A Masquerade in the Moonlight(29)
“And I’ll pay it, your grinning jackanapes. I’ll pay it gladly!” Sir Gilbert bellowed after the man, then motioned for Thomas to join them at table. “Sit down, my boy, sit down! We don’t stand on ceremony around here, do we, Marguerite? Picked yourself a prime specimen here, didn’t you? Must stand eighteen hands high at the least.”
“Top to toe, closer to twenty, sir, although I have never before considered measuring myself against a horse,” Thomas replied genially, slipping into the chair at the head of the table—just as if he belonged there, Marguerite thought, longing to hate the man. But he looked so good, dressed in fawn riding breeches that outlined his muscular thighs and a well-fitting hacking jacket that showed his broad shoulders to advantage, that she chose to say nothing.
“Yes, well, I’m a country-minded sort,” Sir Gilbert answered, “for all this grandeur you see around here. My deceased wife had the furnishing of this place, you understand. Can’t plant your rump down on half the chairs without worrying you’re going to blast them into splinters. I’m far happier mucking about in the stables, or at least I was, until I ate my way into this condition you see before you now. Marguerite—introduce me to this young man. Where are your manners, gel?”
“Yes, Miss Balfour,” Thomas chided, smiling at her, “wherever are your manners? I believe you have just lately performed an introduction with aplomb, although I also seem to remember you had to be prodded on that occasion also.”
“Grandfather,” Marguerite said sweetly, determined to be polite—at least until she had the impertinent American alone, at which point she just might throttle the man, “may I introduce to you Mr. Thomas Joseph Donovan of County Clare and, more lately, of the city of Philadelphia. That’s in America, Grandfather. Mr. Donovan? My grandfather, Sir Gilbert Selkirk.”
“I know where Philadelphia is, gel!” Sir Gilbert exclaimed, slamming a fist against the tabletop. “An American, is it? Splendid! I always wanted to meet an American. Tell me about the wild Indians, my boy. Finch!” he called out sharply. “Get your spindly shanks in here. More coffee! Another cup! Don’t you know how to serve a guest?” He smiled at Thomas, waving his hand as if to encourage him to speak. “Well, don’t just sit there. Get on with it, lad. Tell me about the scalpings, the massacres. Humor a bloodthirsty old man!”
A full hour later than she had wished to leave, Marguerite was standing in front of the Portman Square mansion, outwardly calm and inwardly seething.
It no longer mattered to her that she was looking her best, clad in a forest green riding habit and military-styled shako hat, her hands enclosed in matching green kid gloves.
It no longer concerned her that she had spent the better part of an hour dressing for this ride in Hyde Park, with Maisie outdoing herself in fashioning her mistress’s long, heavy hair in a fetching-single braid, then winding it artfully at Marguerite’s nape so that it did not interfere with the jaunty placement of the shako, which was tilted forward ever so daringly over her left eye.
It did not thrill her that her mare, Trickster, was dancing about on the cobblestones as the groom held the bridle, eager to be off, or even that the often uncooperative London weather was perfect for a ride.
How could she be happy about any of these things, when Thomas Joseph Donovan was to be her companion for the next hour or more—her unchaperoned companion, no less—his insufferable self riding next to her on the ugly, rawboned, mud-brown gelding he must have hired from some second-rate public stable?
How could her grandfather have been so beguiled by the man that he had suggested, nay, demanded, they take themselves off for a fine gallop without the bother of having to worry about a groom following along behind them on an inferior mount? Could he have been so taken in by the glib American—or his young age—that he had lost all his usual concerns for his only grandchild’s reputation? Donovan must be beside himself with glee!
Oh, how she’d like to turn on her heels and leave the fellow standing in the street with nothing but his atrocious horse and his overweening arrogance for company.
“Allow me to be of assistance, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said, interrupting her internal tantrum. She sliced a look in his direction, to see he was cupping his hands together, forming a cradle for her to use to step up onto the sidesaddle.
“I’ll use the mounting block, thank you Mr. Donovan,” she replied coolly. “I would avail myself of your kind offer only if I were wearing spurs, and could satisfy my curiosity as to whether or not you bleed insincerity when you are pricked.”