A Masquerade in the Moonlight(75)
“Yes, Perry,” Marguerite answered solemnly, reaching for her teacup as she bit on the tender skin inside her cheeks nearly hard enough to draw blood. “I rather imagine it is.”
The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly for Marguerite, now that she’d decided she understood what Donovan was about. “This bud... may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.”
Donovan had told her he disliked Romeo and Juliet, but that hadn’t kept him from using lines from the play to his own advantage. The man had no scruples when it came to something he wanted.
But then, neither did she.
No wonder she was so attracted to him.
No wonder that she would go more than halfway to meet him.
She passed an hour poring over the stack of invitations that sat in a dish on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, at last determining that Lady Jersey was the one woman she could depend upon to have invited the American to her ball, as the Almack’s patroness was the sort who never overlooked a chance for a whiff of scandal or daring.
That decision behind her, Marguerite soaked in a scented tub before dinner until Maisie threatened to pour a pitcher of cold water on her head if she didn’t soon rouse herself, then ate sparingly from a cold collation she had asked to have served in her room.
Her gown had to be perfect, and no less than another hour was devoted to its selection as she and Maisie sat on the hearth rug before the fire and the maid brushed her drying curls until they were gleaming. She would wear white, Marguerite concluded, which was not an unusual color for a young lady just Out, but it had to be just the correct shade of white. Not too close to pink or so dull it would glow yellow in the candlelight.
No. It had to be sparkling white—white as the sun at noon on the hottest day of summer, white as bed sheets hung to dry in the garden at Chertsey, white as a virgin bride going to her marriage bed.
And it couldn’t have too many buttons.
Once she was dressed, the simple but elegant gown of heavy silk boasting only a single ruffle at its hem, but accenting her small, rounded bosom, its square-cut neckline showing her shoulders to advantage, she sat in front of the dressing table and all but reduced Maisie to tears with her detailed instructions as to precisely how to draw her coppery hair severely back from her brow and to the left, catching the thick mass just above and behind her left ear with the jeweled hairpin Donovan had given her, so that the curls cascaded onto her shoulder while leaving her slim neck exposed.
Maisie helped her into tight-fitting white kid gloves that ended above her elbows, a tedious exercise that occupied nearly a quarter-hour, then muttered under her breath as Marguerite decided against gloves entirely and the maid was called to duty for another fifteen minutes, working the kid back down her mistress’s arms.
But at last she was ready, a decorative gold-spangled gauze shawl dangling from her elbows beneath her short, puffed sleeves, and she impulsively kissed Maisie on the cheek as that woman sat sprawled in a slipper chair, breathing heavily from her exertions, before going off in search of her grandfather.
She found Sir Gilbert in his study, grumbling into his too-tight cravat, for he disliked Lady Jersey five times worse than he disliked balls, and would much rather spend the night with Finch, playing Whist for coppers.
“Ah, here’s my most handsome escort,” Marguerite said, sweeping into the room in her new evening slippers that were so comfortable they reminded her of barefoot strolls on the sweet spring grass at Chertsey. “Oh, dear,” she said, frowning as she halted not three feet in front of Sir Gilbert. “Is that a scowl I see, Grandfather? Don’t tell me you’re planning to cry off at the last possible moment. That would be so unfair, for I’m convinced Lady Jersey is counting on you to make up one of the numbers of eligible gentlemen who will squire all the unlovelies she’s so prone to launch at their heads.”
He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow and glared up at her. “You’ve got a mean streak in you, Marguerite,” he growled, shifting in his chair. “Remind me of your grandmother more with each passing day.”
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Marguerite responded, curtsying. “Aren’t you going to compliment me on my toilette? It will doubtless take Maisie entire days to recover from the miracle she has wrought this evening.”
“You won’t send anyone screaming for cover, little girl, if that’s what you mean,” Sir Gilbert answered gruffly, pushing himself up from his chair as if reluctant to leave its comfort. “Now, now. Don’t pout. You know very well how beautiful you are, and shouldn’t be dangling after compliments. Where’s your mother’s pearls? Shouldn’t you be wearing them? Look sort of naked without anything, you know.”