A Masquerade in the Moonlight(131)

She laughed quietly. Donovan? Nice to her? That was an understatement. He had been wonderful to her, wonderful for her. She felt more alive now than she had for so long. She could now look back on her life with her father, the life she’d had after her father’s death, and smile. Life hadn’t been all that dreadful. Her parents had loved her. She still had her grandfather. And now she had Donovan.

It was time to look to the future. Once Marco brought her Ralph’s confession, once she had read it and turned it over to the proper authorities, she could truly get on with her life.

Her life with Donovan. They’d be so happy in Philadelphia, and her grandfather would visit often and, of course, there would be children...

“Pssst! Aingeal? Give me a hand up, will you? I seem to be stuck.”

“What on earth? Donovan—you idiot!” Marguerite spun on her heels to see Donovan’s head peeking up above the windowsill, his handsome face split by an unholy grin that turned her stomach to water. She knew in a sudden, blinding flash of insight that she could live with this man for one hundred years and never know what he would do next. And that, she decided, was a considerable part of his charm.

She raced to the window as he levered himself onto the sill and half dragged him into the room, so that he landed in a heap at her feet. “You could have killed yourself, climbing up here,” she told him, playfully cuffing the top of his head so that his hair fell forward onto his forehead.

“Ow! I could have, but I have survived the climb, only to face being beaten to death by my beloved.”

“Well, it serves you right,” she countered, cuffing him again. Then she smiled, for she was truly glad to see him and saw no reason to waste time being coy and missish. “Did you use the drainpipe?”

He allowed her to help him to his feet. “I did, and I don’t recommend it. Why aren’t you in bed? It’s nearly two. All young ladies should be sleeping by now.”

“Ha! This is London, Donovan. Most young ladies are still out dancing. How did you know I’d be here?”

He looked at her strangely for a moment, almost as if he felt slightly sorry for her, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t. Just as I didn’t know for certain which window was yours. I only could see that this one was open. Think about that a moment. I could be having this conversation with Sir Gilbert as he chased me around his bedchamber with a pistol, if it weren’t that I have the luck of the Irish.”

Marguerite nodded, smiling as she conjured up a picture of Sir Gilbert’s bound-to-be-belligerent response to seeing Donovan crawling in his window. “That’s true enough. But why have you come? Did my decision to spend the day with my grandfather leave you so lonely you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see me?”

“Probably,” he answered, slipping an arm around her waist. “Or maybe I simply decided the time had come to make love to you properly, and not the way we’ve been going about it, hiding in dark corners. Yes, that’s probably it—the second one, and not the first. Are you interested?”

Marguerite glanced around the large room, lit only by the single candle beside her bed, and pretended to have trouble making up her mind. As she continued to hesitate she threaded her fingers into the folds of his cravat, devouring him with her eyes. “Well,” she said slowly at last, “I imagine I should allow you to make good on your bragging. You have told me you’re a wonderful lover, haven’t you? Or perhaps that was some other of my admirers. I can’t remember.”

“Little witch,” Thomas said, pulling her close, his hands splayed against her buttocks. “Are those doors locked?” he asked, tipping his head first toward the door to the hallway and then toward the one leading to the dressing room. “I wouldn’t wish to be interrupted while I’m trying to fend you off.”

Marguerite nodded, pushing against him to feel that he was already aroused. Her blood began to run hot, as it always did when he touched her. “I can’t believe this, Donovan. In my grandfather’s house, in my own bedchamber. We’re wicked, the pair of us.”

“Is that a complaint?” Thomas asked, lifting her into his arms, high against his chest, and moving determinedly toward her bed.

“No,” she answered, nearly purring, kissing his cheek, the side of his throat. She loved this man. How she loved this man! “Merely an observation.”

He settled her in the middle of the bed Maisie had turned down hours earlier, then joined her, stretching out full length beside her, still in his evening shoes. “I missed you, aingeal. A whole day spent without you,” he said, dropping fairy kisses on her forehead, her eyes, her nose. “An entire, endless day.” His hand went to her bodice, tugging open the satin ribbons that held her dressing gown shut. “And all of that day I’ve thought of nothing but this.”