A Masquerade in the Moonlight(8)
No milk and water puss, she! Englishwoman or not, Thomas decided, there had to be at least one enterprising Irishman hanging from the shady side of her family tree. He could love this cheeky miss—for at least a fortnight, which was a full week longer than Thomas Joseph Donovan’s loves usually lasted. He grinned in spite of himself, and the brogue he’d long ago lost but never really abandoned leapt to the fore as he deliberately set out to charm her. “Aye, and that I do, miss. Would it be asking me to partner you that you’d be?”
“What do you think, Mister Donovan?” she countered, tilting up her faintly belligerent, eminently adorable chin. “My chaperone is at the other side of this ballroom, which is almost to say she is in far-off China, and I cannot face the thought of attempting to thread my way through this throng without a companion. Enough gossip tags along after me as it is. You did offer your assistance, I believe?”
“That I did, aingeal girl.”
“Oh please, sir, don’t spoil your kind offer by becoming impertinent. I once had an Irish nanny, you see, and I know you are not to address me so familiarly, even when using the brogue. An angel, indeed! I have already been forced to rout one importuning creature this evening, and it would fatigue me to have to repeat myself. No, sir, what I require necessitates a gentleman’s cooperation. I assure you, it will add greatly to your consequence to be seen with me, for I’m considered all the crack, you know, if a hair notorious. Although I would suggest you stop grinning like a bear beneath that ungodly growth beneath your nose and attempt to project a more civilized countenance. Wide grins, sir, are frowned upon by our society, which highly values the bored, blank stare of ennui. And now, Mr. Donovan, if you please—your hand?”
A woman with fire! And she invites me into the flames! She held out her gloved hand and Thomas accepted the challenge eagerly, recklessly, feeling the fragile strength of her fine-boned fingers as they rested in his palm. What an intriguing, bewitching bundle of contradictions—extraordinary beauty, delicious wit, and an acerbic, slashing tongue that, if he was not careful, could slice and stab and leave him mortally wounded.
Ah, he thought, intimately squeezing her slim fingertips, but what a glorious way to die!
“By the way, Mister Donovan,” she said as they rejoined the set, “my departed partner, the not-quite-so-Honorable Julian Quist, is a dear friend of yours and, as he became unexpectedly indisposed, poor fellow, he graciously introduced us so that I would not be alone on the dance floor. You do understand my chaperone, Mrs. Billings, will wish to be apprised of this information once you’ve returned me safely to her side.”
Thomas felt himself being further bewitched by the young woman’s intriguing, green-as-shamrocks eyes while he conveniently dismissed his mission of the evening, ignored the notion that a small fortune most probably awaited him in the card room while Araminta and the shrubbery awaited him without, and mentally shelved the idea he was supposed to be disgusted by English men and bored by English females. “Dearest Julian,” he drawled, fluidly guiding his partner into the next movement of the country dance. “It can only be hoped he makes a rapid recovery—upon which time he might complete our introduction.”
The young woman’s free hand flew to her mouth, covering a sudden giggle that momentarily stripped away her air of brittle sophistication, revealing a charming, adorable child. “Oh, dear! I have been remiss, haven’t I? Do you know, I don’t believe I have ever introduced myself before, as that office has been performed by others. It does limit one’s acquaintance, this business of correctness, doesn’t it? Very well. My name, sir, is Marguerite Balfour. I, like you, have a second name, but I have not allowed anyone permission to employ it within earshot since I turned five, decided I detested it, and summarily rejected the thing. Do you mind?”
Mind? Thomas didn’t believe he would mind if the sun was snuffled like a candle and all the stars fell into the sea—as long as he could hold the hand of the beautiful, spirited Marguerite Balfour as the world died. Or at least until she cried out in ecstasy as he introduced her to one of the more enjoyable delights of living.
And seeing no reason to postpone the commencement of what he hoped would be a whirlwind courtship leading to a blissfully satisfying capitulation in some darkened back garden in their not-too-distant future, he told her so just before the movement of the dance separated them, saying quietly, “I would be exceedingly honored to be your companion tonight, Miss Balfour, and your devout slave forever more. Do you know, dear creature, that you are extremely beautiful?”