twenty years.

These last seven long years.

Too many years.

Sir Ralph stood, his nondescript features impassive, took up his greatcoat and hat, and quit the room, knowing he’d have to hurry if he was to catch up with Donovan. He would follow orders.

For now.

CHAPTER 9

She is the good man’s paradise, and the bad’s first step to heaven.

— James Shirley

Thomas caught sight of her as she stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He smiled as he saw she had dressed dramatically for the occasion of their midnight assignation, her head and body enveloped in a voluminous black cloak. But the smile froze in place, then, slowly melted, as she turned her head and he saw her moon-washed face, her wide eyes, and her vulnerability.

Damn her for making him remember he’d once possessed a conscience!

How was it possible for anyone, especially a young woman like Marguerite Balfour, to look outrageously daring and so prodigiously frightened at the same time? Thomas felt himself caught between wanting to crush her sweet body against his and kiss her senseless and believing he should take her in his arms and comfort her, tell her everything was going to be all right, he didn’t mean her any harm and he would always be there for her, to protect her and to love her and, yes, God help him, to cherish her.

Which was a totally asinine reaction, because Marguerite Balfour didn’t even like him. He intrigued her; his stolen kisses and teasing and forward manner and even his citizenship drew her to him, but her curiosity was nothing more than that of any young English debutante wishing for a touch of illicit titillation. As he had been immediately drawn to her startling beauty, her engaging frankness, and, most especially, her open willingness to investigate the forbidden.

She was only using him, as he had planned to use her. For mutual excitement. For mutual satisfaction. A pleasurable dalliance. One stolen night. For the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the capture. They were kindred spirits, he and Marguerite Balfour—so immediately transparent to each other that they both delighted and repelled each other, clearly seeing both their mutual faults and their shared love of adventure.

And because he knew she could see through him, he had to temper his physical desire for her with a leavening of common sense. She could be dangerous to him; dangerous to his mission. Especially since she seemed to have a mission of her own that involved the men he had been sent to deal with before returning to Philadelphia.

He could have done very nicely without her innocence, without this niggling at the back of his brain that Marguerite Balfour wasn’t all she seemed, but more. And much too good for the likes of him.

He should leave without speaking, draw back from the flames that tempted him to touch, enticed him to speculate, drew him toward hurling himself headfirst into the chasm that would always divide them.

But then, who would protect her from her own folly if he did not? Sir Gilbert? Hardly. No, Marguerite had to be protected from herself, for she had no inkling of the depths of greed and the lust for power that drove the men she had set out to bedevil. He had to be her knight-errant. There was nobody else around to do the job.

Besides, and to his shame, he wanted her. He wanted her so much his gut ached with the wanting.

By the time Thomas had concluded his internal arguments and lost the battle with his better self, Marguerite had thrown back the hood of her cloak and was standing with her arms tightly crossed against her waist, one booted foot agitatedly tap-tapping against the cobblestones. Knowing her mood wouldn’t improve for allowing it to simmer any longer, he took a deep breath and walked out into the drive, forcing a bright, openly teasing smile onto his face.

“Ah, here you are, aingeal,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it?