A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,94

pit in front of me I’d stand there laughing—yes, laughing—watching his loathsome, hairy face turn purple and his eyes bulge like sausages plumping on a skillet!”

Marguerite swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks and continued to pace in her bedchamber, hating Thomas Joseph Donovan, hating herself, hating the entire world.

She had sped past Finch last night and raced up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, locking that door and the one to her dressing room behind her, vowing not to leave again until they broke down the door and carried out her skeleton.

How dare Donovan say he loved her—and then have the audacity to think she’d believe him? As if she could! She had believed her father, and he had left her, hadn’t he?

Kitten, kitten. Kitten!

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—what was she thinking? She didn’t hate her father. She couldn’t. She loved him, had always loved him. Adored him.

Marguerite pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling her lips trembling as a new bout of tears threatened. First she had lost her temper, and now she was losing her mind! This was all Donovan’s fault He was the one who had brought up the insane notion that she distrusted men. Hated them, that’s what he had meant. She knew.

But she didn’t hate all men. Yes, she hated The Club. She had every right. But her father? That was utter nonsense. She couldn’t hate her father. She loved her father—adored him! It wasn’t his fault.

She closed her eyes, remembering against her wishes what she’d heard that last day, the day she’d been sitting in the very center of the Earl of Laleham’s pretty maze, dreaming of the day she would come to London for her first Season.

She had been so happy. Her mama had been feeling more the thing, even agreeing to take part in the house party, and even her grandfather was talking about Marguerite’s coming debut with something at least vaguely resembling enthusiasm.

But then she had heard the voices, her mother’s and that of a man, coming to her from somewhere near the center of the maze. She’d stayed very quiet, listening as the man spoke softly, intimately, overhearing bits and snatches that led her to believe the gentleman was about to propose marriage.

The notion depressed Marguerite at the same time it cheered her. Mama had been alone for so long, and although she did her best to put a brave face on things, Marguerite was sure she was lonely. It was one thing for Marguerite to miss her papa and another for Victoria to live the remainder of her life alone.

After all, Marguerite would be going to London soon, and everyone knew the object of that exercise would be to find her a husband. Not that it would be an easy task, for Marguerite knew she would compare any man she met to her beloved papa, and it would take an extremely exceptional gentleman to win her heart.

But once she was wed, her mama would be all alone at Chertsey, with only Sir Gilbert for company. Grandfather was growing older, another thought that did not appeal, but one that had to be faced. Perhaps marriage for Victoria Balfour was not such a terrible idea after all.

Who could it be? It was a small party, with only Lord Laleham’s closest friends in attendance—Sir Peregrine, Sir Ralph, Lord Mappleton, and Lord Chorley. Which one was about to become her mother’s new husband? She wouldn’t think of him as her stepfather, for that was a ridiculous notion. No one could ever replace her papa. Not really.

“Please, forgive me, and thank you again for your most kind offer, but Geoffrey will always be my husband.”

Marguerite heard her mother and smiled, loving her for her loyalty. But perhaps her petitioner would pursue her again at a later date and eventually change her mind. It didn’t pay to go too fast with her mother, who hadn’t had to make any real decisions for herself since Marguerite had taken over the day-to-day running of Chertsey.

She strained to listen, to hear all that was being said, but it was impossible to hear more than another round of male muttering until her mother raised her voice. “What are you saying? You say you love me, but you’re looking at me as if you hate me. What? I don’t understand. Why am I foolish? That is unkind of you. Is it so foolish to love only once?”

Couldn’t the man take no for his answer? Marguerite,