A Masquerade in the Moonlight(24)
“Yes, I noticed,” Marguerite answered, opening her fan and beginning to wave it slowly just beneath her chin. “Half of them would be more than pleased if they could invite you to an execution—yours, I believe—while the ladies wouldn’t shriek if you were to climb the drainpipes to their boudoirs, with intent to ravish them. Tell me, Mr. Donovan, do you always meet with such extreme reactions?”
“It’s a cross I bear, Miss Balfour,” Thomas told her, propping one foot on the bench just beside Marguerite’s skirt and leaning toward her. “So, my dear lady—on which side of your grandfather’s mansion will I find the drainpipe leading to your boudoir?”
The fan snapped closed and she tapped it more sharply than coquettishly against his knee. “Your reach exceeds your grasp, Mr. Donovan, just as your mouth outstrips your minuscule comprehension of civilization outside the rough-and-ready atmosphere you must live with in Philadelphia.”
“Did I tell you I live in Philadelphia?” Thomas asked, pleased to see she was not quite the woman of the world she would like him to suppose. Innocent, but not too innocent—and definitely interested in him. Ripe for the plucking, Miss Balfour was, but not likely to fall into his hands without some effort. That was also good, for he disliked winning too easily.
“I don’t remember,” she answered quickly, folding her hands in her lap, avoiding his eyes. “Perhaps Perry told me—not that it matters, for I know less than nothing about America, nor care to. Oh—I believe I hear the musicians tuning up once more.” She stood before he could react. “Much as I would enjoy hearing your tale of woe—the one you promised me earlier—I fear I must ask you to escort me back upstairs. I am promised for the next set, you understand.”
Thomas took hold of her arm, of the soft skin of her upper arm that rose above her over-the-elbow kid gloves. “I can remedy that lapse tomorrow, if you’ll drive out with me.”
She looked pointedly at his hand and then at him, and he could see the thrill of the hunt was once more in her eyes. “I’d much rather ride in the park, Mr. Donovan. I’ve brought my mare, Trickster, with me from the country, but she has had little exercise since our arrival. I will promise to bring an extra handkerchief with me, for I’m sure the story of your boyhood will quite reduce me to sympathetic tears. Unless, of course, you don’t ride.”
Thomas smiled, inching closer to her so-tempting mouth. They were isolated, alone together in the darkness, so close they could sense each other’s every breath, so near to kissing they might as well have been kissing. “Oh, I ride, Miss Balfour,” he drawled softly, staring into her eyes to see if she understood what he was saying, what he was sure they both were thinking, no matter how innocent she might be. “There’s nothing I like better than a good ride. A hard ride,” he said, lowering his head even closer. “Hard, and fast, and—”
“Then it is settled.” She pulled her arm free and took two steps toward the open doorway so that Thomas was left to look at her ramrod-straight back, her rigidly set shoulders. “I’ll expect both you and your sad story in Portman Square at eleven tomorrow morning.”
He moved past her and inclined his head in the direction of the supper room, offering to allow her to precede him into the room, which she did, her chin held high, her perfume tickling his senses as she swept by him. “Don’t rush so, Miss Balfour,” he told her, taking hold of her arm once more, this time gently tucking it through the crook of his elbow, as befitted an attentive companion. “He’ll wait for you, whoever he is. I, for one, would wait an eternity.”
“You, for one, Mr. Donovan,” she answered sweetly, “would have to. Now, please excuse me. I see Lord Chorley searching for me now. If you will simply deliver me to him, you can return to the ballroom unaccompanied, where I am convinced you will locate at least a half dozen giggling misses eager to hang on your every word, idiotic as each may be—meaning both your words and any female silly enough to give them any sort of credence. Good evening, sir.”
“Idiotic?” Thomas echoed, stepping in front of her so that she could not escape him without causing a scene. Lord, but she was lovely, especially when she was in a temper! Obviously she was not used to losing her verbal battles. “If you find my speech so idiotic, my manner so barbaric, and my presence so unpalatable, why have you agreed to ride out with me tomorrow? Unless you are playing coy, which I cannot believe.”