A Masquerade in the Moonlight(101)
But, a moment later, when Donovan eased her fullness from her low bodice and began rubbing her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing silken threads of desire from her breasts to her belly, it did.
His hips moved in a steady rhythm, beating out a song of love and desire and passion and commitment, and her body sang in reply, the two of them making a new, grand Music that only they could hear, only they could understand—glorying in its beauty, listening with their hearts pounding as it built to a crescendo, then climaxed with a crashing of cymbals that reverberated and echoed and vibrated, exploding into a symphony designed for the ages.
Marguerite collapsed against Donovan’s chest, blessing him with kisses, trembling as he smoothed her bodice back into place and held her, stroking her, gentling her after her adventurous ride.
“Ah, aingeal,” he breathed into her ear when at last she settled beside him, her head on his shoulder, her senses still vibrating like a plucked harp string, her mind still flushed with passion even now that the music her body had made continued to throb, but was beginning, slowly, to fade. “My darling, daring, Marguerite. And to think you were so silly as to ask me if I’ll ever leave you?”
“Will—will it always be like this between us, Donovan?” she asked.
She felt his chuckle as his chest vibrated. “If it is, darlin’, I’ll be dead from old age within the year. But, believe it or not, going slow can be even better. Why, I believe I could spend entire hours just kissing you.”
“Really?” She lifted her head, wanting to kiss him now, then frowned. “Donovan! I knew there was something different about you. Your mustache. It’s gone!”
He smiled, and she saw the hint of a dimple close beside his mouth, where the mustache had once hidden it. “Of course it is. If we’re going to be sneaking about like thieves in the night, I couldn’t have you going back into well-lit ballrooms with your soft skin all scraped, now could I?”
She traced his smooth upper lip with a single fingertip. “Donovan, you’re as much a schemer as I could ever be, do you know that?”
He tipped his head back slightly and nipped at her finger with his even white teeth. “Of course. It’s a vast part of me charms, don’t ye know,” he said lightly before helping her to rise, inspecting her gown for any stray leaves that might give them away when she went back inside.
Marguerite watched in silence as he smoothed down his own clothing, then folded what was in reality a good size blanket and stuffed it back in the bushes, probably putting it there so he could retrieve it later. “But only one part of them, Donovan,” she answered, allowing him to guide her back to the steps. “The other is your ability to turn your head away as I go about my business—no questions asked. It’s one of the reasons I love you so.”
“Yes, well, about that, Marguerite,” he said, stepping in front of her so that she could not pass by him and climb the steps. “I’ll settle for half a loaf for a while, but not forever. I’m many things, but I am not a patient man.”
William is, Marguerite remembered, wishing she could banish thoughts of revenge from her mind for at least an hour, at least during these precious moments with Donovan. “You won’t get in my way, Donovan,” she declared, tilting her chin defiantly, “and I won’t get in yours. What we do apart is entirely different from the way we feel when we’re together. You promised. You said you wouldn’t lie to me.”
“I’ll have Paddy refresh my memory on what to say in the Confessional when next I go to clear my soul of sins,” Donovan said, stepping back so that she could return to the party. “But for now, I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Marguerite climbed two steps, then turned to look down at him. He looked so young, so handsome, so very wonderful, and she hated leaving him. “Donovan,” she whispered, her heart in her voice, “I worried I wasn’t really, truly in love with you—that I was confusing passion for love. But I was wrong. Do you know how I can be so sure?”
He shook his head, grinning. “No, but it’s my heart that’ll be pleased to hear it, m’darlin’,” he said, his brogue now so thick she believed she could slice it with a knife.
“I know,” she answered, refusing to react to his foolishness, “because you present nothing but trouble to me, and I still feel quite confident I’ll love you until they put pennies on my eyes—and beyond.”
And then she lifted her skirts and ran up to the balcony, only stopping to collect herself—and to wipe the smile off her face—before stepping over the low sill and into the room where Lady Southby was blistering the air with her nasal soprano.