A Masquerade in the Moonlight(9)
“Yes, Mr. Donovan, I do,” she replied matter-of-factly a moment later, as the movement of the dance brought them together once more. He watched the dimple reappear, and longed to trace it with his fingertip, his lips, his tongue. “I am told about my beauty almost unceasingly from morn till evening, and I blush to report that such shallow flattery no longer has the power to set my silly, girlish heart aflutter. Now, sir, do you believe you have it within you to say something original? If not, I would appreciate greatly if you would allow a soothing interlude of silence to be our only companion save this atrocious music that has us hopping about like agitated frogs leaping from lily pad to lily pad.”
Thomas held fast to Marguerite’s hand as she made to draw away to enter into the next movement of the dance, causing her to look up at him, he was gratified to see, in some small confusion. Why should he be the only one who suddenly felt baffled by this highly unusual conversation? “Originality fails me, my dear lady, so forgive me if I quote from the bard—‘Kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.’”
Marguerite’s emerald eyes flashed fire for a moment, and then she laughed. “I think not, Mr. Donovan. ‘I’ll not budge an inch,’” she told him, turning another line of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew to her advantage. “And before you recite any more, Petruchio, I believe I should inform you the set has ended, and you have as yet to relinquish my hand. Or are you indulging a lifelong yearning to be the center of attention?”
Thomas looked to his left and right, surprised to see that all around him couples were departing the dance floor, the majority of them heading for the stairs and the supper rooms situated on the lower floor of the mansion, and the musicians were leaving their chairs and instruments as they disappeared behind a curtain. This wasn’t like him. What manner of minx was this, that he should be so captivated by her that he hadn’t noticed?
He inclined his head slightly to Marguerite, then slipped her hand through his crooked elbow as he ushered her in the general direction of the stairs. “You will do me the honor of going down to supper with me, won’t you, my most beautiful, most enchanting Miss Balfour?” he asked quietly. “I am but newly arrived in London, and have so few acquaintances I fear I shall fall to gaming or some other such destructive pursuit if I am left too long to my own devices.”
“Of course I would like to join you for supper, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite replied sweetly. “I would like it above all things—if only so that I might amuse myself listening to your outrageous flummery and your accent that smacks of America, yet hints of Ireland. But only if you agree to continue in the same vein as you have begun, as I believe I am enjoying myself. Before he attempted to destroy my gown with his hulking foot, Mr. Quist was prosing on about his plans to pen an ode to my dimple. You have noticed my dimple, haven’t you, Mr. Donovan? According to Mr. Quist, it is a most amazing feature. Does it not likewise inspire you to poetry—or are you stymied, Shakespeare’s vast accomplishments not having extended to include the subject of dimples, at least not to my knowledge? Come, come, now, Mr. Donovan. I have grown to expect at least one cloyingly sweet dollop of flattery per minute, or I shall be forced to believe you have lied, and do not truly adore me.”
“You’re making a May game of me, aren’t you, Miss Balfour?” Donovan asked, vaguely discomfited by her outspoken manner, and also feeling oddly naked, as if she had not only pierced through his none-too-subtle flirtation and seen clear to the bottom of the inch deep depth of his commitment, but that she despised him for it. How strange to discover this first real hint of intelligence, not in any of the men he had met thus far, but in a slip of a girl. Perhaps this game wasn’t worth its possible cost.
Out of the corner of his eye he espied a gentleman—the gentleman, as a matter of fact—advancing toward them, and seized upon the chance to rid himself of this beautiful, but entirely too discerning female before he was tempted to either box her ears or rush her onto the balcony and kiss her senseless.
“How unfortunate,” he said, assuming the role of frustrated swain. “Here comes the gentleman I promised to meet with this evening, Miss Balfour. We have important matters to discuss—dreadfully important matters. How could I have forgotten? No, no—don’t tell me, for I already know. I was blinded by your loveliness, distracted from my mission, and have nearly disgraced myself in my own heart. I have placed my own pleasures above the considerations of my government, on whose behalf I am on these shores at all. Please, dear lady, allow me to return you to your chaperone, so that I might yet do some good tonight.”