A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,88

his thumbs moving in small, tantalizing circles against her palms. He knew she wasn’t being coy, trying too hard to show she was not a common wanton. She was frightened, and he didn’t blame her. He was frightened himself, for they were about to take a step that could not be undone. “Handsome, is it, Marguerite?” he asked teasingly, attempting to stoke her temper. “Thank you. I’m flattered. Then you’ve begun to favor my mustache?”

“Only if I could make soup of it!” she countered, this time succeeding in freeing her hands, and then rushing over to the balustrade to look out over the rapidly darkening gardens.

He followed after her, laying his hands on her shoulders, to find that she was trembling even though the night was warm, almost hot. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He had planned it all out, instinctively knowing he had her cooperation, her assistance—knowing that this evening was as inevitable as the morning’s tide.

But now he was unsure, clumsy, as if the fine art of seduction were a mystery to him. “You know this is no game we’re playing, that what we’re contemplating is not any sort of conquest, but a declaration of our feelings for each other. I love you, aingeal. And yet, Marguerite—if you’ve changed your mind, if you’ve realized, as I have, that there are more problems than easy solutions in our being together—” For once his glib Irish tongue deserted him, and all he could do was lower his head and place a kiss against her nape, wanting her with all of his being, yet loving her enough to let her go.

He felt her melt against him, her soft body pressing back upon his chest, and he was undone. “Ah, Marguerite,” he groaned in very real pain as she turned in his arms, and a moment later their lips were pressing together hungrily, the fire that simmered between them whether together or apart once more springing into a raging inferno of passion.

Her hands grasped his shoulders convulsively, even as he crushed her against his chest, frustrated that he was so close, longing to be closer, holding on to her as if she were the only solid thing in the universe and he might go spinning off into the stars if he were to release her.

He heard her whimpers, small and low in her throat, and his blood sang with the realization she was as shaken as he—and the knowledge only added to his passion, his longing.

But then sanity, in the form of voices coming from somewhere in the gardens below them intruded, and he pulled away, breathing heavily as he strained to recover his equilibrium. “Come with me,” he whispered, taking her hand and leading her toward a narrow set of stone steps that descended into the gardens. “Don’t talk, don’t say a word—and, Marguerite, don’t think! If we think, if we stop again to consider what we’re doing, we’ll never be able to forgive ourselves.”

She slipped free of his grasp just long enough to pull her gold-spangled shawl up and around her head, concealing her face as the fading light of evening turned to deeper night beneath the shade of the tall, sculpted evergreens. And then they were running, like naughty children escaping their governess, stealing from one concealing shadow to another until, at last, Thomas saw the closed coach standing at the end of the gardens.

Looking around one last time, just to be sure no one had seen them, he pulled open the door of the coach and all but lifted Marguerite inside, jumping in after her as the driver released the brake and gave the horses the office to be off.

The sudden shift of the coach threw Thomas against Marguerite, and together they tumbled onto the velvet seat, laughing, two conspirators who had outwitted society, outmaneuvered the constraints of accepted behavior, and were now off on an adventure to remember for the remainder of their lives.

Righting himself, he dragged Marguerite onto his lap, untangling her from the shawl to see her emerald eyes shining with excitement. “I thought you would only take me into the gardens. Where are we going, Donovan?” she asked breathlessly, slipping the shawl around his neck and holding its two ends, employing them to pull him toward her even as those same eyes concentrated on his mouth.

“To heaven, my sweet aingeal,” he whispered back to her, trying to remember that, for all her eagerness, she was still an innocent. “To heaven,”