A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,96

could spin silken webs around her mind, her heart, her will, with his glib words and easy smiles. And she had given him what he’d wanted.

No! Like her papa, in the end she had to stop deluding herself. She ceased her rocking, her self-pitying indulgence, and faced the truth. She had given Donovan what she wanted, and they both had taken their fill—greedily, selfishly, without thought of tomorrow. Isn’t that how she had wanted it to be? Isn’t that what she had counted on?

It was over now, an error of judgment now past all hope of correction, but over and done. Besides, if she had it to do over again, she would not change any of it. Because for a moment—if only for a moment—she had felt loved again. Felt secure again. Felt safe and inspired and curious and delighted and excited for the future and, yes, cherished.

But it was all a charade, a myth, an impossible dream. Donovan had his own plans for The Club, for her. Now that she thought about it, he’d probably launched this entire seduction in order to keep her occupied, out of his way while he went about his country’s business, aiding The Club in their latest attack of treasonable conjecture.

Her eyes narrowed, her pupils twin slivers of emerald ice. It had to be treason. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks.

She pressed her hands to her temples. Her head ached. Her entire body ached. She hadn’t slept all night, hadn’t even undressed, part of her wanting to hide her shame; another part of her wishing to cling to Donovan’s scent, Donovan’s remembered touch, the memory of his loving.

His loving? No, never call it loving. His desire. His lust.

Her desire. Her lust. Her grand stupidity.

Dear God, please don’t let it be love! I can’t lose again. I can’t trust again. I can’t love.

Oh, how her head was pounding, the pain so loud the sound seemed to come from outside her.

“Marguerite? Marguerite Balfour, you horrible, mulish child, open this door before I have Finch fetch some footmen to break it down!”

“Maisie?” Marguerite raised her head and stared dumbly at the door to the hallway. Wouldn’t she even be allowed to wither and die in peace? Soon her grandfather would be outside the door as well, and worrying could not be good for him at his age.

Rubbing at her wet cheeks once more, Marguerite sighed, then rose slowly, like a very old woman, and dragged her weary body across the room to unlock the door, standing back as the maid barreled through it, her round, peasant’s face a thundercloud, and talking so quickly the words tumbled over one another.

“Well, heyday! There she is, the little girl who brushed past Finch last night wearing some man’s cloak, then hid herself in here like a criminal doing his best to outrun the Watch, while that widgeon Billings comes dragging herself home close onto three, giggling like she’s had the grandest time. What have you gone and done now, Miss Marguerite? Has it anything to do with those old men you’ve been haunting, looking for trouble best left lying dead? Answer me, girl—for I’ve been in charge of you since the day you was born, and I’ll not be taking any sauce from you. Oh, no. Not no more. This has gone on far enough! My stars—you’re still wearing the same gown I put you in last night. Look at you! Crying, your eyes weepy red, your mouth all swollen, and—oh, my dear God!” Maisie’s face crumpled, losing its angry expression. “Bastards! They’re all bastards —every last randy one of them! Marguerite! Baby!”

Marguerite felt herself being enveloped in Maisie’s ample embrace and gave herself up to tears once more, still not quite precisely sure why she was crying.

William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, entered the gaming hell quietly, knowing his intimidating presence would not go unnoticed for long, but also confident no one would dare to approach him and ask his business. He stood just inside the doorway, a scented handkerchief raised to his well-sculpted nostrils, and surveyed the room from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, almost immediately sighting his quarry.

Damn the man. Wasn’t it enough to be a part of the most exciting, profitable venture since Cromwell had ridden to power on the beheaded shoulders of Charles I? Did the man have no sense, no discernment?

“Good afternoon, Stinky,” he said from between carefully compressed jaws once he had made his way through the crowd of green-as-grass youths and down-at-the-heels sharpers to the