A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,89
he repeated, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her chin, her warm throat, the satiny cleft between her partially exposed breasts, “to heaven and to hell and to all the places in between.”
He kissed her then, kissed her over and over and over again as the coach moved through the now quiet streets, feeding on her youth, her willingness to explore the unknown, savoring the sweetness of her mouth as she allowed him entry.
Bracing her with one arm so that she wouldn’t topple to the floor, he used his free hand to liberate one perfect breast from her gown. He lightly teased her nipple into flower even as she lay back against his arm, allowing him to do what he willed, even urging him on by way of the hand she pressed against his, holding him to her as the coach bounced over the cobblestones.
He was almost beyond rational thought when the coach drew to a halt and he knew they had arrived at their destination. Giving her one last kiss, he readjusted her bodice, then levered her onto the seat beside him as he reached for the hooded cloak he’d brought with him and left in the coach. “Here, my darling, put this around you.”
She took the cloak, doing as he said, then allowed him to tie the strings at her neck and pull the hood well over her head, covering her down to her eyes. “Where are we?” she asked, lifting one of the leather flaps that covered the windows. “Donovan, what on earth—”
“We’re behind the Pulteney,” he answered, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I arranged for a key to the servant’s entrance.” He opened the door and took hold of her hand. “Now keep your head down and, for God’s sake, Marguerite—keep your mouth shut.”
He was halfway out the door when she pulled him back. “Is this how gentlemen sneak, ah—you know—those sorts of females into their rooms? And even more to the point, Donovan—how would you know?”
“I asked,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth, trying to remember Marguerite, as an innocent, couldn’t know that he was in no mood for any protracted conversations. “And you’re not to lump yourself with any of those women. You’re my affianced wife—not that I’ve exactly asked you to marry me, but I think we can safely say neither of us intends to sneak around London for the rest of our lives in order to be together.”
“Oh.” Marguerite looked at him queerly, almost as if she were about to cry, then pulled the hood further over her face and allowed him to help her from the coach.
They were through the doorway and slipping up the backstairs to the third floor within moments, Thomas searching in his pocket for the key to his rooms while maintaining a silent argument with himself over the possibility that he might just be the single most miserable cad in all of history.
He stopped at the head of the staircase to look both ways down the hallway, to be sure it was empty, then pulled Marguerite along once more, halting just long enough to slip the key in the lock and push her in, through the open door. Once the door was closed behind him and his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the single candle he’d left burning, he relaxed somewhat, still feeling like a very bad man, but now concentrating more on the fact that his bed lay just on the other side of the next closed door.
Leaving Marguerite to untie the strings holding the cloak, he searched out the tinderbox and lit several more candles.
“Good God, Donovan,” Marguerite exclaimed, looking around her. “You’ve been robbed!”
“I have?” Lowering the protective glass over the last candle, Thomas turned to survey the room, taking in the clutter he had become used to—most especially since he’d been the cause of most of it. “No, I haven’t. Everything is just as I left it.”
Marguerite folded the cloak over her arm and laid it on the back of the couch, directly beside the jacket he had worn that morning. “Well, Donovan,” she said, spreading her arms as if to encompass the entirety of the mess, “in that case—how would you know if you’d been robbed or not?”
He thought about her statement for a moment, then laughed, especially when he considered that the adjoining chamber looked, if anything, worse than the sitting room. He’d planned to clean up the place, truly he had, but time had slipped away