A Masquerade in the Moonlight(48)
“I don’t know, darlin’. For the sport of the thing?” Thomas suggested coolly, stepping closer to her as she backed up until she was against the wall, figuratively as well as literally. He tipped up her chin with his crooked index finger, then rested his other hand against the wall beside her head, effectively blocking her only avenue of escape. “There couldn’t be any other reason, could there?”
Another reason? Damn him! Another man—any other man—would be content to see her as a silly matchmaker. Why did he have to look deeper? Marguerite suppressed a shudder born in reaction to Thomas’s closeness—both to her and to the truth. “You can be excessively disagreeable, Donovan,” she told him, shifting her eyes rapidly from side to side as she attempted to look into his without allowing him to see into hers and read the sudden apprehension she felt.
“But you love me anyway, don’t you?” he drawled, his teeth very white beneath his mustache.
He was so close to her. So very close. She was having trouble thinking, difficulty pretending. Was that what happened to people who wove a web of deceptions—they reached a stage where they could no longer recognize or remember the truth? “On the contrary. With very little urging, I could learn to loathe you with some intensity.”
“Liar,” he said, his voice husky as he lowered his head toward hers. “We’re alike, you and I, so I know when you’re not telling the truth. From that first night, Marguerite, we’ve known each other, been drawn to each other. Why don’t you simply admit it? I have. You couldn’t wait until tomorrow night to see me again, any more than I could wait to see you. And now that we’re together you can’t wait for me to hold you, to kiss you, to—”
“Of all the conceited, insufferable—” Marguerite dislodged his finger with a defiant toss of her head. She looked both right and left, assuring herself no one else was in the hallway, and they were not in danger of being discovered. And what if they were drawn to each other? He was right. She had lied to him earlier, lied to herself, believing that she hadn’t been longing to see him, to have him near her, mouthing blatant lies telling of his “love” for her, even allowing him to glimpse her as she went about her business—and glorying in the risk of discovery.
Was that so terrible?
No.
It was exciting.
He was exciting, and she may as well admit to it.
“Well?” she questioned him in exasperation when he continued to stand there, grinning down at her as if he knew just what she was thinking. “I don’t have all night for this nonsense, Donovan. Are you going to kiss me—or are you merely going to talk about it?”
“Patience, aingeal.” She watched, entranced, as Thomas’s smile disappeared, leaving his expression solemn, his eyes heavy-lidded and intense. “‘Though I am always in haste...’” She heard him through the rush of blood in her ears as he quoted John Wesley in, to her, a most deliciously blasphemous way, “‘... I am never in a hurry.’ You’ll learn that when I first make love to you. And trust me, dearest Marguerite, I will make love to you. Long and slow and delicious love to you.”
And then, before she could think of anything clever to say to deflate his arrogance, he pushed himself away from the wall and offered her his arm, leaving her to realize she had been maneuvered into all but begging for his kiss, just to be rejected.
“Now, come along, Miss Balfour,” she heard him add as she fought down her rapidly flaring anger. She had shown him too much as it was; she could not afford to hand him yet another weapon by revealing her terrible, debilitating temper. “I’ve promised your grandfather some lemonade,” he continued. “Besides, I’m looking forward to the second act of the amusing little romance being played out between Lord Mappleton and the so accommodating Miss Eyebrows. You have an odd way of amusing yourself. Tell me, what sorts of meddling mischief do you have planned for Sir Peregrine and your other aged admirers—or are you going to make me guess?”
So much for good intentions and notions of self-preservation! Marguerite’s wrath caused her tongue to ignore the warnings of her brain. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about—and I hope William lops off your head and has it pickled!” she declared in all sincerity. Then, ignoring his proffered arm, she stomped past him, back the way they had come, vowing never, ever to speak to the man again!
CHAPTER 7