A Masquerade in the Moonlight(61)
Which was a totally asinine reaction, because Marguerite Balfour didn’t even like him. He intrigued her; his stolen kisses and teasing and forward manner and even his citizenship drew her to him, but her curiosity was nothing more than that of any young English debutante wishing for a touch of illicit titillation. As he had been immediately drawn to her startling beauty, her engaging frankness, and, most especially, her open willingness to investigate the forbidden.
She was only using him, as he had planned to use her. For mutual excitement. For mutual satisfaction. A pleasurable dalliance. One stolen night. For the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the capture. They were kindred spirits, he and Marguerite Balfour—so immediately transparent to each other that they both delighted and repelled each other, clearly seeing both their mutual faults and their shared love of adventure.
And because he knew she could see through him, he had to temper his physical desire for her with a leavening of common sense. She could be dangerous to him; dangerous to his mission. Especially since she seemed to have a mission of her own that involved the men he had been sent to deal with before returning to Philadelphia.
He could have done very nicely without her innocence, without this niggling at the back of his brain that Marguerite Balfour wasn’t all she seemed, but more. And much too good for the likes of him.
He should leave without speaking, draw back from the flames that tempted him to touch, enticed him to speculate, drew him toward hurling himself headfirst into the chasm that would always divide them.
But then, who would protect her from her own folly if he did not? Sir Gilbert? Hardly. No, Marguerite had to be protected from herself, for she had no inkling of the depths of greed and the lust for power that drove the men she had set out to bedevil. He had to be her knight-errant. There was nobody else around to do the job.
Besides, and to his shame, he wanted her. He wanted her so much his gut ached with the wanting.
By the time Thomas had concluded his internal arguments and lost the battle with his better self, Marguerite had thrown back the hood of her cloak and was standing with her arms tightly crossed against her waist, one booted foot agitatedly tap-tapping against the cobblestones. Knowing her mood wouldn’t improve for allowing it to simmer any longer, he took a deep breath and walked out into the drive, forcing a bright, openly teasing smile onto his face.
“Ah, here you are, aingeal,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it? Please don’t tell me I’ve kept such a lovely, eager young lady waiting.”
Marguerite whirled in the direction of the sound of his voice, her cloak swirling around her ankles. “Lower your voice, you mutton-witted idiot,” she gritted out, advancing toward him. “Or does the thought your bellowing could rouse the watch send you into imbecilic ecstasies? And, no, I have not been waiting for you. I just arrived, not a moment ago, and only so that I could tell you I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to talk with you. Frankly, I would be eminently pleased if I never saw you again.”
“Which explains why you’re here,” Thomas countered, taking hold of her elbow and steering her closer to the tall shrubbery lining the narrow drive.
She yanked her elbow free of his grasp. “Don’t be thick. I would have sent a note to your hotel, but you never did tell me if you can read. And I couldn’t take the chance that the notion of my not appearing would penetrate your shallow brain. For all I knew, you could have set up a caterwauling outside my grandfather’s window, like some misdirected Romeo.”
“One of my least favorite of Shakespeare’s works, aingeal. Everyone dies, and for no good reason. But you can’t cry craven and run from me now. I come bearing news.”
She peered up at him through the dim light, instantly attentive. “News of what, Donovan? Are you leaving England on the morning tide?” She clasped her hands dramatically at the level of her breasts. “I vow, I shall be devastated —utterly devastated—by such sad news. Why, I’d have to rush right out tomorrow morning and buy myself a new bonnet, just to ease my heartache.”
Thomas smiled, truly enjoying her wit. “Don’t fight it so, Marguerite. You’d pine terribly were I to leave—at least if you hadn’t been able to satisfy more of your curiosity about why you feel as you do when I’m near.”
Marguerite shook her head, so that the moonlight licked the deep copper of her hair into golden fire. “You’re very impressed with yourself, aren’t you, Donovan? It isn’t as if I haven’t been kissed before.”