A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,93

as the rubies around her slim throat. The comparison might be beautifully touching, if it weren’t so damning.

“See? You don’t miss a thing! Yes, The Club. That’s what my—what I call them. I don’t know what they call themselves if they have given themselves a name—probably something extremely high-flown and stupid. Donovan—this gown is wrinkled beyond belief! I can’t return to Lady Jersey’s.”

Thomas didn’t give a damn about Marguerite’s gown or whether or not she could go back to the ball or go straight to hell—as long as she took herself out of his sight before he murdered her. Pulling on his breeches, he searched about until he located his shirt and fastened half the buttons before realizing he was doing them up wrong. He ripped the shirt off, sending buttons flying everywhere, and banged drawers in and out, looking for a fresh shirt.

“I tell her I love her. I’ve never told another woman I loved her,” he muttered to himself as he continued around the room, locating his evening shoes and rescuing his waistcoat from where it had become hooked on the edge of the dressing table. “At least I never meant it before! I offer to marry her, be father to her child if there is one—and what do I get in return?” He picked up Dooley’s tooth glass and sent it winging against the far wall. “Not a whole bloody lot—that’s what!”

“You got what you wanted, and so did I. Now, if you’re quite done making an ass of yourself, Donovan, I’d like you to fasten my gown so I can leave.”

Thomas whirled about sharply to see Marguerite standing at the door, holding her gown to her at the waist, her feet still bare, her hair tumbling down past her shoulders, those damnable, damning rubies glinting in the candlelight. She looked like some sort of wildly beautiful pagan goddess, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to throw her down on the bed and make love to her again or if he could dare touching her without strangling her.

But then, just as he felt his Irish temper preparing to boil over in a towering rage, he saw the tears standing in her eyes, saw the redness around her kiss-swollen mouth caused by his mustache, and he was lost. “Ah, aingeal,” he said, walking toward her, his shirt still hanging open beneath his waistcoat, “what have I done to you? What have those men done to you that you trust none of us?”

“You think I hate all men? Donovan, you are prone to flights of fancy, aren’t you? Now, much as I’d adore standing here continuing this preposterous conversation, I must be on my way. Are you going to assist me or not?” She turned her back just as he put out a hand toward her and he began fastening the long row of buttons, unable to think of anything else to do.

Five minutes later, her coppery curls haphazardly contained by the jeweled hairpin, Donovan watched her shrug into the too-large cloak and pull the hood down over her eyes. He, too, was dressed, and the bloodied linen was stuffed in his own cupboard. He’d have some considerable explaining to do to Paddy, but he couldn’t think of that now.

He motioned for Marguerite to precede him to the door. They hadn’t spoken another word, although whole volumes hung between them, unsaid.

Then they were back in the coach, Marguerite sitting in one corner, as far away from him as humanly possible, while he told her he would return her to Portman Square, then fetch Mrs. Billings from the ball, explaining that Marguerite had taken suddenly ill and accepted a drive home from one of her good friends and his wife.

She nodded her head by way of answer, and said, “Lord and Lady Whittenham, Donovan. Billie already knows them and they weren’t in the ballroom this evening, so Billie won’t stumble over them as you lead her out,” then continued to ignore him.

As the coach drove out of Portman Square, Marguerite safely delivered into Finch’s competent hands, Thomas began uttering a colorful string of curses that lasted until he was once more threading his way through Lady Jersey’s moonlit garden, careful not to trip over any of the numerous couples taking advantage of the dark.

CHAPTER 13

Surely there is nothing more wretched than a man, of all the things which breathe and move upon the earth.

— Homer

“I hate him! I loathe the man! If he were to choke on a cherry