A Masquerade in the Moonlight(7)
Hands that penned an editorial, turned a card, held a rein, cradled a blade, or played over a woman with equal, satisfying expertise.
Now his sky-at-dawning blue eyes, ringed as they were by overlong black lashes and edged with faint lines that crinkled delightfully whenever he smiled, surveyed the crowded ballroom as if in happy anticipation, his outward appearance one of a jolly enough fellow on the lookout for nothing more serious than an evening’s amusement.
Where is the bastard hiding? he asked himself, still genially smiling and nodding at passersby. He said he’d be here. And what sort of paper-skulled idiot am I to be taking an Englishman at his word?
His thoughts were momentarily diverted as he noticed a hulking, red-faced young peer who must have last seen his feet when his valet held them up to squeeze them into his black patent dancing shoes. The fool was actually attempting the intricate steps of a lively country dance, and looked as dashing and delicate as a sow caught in muck. Clod. Fully half of the Englishmen Thomas had met in his fortnight in England were featherbrained, posturing, pleasure-seeking idiots, and the other half were sneaking, conniving, back-shooting intriguers who would sell their firstborn for a thimbleful of gold.
No wonder his fellow Americans, those brave colonials still so despised by the English, had been able to thoroughly trounce them in their great war for independence. All that had to be done was to prick their island-wide pig bladders of pride and supposed superiority and watch them blow themselves back across the water to the safety of either their overheated ballrooms or their private counting houses!
Just as Thomas was about to turn away, planning to search the game room for his quarry—and perhaps play a hand or two while he was at it, for a man couldn’t be dedicated for twenty-four hours of every day—the red-faced peer let out a high-pitched yelp of pain. “You kicked me! Don’t deny it, for it won’t fadge. You kicked me! What did you do that for, gel?” the ungentlemanly gentleman bellowed, hopping about on one foot as he attempted to rub at his shin. “That bloody well hurt!”
“For which you should be unendingly grateful, sir!” Thomas heard the young lady in question reply with some heat, so that he noticed her for the first time—which instantly caused him to curse himself for a blind blockhead for not having espied the beautiful, fiery-haired creature before this moment. “If I had not hurt you I should be obliged to have at you again. You’ve torn my flounce with one of those clumsy great feet of yours. If you treat your horseflesh as cowhandedly as you do your dancing partners, I am surprised you haven’t been trampled by one of the poor beasts long since.”
The young woman’s former dancing partner, now showing all the signs of a man who would dearly love to cuff her on the ear but knew he could do no such thing and still be considered a gentleman, blustered a time or two before turning on his heels and limping away, leaving her quite deserted on the edge of the vast dance floor.
Thomas watched in open amusement as the young woman—hardly more than a girl, actually—jammed her fists onto her hips, glaring at the man’s departing back. “That’s it—run back to your mama. Perhaps she’ll feed you a sweet,” she declared vehemently, if quietly, so that Thomas supposed she hadn’t yet realized she’d been placed in the position of having to navigate her way back to her own mama by herself.
Now here, Thomas thought as he swiftly tossed off the remainder of his wine and discreetly pitched the empty glass into a nearby pot holding a large, wilting palm, was an opportunity no gentleman of initiative could pass by without hating himself in the morning.
Pushing away from the pillar, his eyes roaming the length of Miss Opportunity’s demurely clad body and finding himself well satisfied by what he saw—and even more pleased with what he imagined but could not see—Thomas approached, bowing as he said, “How unremittingly rude of that fellow, abandoning you this way.” Straightening, he smiled at her from beneath his mustache. Oh, yes, this was a most delectable morsel. “And you’ve been abandoned, fair lady, never doubt it. My name is Donovan—Thomas Joseph Donovan, to be precise about the thing—and I could not help but notice your plight. May I possibly be of some service?”
“Possibly.” She coolly returned his assessing look, not seeming in the least discomfited by either his laughing blue eyes or his preemptive introduction, so that he quickly amended his assessment of the young lady to include at least a modicum of brains along with her considerable beauty. “Do you dance, Thomas Joseph Donovan?” she asked, smiling up at him, displaying a most enticing dimple just to the right of her full pink mouth.