A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,77
at the theater. Just go—that’s all we have to do—and let the bloody earl and the others discover us gone.”
“And leave Laleham to rethink his scheme and perhaps begin dealings with the French, you mean. I’m not so deep in my cups that I would entertain such folly. No, Paddy, if we decide not to enter into an agreement with them—and I still haven’t ruled it out—we’ll have to do more than spike their guns. We’ll have to destroy them.”
“Destroy them? Kill them, you mean?”
“It’s only a minor possibility. So—how’s that old heart of yours now, Paddy?” He grinned at the gape-mouthed Dooley as he sat down and held out his foot for the Irishman to help him remove his boots. “Relax. I’m not saying we do the deed today. For now, I think we’ll amuse ourselves by sitting back and letting my darling Marguerite have at it. She may just make up my mind for me, the little dear, and do our dirty work for us as well.”
“No wonder you’re crazy mad for the girl. You’re both bloodthirsty little demons.” Dooley threw a leg over Thomas’s, turning his back and waiting for the pressure of his friend’s foot against his rump, assisting him in easing the first boot loose. “Is anything else to be going on while your ‘little darling’ is causing a dustup and you’re watching?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I believe, Paddy, my good friend, that I shall be enjoying myself by passionately wooing Miss Marguerite Balfour, and to hell with her grandfather’s title. And then, my very good friend, since you’ve asked, I shall do my level best to make your Bridget a happy woman.”
Dooley staggered across the room from the force of Thomas’s pushing foot, one boot in his hands and struggling to keep his balance. He turned to goggle at Thomas. “You don’t mean—”
“Why, as a matter of fact, Paddy, I do. I believe I’ll simply toss my bachelorhood away on Miss Marguerite Balfour. I have to—may God and your lovely wife forgive me—for I most certainly intend to seduce the little cat before another week passes.”
BOOK TWO
INTO THE FIRE
What is love? Ask him who lives, what is life? Ask him who adores, what is God?
— Percy Bysshe Shelley
CHAPTER 11
Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
— Henry Fielding
Thomas sought out Marguerite late that same day, finding her walking in the park with her chaperone, Mrs. Billings, and approached her on the path when the older woman was detained, speaking to a friend.
“Good afternoon, my darling,” Thomas chirped, tipping his hat to her while admiring her trim walking dress—and the even trimmer form it covered. “I trust you passed a pleasant night. Oh, dear. Is that a trace of rice powder on your upper lip? Don’t tell me your tender skin became chafed some way. Perhaps I should consider doing the gentlemanly thing and consign my mustache to the shaving bowl. After all, I would be the last man on earth to wish you any pain—or embarrassment. A gentleman to his toes—that’s Thomas Joseph Donovan.”
Marguerite continued down the path, not looking at him, red flags of color flying in her cheeks. “Go away.”
He danced after her, his curly-brimmed beaver at a jaunty angle, his hands behind his back, his grin advertising his enjoyment. “Go away? Leave you? I’d sooner poke a sharp stick in my eye.”
“All right. That seems reasonable. Let’s find you a stick, shall we? There must be one about here somewhere.”
“Marguerite—aingeal—you don’t mean that.”
She kept moving. “You’re right. I don’t. I’d rather you’d drink poison—preferably one that ensures a slow, painful death. I believe I should have no trouble selling tickets to such a spectacle. William, for one, would doubtless enjoy witnessing your final agonies from a front-row seat. Please send a note round to Portman Square if you decide to accommodate me. But, in the meantime, Donovan—go away.”
Thomas tipped his hat and went, sensing his eventual victory.
An enormous bouquet of spring flowers arrived in Portman Square the following afternoon. The enclosed note read: Because I could not send you a shrubbery.
Marguerite all but threw the bouquet into Maisie’s grateful arms, then fled into the conservatory and slammed the door behind her. When, an hour later, one of the footman presented her with a package that had just been delivered from a Bond Street jeweler’s and she opened it to find an exquisitely designed jeweled hairpin nestled inside, the sound of a clay flowerpot crashing against the brick floor