A Masquerade in the Moonlight(30)
And then, before the groom could step forward to assist her, she stepped up on the mounting block, slipped one black-leather-boot-clad foot into the stirrup, and mounted Trickster with the effortless grace of the superior rider. “Are you coming, Mr. Donovan,” she asked, looking down at him, “or shall I ask the groom to give you a boost up?”
Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, for Thomas merely executed an elegant leg in her direction, then took three quick steps toward his mount. The last step was a mighty bound that launched him into the air as if he had been shot from a cannon, so that his palms hit firmly on the gelding’s rump momentarily before pushing off again to grab the reins, so that Thomas landed in the saddle from behind, without once touching the stirrups.
“Coo!” the groom exclaimed, obviously impressed. “Ain’t never seed that a’fore, yer worship. Yer did that slick as Cook’s fat tabby cat catches itself a mouse.”
“And he didn’t even split his buckskins, more’s the pity. Can we be off now?” Marguerite gritted out from between clenched teeth, her riding crop biting into her palm as she squeezed her hand into a fist. “Or would you first care to balance on your hands as you ride once around the square, like the performers at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre? I assure you, I won’t mind at all. We English do so value a good show, although we are accustomed to viewing such performances in a more suitable theater.”
“I’ll pass on that offer, Miss Balfour, intriguing as it sounds.” Thomas slipped his booted feet into the stirrups and turned the gelding so that his knee brushed up against Marguerite’s. “And please forgive my zeal in mounting,” he said, his tone implying that he wasn’t at all sorry for having outdone her in exhibiting his horsemanship. “As your grandfather has agreed we might dispense with your groom, I suggest we proceed to the park before the traffic on the streets becomes oppressive.”
“Yes,” Marguerite agreed, using the pressure of her left thigh to urge Trickster forward at a walk, “I shouldn’t wish to be subjected to two oppressive occurrences in the same morning.”
“And which would have been the first, Miss Balfour?” Thomas asked as his ugly mud-brown mount picked its way over the cobblestones with all the grace of a cross-eyed hen in stubbles. “I know I am meant to ask, even as I know you hope I will not appreciate your answer.”
“And you’d be correct on both counts, Mr. Donovan. Your arrival in the breakfast room was the first,” Marguerite answered sweetly, waving to a passerby as they exited the square and headed toward Oxford Street and the park. “Not that you noticed. Oh, no. You were entirely too occupied with charming a gullible old man with your Irish blarney. And yes, I do know what blarney is, Mr. Donovan.”
“As do I, Miss Balfour. Dear, sainted, Cormac McCarthy, the Lord of Blarney. When your Queen Elizabeth attempted to convince him to give up claim to his title he talked her into circles, never saying yes and never saying no, until she declared—”
“‘This is all Blarney. What he means he never says; what he says he never means!’” Marguerite finished for him, her mood brightening considerably as she remembered her father quoting the queen’s words to her as they sat together in the drawing room at Chertsey one winter’s night, watching the fire die. She smiled, giving up her anger. “You tell a fine story yourself, Mr. Donovan, when we both know Philadelphia hasn’t seen an Indian attack in more than thirty years.”
Thomas’s grin transformed him into a cheeky youth. “More like fifty, but Sir Gilbert doesn’t know that,” he reasoned, turning his horse into the park. “I simply told him an old story I’d heard in one of the taverns. He seemed appreciative.”
“He seemed bewitched, you mean. Letting me go off without a groom.” She shook her head. “He’s never done that before, even when I ride out with William. I can’t decide whether Grandfather believes you to be harmless, or if he’s merely interested in collecting on some terrible wager with Finch.”
“William? Would that be another of your long-in-the-tooth beaux?”
“The Earl of Laleham is no more than fifty, Mr. Donovan, and has been a dear friend and neighbor for all of my life.” Marguerite longed to bite her tongue, for she knew the American was the sort to remember every word she said. She slanted a look at Thomas from beneath her sooty lashes, remembering Lord Chorley’s admission last night that Thomas had boldly announced his intention to seduce her. “Are you jealous, Mr. Donovan?”