A Masquerade in the Moonlight(86)
“I tell her I love her. I’ve never told another woman I loved her,” he muttered to himself as he continued around the room, locating his evening shoes and rescuing his waistcoat from where it had become hooked on the edge of the dressing table. “At least I never meant it before! I offer to marry her, be father to her child if there is one—and what do I get in return?” He picked up Dooley’s tooth glass and sent it winging against the far wall. “Not a whole bloody lot—that’s what!”
“You got what you wanted, and so did I. Now, if you’re quite done making an ass of yourself, Donovan, I’d like you to fasten my gown so I can leave.”
Thomas whirled about sharply to see Marguerite standing at the door, holding her gown to her at the waist, her feet still bare, her hair tumbling down past her shoulders, those damnable, damning rubies glinting in the candlelight. She looked like some sort of wildly beautiful pagan goddess, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to throw her down on the bed and make love to her again or if he could dare touching her without strangling her.
But then, just as he felt his Irish temper preparing to boil over in a towering rage, he saw the tears standing in her eyes, saw the redness around her kiss-swollen mouth caused by his mustache, and he was lost. “Ah, aingeal,” he said, walking toward her, his shirt still hanging open beneath his waistcoat, “what have I done to you? What have those men done to you that you trust none of us?”
“You think I hate all men? Donovan, you are prone to flights of fancy, aren’t you? Now, much as I’d adore standing here continuing this preposterous conversation, I must be on my way. Are you going to assist me or not?” She turned her back just as he put out a hand toward her and he began fastening the long row of buttons, unable to think of anything else to do.
Five minutes later, her coppery curls haphazardly contained by the jeweled hairpin, Donovan watched her shrug into the too-large cloak and pull the hood down over her eyes. He, too, was dressed, and the bloodied linen was stuffed in his own cupboard. He’d have some considerable explaining to do to Paddy, but he couldn’t think of that now.
He motioned for Marguerite to precede him to the door. They hadn’t spoken another word, although whole volumes hung between them, unsaid.
Then they were back in the coach, Marguerite sitting in one corner, as far away from him as humanly possible, while he told her he would return her to Portman Square, then fetch Mrs. Billings from the ball, explaining that Marguerite had taken suddenly ill and accepted a drive home from one of her good friends and his wife.
She nodded her head by way of answer, and said, “Lord and Lady Whittenham, Donovan. Billie already knows them and they weren’t in the ballroom this evening, so Billie won’t stumble over them as you lead her out,” then continued to ignore him.
As the coach drove out of Portman Square, Marguerite safely delivered into Finch’s competent hands, Thomas began uttering a colorful string of curses that lasted until he was once more threading his way through Lady Jersey’s moonlit garden, careful not to trip over any of the numerous couples taking advantage of the dark.
CHAPTER 13
Surely there is nothing more wretched than a man, of all the things which breathe and move upon the earth.
— Homer
“I hate him! I loathe the man! If he were to choke on a cherry pit in front of me I’d stand there laughing—yes, laughing—watching his loathsome, hairy face turn purple and his eyes bulge like sausages plumping on a skillet!”
Marguerite swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks and continued to pace in her bedchamber, hating Thomas Joseph Donovan, hating herself, hating the entire world.
She had sped past Finch last night and raced up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, locking that door and the one to her dressing room behind her, vowing not to leave again until they broke down the door and carried out her skeleton.
How dare Donovan say he loved her—and then have the audacity to think she’d believe him? As if she could! She had believed her father, and he had left her, hadn’t he?
Kitten, kitten. Kitten!
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—what was she thinking? She didn’t hate her father. She couldn’t. She loved him, had always loved him. Adored him.
Marguerite pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling her lips trembling as a new bout of tears threatened. First she had lost her temper, and now she was losing her mind! This was all Donovan’s fault He was the one who had brought up the insane notion that she distrusted men. Hated them, that’s what he had meant. She knew.