A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 12

Those who’ll play with cats must expect to be scratched.

— Miguel de Cervantes

The first words Thomas heard upon entering the overheated ballroom were about “that Balfour chit. Doesn’t her chaperone have a ha’p’orth of sense, letting her wear rubies? Running with old men to make up for her lack of dowry is bad enough—but this puts the gel beyond the pale. Rubies! Mark me, next she’ll be rouging her lips.”

Thomas was amused. The woman he had overheard couldn’t hold a candle to his Marguerite—as could none of the other females clogging the ballroom with their ruffles and flounces and overpowering scents. No wonder Marguerite was never found in the company of women—they most probably bored her half to death. She didn’t have time to waste in idle gossip or worrying about what other people would say. She was too busy running her private war against the men who believed themselves to be her beaux.

“Paddy,” Thomas said when he had scanned the room and spied Marguerite sitting alone with her nervously smiling chaperone, her chin high as if she knew very well people were talking about her but didn’t care so much as a jot what anyone thought, “why don’t you take yourself off to the card room and see if Chorley is as busy losing what’s left of his fortune this evening as he was this afternoon? And don’t bother to look for me. I won’t join you for several hours—four at the least.”

Dooley was looking around the violet-bunting-hung chamber with open disgust. “Four hours? You’re going to leave me propping up a wall in this place for four hours?”

“Or more.” Thomas reached into his pocket, drew out a wad of bills, and handed it to his friend. “Here you go, Paddy—that is, if you want to gamble with these Englishmen.”

“Does a fish swim?” Paddy asked, grabbing at the money Donovan had so lately won from the honorable Julian Quist. He pocketed it, then looked at Thomas. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take yourself off, boyo—I’ve got business to attend to in the other room.”

Thomas nodded, idly waving Dooley on his way, for he had just caught sight of Lord Mappleton and the demurely dressed Miss Rollins. The young woman was thin as a rail and almost a full head taller than his lordship, and there was something about her—something faintly familiar in the tilt of her head—that he knew would bother him until he’d figured it out. But he wouldn’t figure it out this evening, for he had something far more important on his mind than Georgianna Rollins.

He had taken no more than a half dozen steps toward Marguerite when he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Sir Ralph Harewood’s impassive, forgettable face.

“Good evening to you, Sir Ralph,” Thomas said, wishing the fellow on the other side of the moon. “I see you’re in your usual high good humor.”

“We have to talk,” Harewood said out of the corner of his mouth, as if he feared someone might overhear him in the loud, crowded ballroom.

“No,” Thomas answered cheerfully, pointedly looking down at Sir Ralph’s hand so that the man removed it with some alacrity. “We don’t have to talk. As I recall our last conversation, it’s now up to you to act.”

“The arrangements must go through as planned,” Harewood told him fiercely, so that Thomas raised his eyebrows, amazed at the man’s show of emotion. “We have mutual needs, shared objectives. Surely, if we only sit down together for some hours and discuss it, some compromise might be reached that will satisfy both of us. After all, we’re on the same side, so to speak.”

Thomas was pleased by Harewood’s seeming desperation. “Yes, I suppose such an outcome is not beyond the realm of possibility, but I am suddenly put in mind of the tragedy of Lord Thomond’s cocks. You do remember the story, don’t you, Sir Ralph? Lord Thomond’s hired feeder—an Irishman, as I remember—locked up his lordship’s cocks all in the same room the night before matches worth a considerable amount of money to his lordship, only to find the cocks all dead or lamed the next morning, for they had attacked each other quite viciously, as cocks are wont to do. The Irishman, when asked why he had put the birds together answered that, as they were all on the same side, he had not thought they would destroy each other.”

“I hold no animosity toward you, Mr. Donovan,” Harewood responded, his dark eyes looking as dead as nail heads in a coffin. “Perhaps you are made uneasy with having to deal with those fools who exhibited themselves so poorly at Richmond. I cannot blame you. But their work is all but completed, soon making them unnecessary to our plans. If you were to deal with me directly, exclusively—”

Harewood’s voice trailed off, his mouth snapped shut as if someone had pulled on a string attached to his jaw, and Thomas turned and looked behind him, surprised to see the Earl of Laleham enter the room, dressed most elegantly in his usual funereal black and dazzling white linen. The earl stopped just inside the room and lifted a hand to one corner of his tightly compressed mouth as if attempting to soothe away a pain, then moved on.

The thieves begin to fall out, Thomas thought, and so much so that an ailing Laleham must abandon his bandages and exert the power of his intimidating presence in order to keep his minions in line. How very intriguing.

Thomas smiled at Harewood, laying a hand on the man’s forearm in an openly friendly gesture he knew would not be lost on Lord Laleham. “You begin to interest me, sir,” he said, nodding to Laleham to show he’d seen him. The earl turned away, bowing politely to a dowager rigged out in ghastly purple. “I’ll be taking the air in the park tomorrow, at eleven. Perhaps you, too, enjoy a morning constitutional?”

Harewood shook his head. “No. That’s too public. On Friday Lord Brill and his lady will be hosting a masquerade at Vauxhall. Both Vauxhall and masquerades are entirely déclassé in this enlightened age, but it will serve us nicely, as there are too many eyes about for us to meet informally. You won’t even need an invitation, as long as you are in costume. I shall be wearing a gray domino.”

“Of course you will,” Thomas responded, enjoying the mental image of unremitting drabness Harewood had evoked. “And what shall I wear? Could I arrive dressed as Saint Patrick, casting out snakes before me, or do you believe that would be pushing the matter too far?”

“I fail to see any need for levity. A black domino will be sufficient—and a mask over your eyes. You would not wish to call attention to yourself.”

“Indeed, no,” Thomas agreed solemnly, or at least as solemnly as he could without questioning his own sanity. He removed his hand from Harewood’s arm and bowed, more than ready to remove himself from the fellow’s company. “Very well, Sir Ralph. Until Friday? At midnight? Midnight seems to be the appropriate hour, don’t you think?”

Harewood shook his head, looking disgusted. “It is quite obvious you have had little experience in society. Everyone is to unmask at midnight. We will have to meet earlier—say, at eleven. Then we can be gone our separate ways long before the unmasking.”

Thomas inclined his head a second time. “I bow to your superior planning and intelligence, my friend.”

Harewood lifted a hand to just below his left eye, where a nerve had begun to twitch. “Your friend? How nice of you to say that, Mr. Donovan. I like it. Yes, I believe you’re correct. Friends can be very helpful to each other, can’t they?”

“Extremely helpful, Sir Ralph,” Thomas said, suddenly realizing Marguerite had been busy again, for this was not quite the same Sir Ralph he had been dealing with since coming to London. He seemed less sure of himself, yet at the same time was showing signs of independent thinking Thomas had not noticed earlier. “But now I must be off, for I have promised Miss Balfour I would speak with her tonight about her grandfather’s wish to meet and discuss life in Philadelphia.”

“Marguerite?” Harewood questioned, frowning. “She is in disgrace this evening, Mr. Donovan, having flaunted convention by eschewing maidenly pearls for colored stones. Sir Gilbert has let her run wild and, much as I wish to be her friend”—he blinked hard as he said the words, then collected himself—“I, and the rest of us, cannot continue to champion her if she’s determined to make a spectacle of herself.”

“Then I am no longer being warned off, Sir Ralph? And do your associates agree as well? Lord Chorley? Lord Mappleton? Sir Peregrine? Laleham? How accommodating of you all.”

Harewood slipped a finger beneath his collar, easing it away from his throat, as if he felt the rough hemp of a noose around his neck and was seeking escape. “I don’t care what you do with her, Mr. Donovan. She’s no longer of any concern to me. Just meet with me at Vauxhall so that we might conclude our negotiations. Our plans must move forward, and quickly. I need my future assured now that—never mind. I see Lord Mappleton over there, with his latest, and only, conquest. I believe it’s time I congratulated him on his good fortune, even if Sir Peregrine is convinced he will be throwing himself away on a rich tradesman’s chit—as if I care either way. Good evening to you, Mr. Donovan—until Friday night?”

Thomas watched after Harewood as the man moved away, noting the new air of confidence in his stride while trying to understand the reason behind both it and Sir Ralph’s new forthcoming manner, especially in the face of Laleham’s presence.

This could get ugly, he decided before dismissing the thought of intriguer falling out with intriguer from his mind. He made his way down the length of the enormous ballroom to meet the beautiful, outrageous, and most certainly conniving young woman he knew to be his fate.

“Good evening, Mrs. Billings, Miss Balfour,” he said by way of greeting once he’d bowed in front of the ladies, smiling as he saw Marguerite was wearing his gift in her hair. If he had needed another sign of her unspoken agreement to what he had planned for this evening, the hairpin was it.

“Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite responded, snapping open her fan and beginning to wave it rapidly beneath her chin. “You are very daring this evening, sir, to approach these outcasts. Or haven’t you noticed Mrs. Billings and I have been consigned to limbo, thanks to my grandmother’s rubies.”

Mrs. Billings, who had been in the process of concealing a wide yawn behind her lace-mitted paws, leaned forward confidingly. “I have thrown up my hands, Mr. Donovan, and take no responsibility for this hoydenish behavior. Not that it matters, for I am already ruined. I shall never find gainful employ as a chaperone again! Oh, I am so weary, and have the most crushing headache!”

“I suggested she adjourn to Scotland, where no one will know her, and become governess to someone’s little kilted laird but, alas, she is still overset,” Marguerite told him, her emerald eyes shining with what he knew was an almost unholy glee. “Do you know, Mr. Donovan, that even my dearest friends have deserted me? Not Mappleton, nor Harewood, nor Chorley—not even Sir Peregrine—have dared to approach me this evening. And I did so wish to speak with Miss Eyebrows again. It is vastly amusing, you know, being a pariah.”

“Oh, my head, my head!” Mrs. Billings exclaimed, searching in her reticule for her vinaigrette, then seeming to give it up, only to blink a half dozen times and begin listing slightly to one side, like a ship whose cargo has unaccountably shifted.

Marguerite closed her fan and tapped it none too gently against the older woman’s wrist, momentarily rousing her. “That will be quite enough, Billie. If you cannot control yourself I suggest you retire to one of the withdrawing rooms, lie down with a cool cloth over your eyes, and indulge in a small rest. Mr. Donovan? You will do us the extreme favor of escorting us? And then, once she is settled, I believe I should enjoy a stroll around the room on your arm, just for the sport of the thing, you understand.”

Mrs. Billings allowed Thomas to assist her in rising, her movements slow and studied, as if she had to marshal all her resources into performing this simple task. “You won’t go into any dark corners in my absence, will you, Marguerite?” She lifted drooping eyes to Thomas. “We should withdraw, you know, and return to Portman Square, but I do not believe I am up to wading through the multitude of people still on the stairs awaiting their turn on the receiving line. I vow, this has to be the worst crush of the Season. Lady Jersey must be very proud.”

Thomas drew Mrs. Billings’s arm through his, leaving Marguerite to follow along as best she could as he threaded his way toward the withdrawing rooms set aside for the ladies. “I give you my word, madam. Miss Balfour will not be found in any dark corners.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Donovan!” Mrs. Billings trilled, batting her scanty eyelashes at him once more as she leaned heavily on his arm. “You are such a gentleman, no matter what they say about you.” And then she gave out another wide, vocal yawn.

He heard Marguerite’s giggle behind him and swiveled his head about to see her grinning in real enjoyment—the minx. He had wondered how they were going to be shed of her chaperone, but he had been correct not to worry overmuch about the logistics of the thing. After all, anyone who could handle Laleham and the rest couldn’t have to strain her talents in ridding herself of one missish old lady.

Once Mrs. Billings was reclining on a couch in a small alcove set away from the ballroom, her eyes already closing, he led Marguerite down a side hallway, away from the crowd, and assisted her through an opened French window and onto one of the large dark balconies.

“See? Not a corner to be found. I wouldn’t wish to shame myself with a fib. How long will Mrs. Billings stay put?” he asked without preamble, holding tightly to both of Marguerite’s hands, drinking in the beauty of her exposed shoulders as they glowed like living marble in the moonlight.

The beautiful shoulders shrugged eloquently. “I don’t know, Donovan. I’ve never dosed anyone with laudanum before tonight. Several hours, I suppose. You can’t know the bother I’ve had keeping her awake until you could bear to pull yourself away from Ralph. What was he so earnest about, anyway? For a moment, I almost believed I saw him smile.”

“Now, now, aingeal. I think we can agree we are both to keep our own secrets. I won’t tease you any more about what you’re planning for Harewood and those other Methuselahs, and you won’t ask me about my business. Besides,” he added, stepping closer, so that he could smell the scent of crushed roses emanating from her hair, “I believe we have, without speaking, already agreed on our activity for this evening. The rubies were an inspired touch, by the way. No one save myself has come near you, and no one will be surprised to find you have gone missing, although I imagine there will be more than a few wagers as to just who is tumbling the outrageous Miss Balfour in the bushes.”

Her smile faded, to be replaced by a steely glare. “Of all the cork-brained things I have attempted in my life, this one surely bears off the palm,” she said, trying to disengage her hands from his. “And it’s not as if I didn’t know this is nothing more than a game to you. Just another silly debutante with more hair than wit who is willing—nay, eager—to disgrace herself with a handsome rogue with nothing save his own pleasure on his mind. Let go of me, Donovan.”

Thomas continued to hold her hands, his thumbs moving in small, tantalizing circles against her palms. He knew she wasn’t being coy, trying too hard to show she was not a common wanton. She was frightened, and he didn’t blame her. He was frightened himself, for they were about to take a step that could not be undone. “Handsome, is it, Marguerite?” he asked teasingly, attempting to stoke her temper. “Thank you. I’m flattered. Then you’ve begun to favor my mustache?”

“Only if I could make soup of it!” she countered, this time succeeding in freeing her hands, and then rushing over to the balustrade to look out over the rapidly darkening gardens.

He followed after her, laying his hands on her shoulders, to find that she was trembling even though the night was warm, almost hot. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He had planned it all out, instinctively knowing he had her cooperation, her assistance—knowing that this evening was as inevitable as the morning’s tide.

But now he was unsure, clumsy, as if the fine art of seduction were a mystery to him. “You know this is no game we’re playing, that what we’re contemplating is not any sort of conquest, but a declaration of our feelings for each other. I love you, aingeal. And yet, Marguerite—if you’ve changed your mind, if you’ve realized, as I have, that there are more problems than easy solutions in our being together—” For once his glib Irish tongue deserted him, and all he could do was lower his head and place a kiss against her nape, wanting her with all of his being, yet loving her enough to let her go.

He felt her melt against him, her soft body pressing back upon his chest, and he was undone. “Ah, Marguerite,” he groaned in very real pain as she turned in his arms, and a moment later their lips were pressing together hungrily, the fire that simmered between them whether together or apart once more springing into a raging inferno of passion.

Her hands grasped his shoulders convulsively, even as he crushed her against his chest, frustrated that he was so close, longing to be closer, holding on to her as if she were the only solid thing in the universe and he might go spinning off into the stars if he were to release her.

He heard her whimpers, small and low in her throat, and his blood sang with the realization she was as shaken as he—and the knowledge only added to his passion, his longing.

But then sanity, in the form of voices coming from somewhere in the gardens below them intruded, and he pulled away, breathing heavily as he strained to recover his equilibrium. “Come with me,” he whispered, taking her hand and leading her toward a narrow set of stone steps that descended into the gardens. “Don’t talk, don’t say a word—and, Marguerite, don’t think! If we think, if we stop again to consider what we’re doing, we’ll never be able to forgive ourselves.”

She slipped free of his grasp just long enough to pull her gold-spangled shawl up and around her head, concealing her face as the fading light of evening turned to deeper night beneath the shade of the tall, sculpted evergreens. And then they were running, like naughty children escaping their governess, stealing from one concealing shadow to another until, at last, Thomas saw the closed coach standing at the end of the gardens.

Looking around one last time, just to be sure no one had seen them, he pulled open the door of the coach and all but lifted Marguerite inside, jumping in after her as the driver released the brake and gave the horses the office to be off.

The sudden shift of the coach threw Thomas against Marguerite, and together they tumbled onto the velvet seat, laughing, two conspirators who had outwitted society, outmaneuvered the constraints of accepted behavior, and were now off on an adventure to remember for the remainder of their lives.

Righting himself, he dragged Marguerite onto his lap, untangling her from the shawl to see her emerald eyes shining with excitement. “I thought you would only take me into the gardens. Where are we going, Donovan?” she asked breathlessly, slipping the shawl around his neck and holding its two ends, employing them to pull him toward her even as those same eyes concentrated on his mouth.

“To heaven, my sweet aingeal,” he whispered back to her, trying to remember that, for all her eagerness, she was still an innocent. “To heaven,” he repeated, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her chin, her warm throat, the satiny cleft between her partially exposed breasts, “to heaven and to hell and to all the places in between.”

He kissed her then, kissed her over and over and over again as the coach moved through the now quiet streets, feeding on her youth, her willingness to explore the unknown, savoring the sweetness of her mouth as she allowed him entry.

Bracing her with one arm so that she wouldn’t topple to the floor, he used his free hand to liberate one perfect breast from her gown. He lightly teased her nipple into flower even as she lay back against his arm, allowing him to do what he willed, even urging him on by way of the hand she pressed against his, holding him to her as the coach bounced over the cobblestones.

He was almost beyond rational thought when the coach drew to a halt and he knew they had arrived at their destination. Giving her one last kiss, he readjusted her bodice, then levered her onto the seat beside him as he reached for the hooded cloak he’d brought with him and left in the coach. “Here, my darling, put this around you.”

She took the cloak, doing as he said, then allowed him to tie the strings at her neck and pull the hood well over her head, covering her down to her eyes. “Where are we?” she asked, lifting one of the leather flaps that covered the windows. “Donovan, what on earth—”

“We’re behind the Pulteney,” he answered, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I arranged for a key to the servant’s entrance.” He opened the door and took hold of her hand. “Now keep your head down and, for God’s sake, Marguerite—keep your mouth shut.”

He was halfway out the door when she pulled him back. “Is this how gentlemen sneak, ah—you know—those sorts of females into their rooms? And even more to the point, Donovan—how would you know?”

“I asked,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth, trying to remember Marguerite, as an innocent, couldn’t know that he was in no mood for any protracted conversations. “And you’re not to lump yourself with any of those women. You’re my affianced wife—not that I’ve exactly asked you to marry me, but I think we can safely say neither of us intends to sneak around London for the rest of our lives in order to be together.”

“Oh.” Marguerite looked at him queerly, almost as if she were about to cry, then pulled the hood further over her face and allowed him to help her from the coach.

They were through the doorway and slipping up the backstairs to the third floor within moments, Thomas searching in his pocket for the key to his rooms while maintaining a silent argument with himself over the possibility that he might just be the single most miserable cad in all of history.

He stopped at the head of the staircase to look both ways down the hallway, to be sure it was empty, then pulled Marguerite along once more, halting just long enough to slip the key in the lock and push her in, through the open door. Once the door was closed behind him and his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the single candle he’d left burning, he relaxed somewhat, still feeling like a very bad man, but now concentrating more on the fact that his bed lay just on the other side of the next closed door.

Leaving Marguerite to untie the strings holding the cloak, he searched out the tinderbox and lit several more candles.

“Good God, Donovan,” Marguerite exclaimed, looking around her. “You’ve been robbed!”

“I have?” Lowering the protective glass over the last candle, Thomas turned to survey the room, taking in the clutter he had become used to—most especially since he’d been the cause of most of it. “No, I haven’t. Everything is just as I left it.”

Marguerite folded the cloak over her arm and laid it on the back of the couch, directly beside the jacket he had worn that morning. “Well, Donovan,” she said, spreading her arms as if to encompass the entirety of the mess, “in that case—how would you know if you’d been robbed or not?”

He thought about her statement for a moment, then laughed, especially when he considered that the adjoining chamber looked, if anything, worse than the sitting room. He’d planned to clean up the place, truly he had, but time had slipped away from him and his head had been too filled with thoughts of Marguerite to play the housewife. “You have a valid point. I doubt I would know. Excuse me for a moment, all right? I, um, I have to check something in the other room.”

“Please, don’t let me stop you,” she said, balancing herself on the edge of a chair, that morning’s newspaper taking up most of the seat. “And when you get back we can talk. I really think we should, don’t you?”

No, he didn’t, actually. But he could see all her fears were back, and he decided he would give her a few moments to collect herself before he approached her again with the idea of taking up where they had left off in the coach.

“All right,” he fibbed, and went into the adjoining room, quickly snatching the discarded neck cloths from the bed and looking around him for someplace to stuff them.

“You might try that cupboard over there.”

He whirled around to see Marguerite standing in the doorway, his jacket in her hand.

“I, um, I thought you might want this—to put it away,” she said, her eyes wide as saucers as she looked at the large bed he and Dooley had been sharing since coming to London. And then she smiled. “You need a keeper, Donovan, do you know that? I never saw such a mess in my life.”

“Paddy says I was born in a pigsty,” he told her, aiming the neck cloths in the direction of the corner as he advanced toward her, amazed by her beauty as she was lit from behind by the candlelight. “When I was young I only had two suits of clothing, neither of them much better than rags, and now that I’ve come up in the world I have my man, Jenks, to pick up after me. Only he isn’t here, and Paddy makes a reluctant valet.”

As he spoke he kept walking toward her, stopping now he was directly in front of her and resting his hands on either side of her waist.

They looked at each other for a long time, neither of them saying anything, until Donovan smiled and asked, “Are you as nervous as I am?”

“More,” she answered on a sigh, curling her slim fingers around his forearms as she gazed up into his face trustingly. “I’ve thought about this all day, wondering if you were thinking what I was thinking, planning what I was preparing for. But now that it’s all actually happening I—”

“I’ll take you back,” he interrupted, prepared to do what was right even if it killed him, and it most probably would, for the ache in his chest was close to sending him to his knees.

“That might be best,” she said, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her moist pink tongue. “I believe we may have been carried away with the thrill of the thing, the, um, the passions of the moment, and haven’t really considered the consequences if we were to—”

“I’d love our child beyond life, Marguerite,” Thomas interrupted, unable to look away from her mouth. “I have a big house in Philadelphia. We’d be happy there, you and I and the babe, I promise.”

She looked at him queerly, as if that thought had not occurred to her. “Why, thank you, Donovan. But I couldn’t possibly leave my grandfather.”

“I told you. It’s a big house. And I have another one in the country. That one’s even larger. We’ll take him with us,” Thomas said quickly, sliding his hands up her slim ribcage, stopping just beneath the swell of her breasts, dying a little, knowing he should go no farther even though he already knew the glory that awaited him. “Paddy says Sir Gilbert wants to see Philadelphia.”

“Wild Indians, Donovan,” Marguerite whispered, raising a hand to trace Thomas’s mustache from one side of his mouth to the other. A convulsive shiver ran through him, from the base of his throat to his toes. “Grandfather thinks Philadelphia is chock-full of them, remember? He’d be extremely disappointed if he sailed all that way just to find that there weren’t any.”

His breathing was becoming ragged. “I’ll hire some.”

“Idiot! But there’s more to be considered, and we both know it.”

“Yes. There’s going to be a war,” he said, lifting one hand to draw the hairpin from her curls, knowing he was in danger of drowning in the twin deep emerald pools that were her eyes. “I can’t imagine you as my enemy, but I suppose that’s how it will be.”

She worked her fingers into the casual folds of his neck cloth. “I see your point, Donovan. But haven’t you been taught to love your enemy?”

Thomas barely heard her over the pounding in his ears. He pressed his hands against either side of her face, lowering his head toward hers. “You’re not my enemy, aingeal. Never my enemy. You’re my life, my wife, my reason for living—”

“Oh, Donovan, enough of your blarney!” she exclaimed, rising on tiptoe so that their mouths were only a heartbeat apart. “Just shut up, and love me. I can’t care that you’re lying. Hold me, teach me, show me how to put a stop to this burning I feel whenever you look at me, whenever you touch me in ways I’ve never been touched before. Damn you, Thomas Joseph Donovan—kiss me!”

Their mouths met in a collision that echoed through Donovan’s body, shaking him to his very foundations. Their tongues dueling, their teeth nipping, he held her face against his, plundering, taking, being plundered, and not caring that he was being robbed of his independence, his lifelong detachment, his belief that love was no more than a game people played, and then moved on.

Somehow his fingers undid the long row of buttons that held Marguerite’s beautiful body confined in heavy silk and the gown whispered to the floor at her feet, leaving her clad in only the flimsiest of undergarments.

His jacket disappeared on the way to the bed, to be followed by his breeches and a single evening slipper. Marguerite’s hands worked at loosening his neck cloth, then the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt, until, as they fell sideways onto the mattress, her lips were branding his chest with their heat.

He gave a kick of his foot, and his second evening slipper clunked as it hit the far wall, then fell to the floor.

His fingers trembled as he divested Marguerite of her remaining clothing.

Stars exploded behind his eyes as he caressed the curve of her hip, then dipped his hand to slip between her smooth thighs, to find that she was moist and ready and—sweet Jesus, thank you!—willing.

It shouldn’t be this way. He knew it, even though he’d never had a virgin, never thought of the day he would have a virgin. She should be frightened. He should be going slowly, whispering sweet words into her ear, soothing her as she nervously allowed him one small intimacy, retreated for a moment behind her maidenly modesty, then granted him another small boon.

But Marguerite was not typical of anything in Thomas’s notions or experiences. She was, simply, a law unto herself.

And she wanted him. She couldn’t know the extent of her desire, but she certainly reveled in the passion that was building between them with the speed of a runaway horse broken free of its traces.

“Marguerite, aingeal, he muttered between kisses, for he could not stop kissing her any more than he could stop touching her or lose the feel of her soft breasts pressing against his chest as he rolled her over onto her back—any more than he could keep his fingers from moving between her legs, feeling her blooming beneath him, opening just for him, rising toward him with a hunger that nearly matched his own.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear, breathing heavily as he positioned himself between her parted thighs.

“You could never hurt me, Donovan,” she answered from what seemed to be a great distance, her voice filled with wonder, even determination. “Just please, please, don’t talk. Don’t stop. I want this, Donovan. I truly, truly want this. I have to know!”

He lifted himself slightly, taking hold of his manhood and positioning himself at the mouth of her womb, promising to be gentle, even as his every fiber cried out to plunge into her all at once and then ride her until they both were spent.

He planned to go slowly, but she foiled him yet again, wrapping her arms around his back and then lifting her hips sharply, so that he had to follow the ages-old rhythms and press himself into her, feeling the temporary resistance and dealing with it quickly, settling himself completely between her thighs, joining himself with her until it was impossible to tell where he left off and she began.

And then it started. She was so tight, held him so totally, body and soul. Balancing himself on his elbows, he looked deeply into her eyes, seeing that she had felt the pain, but refused to acknowledge it openly. He also saw the dawning amazement, the building hunger, the spiraling ecstasy that must be mirrored in his own features.

He began to move, slowly at first, then increased his tempo as her legs came up and encircled him, as she matched him retreat for advance, advance for retreat in their battle of desire, their first skirmish in what he knew had to be a lifelong engagement of wits and wills and love.

“Oh, yes, Donovan. it’s wonderful... unbelievable... more than I thought... more than I’d—Oh! Oh, dear God!”

Marguerite’s breathless admissions encouraged him, urged him on, until he had no choice but to slide his hands behind her back and hold her to him fiercely, his mouth claiming hers once more as he matched the thrusts of his body with those of his tongue... as his brain all but exploded with the ecstasy of it, the rightness of it, the sheer, all-encompassing glory that was Marguerite.

He lost all sense of time and place, of right and wrong, of the difference between this moment and the moments, days, and years to come. Life was now, life was Marguerite... her sweet body, her enveloping heat, the blazing fire that could consume him, would consume him, killing him so that he could be reborn, to begin again, with no life but the one he would share with his darling aingeal.

“Donovan,” he heard her whisper into his ear when at last it was over, as he lay on top of her, as he struggled to regain his breath, control his racing heart—and decide whether to apologize or thank her. “Donovan, I feel so strange.”

His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed mirth as he rolled onto his side and gathered her close, kissing the warm coppery hair that was so adorably mussed, so warm and alive. “Should I take that as a compliment, kitten, or would your comment be in the way of a criticism?”

His smile disappeared in an instant as she pushed against him, pressing a hand against his chest so that she was suddenly above him, glaring down at him, her emerald eyes not dewy with lovemaking but spitting green fire. “A word of warning. Never call me that, Donovan. Never.”

Thomas looked at her in confusion, then tried to tease her back into a good humor. “Kitten? Why not? You purr very nicely, as I’ve already told you, and if I’m correct, I have more than a few scratches on my back at the moment. Not that I’m complaining, for I’m not.”

She stared at him for a long time, seconds during which Thomas felt something very precious slipping away from him—something he suddenly realized he might never have had. Then she said quietly, “My father called me kitten. I won’t allow anyone else to do so, Donovan. Not even you. Now let me up. We have to return to Lady Jersey’s before Billie rouses and runs screaming through the place, searching for me.”

He watched, dumbfounded, as Marguerite moved to the edge of the mattress and stood, obviously unashamed in her nakedness, and began searching out her undergarments in the trail of clothing that led from the door to the foot of the bed. “That’s it? That’s all?” he asked, wondering if this was how all the women he had bedded had felt when he had finished with them and departed forever. “Am I missing something, Marguerite?”

She didn’t answer until she had picked up her gown and was frowning at it, as if wondering how she could don the thing without his assistance. “No, Donovan, I don’t think so. You miss very little. You’ve deduced that I’m up to some sort of mischief with the members of The Club. I won’t so demean myself as to deny it. You’ve deduced that I wanted you, that I would even assist you in making this evening possible. I won’t deny that either, for you’re many things, Donovan, but you’re not stupid. And, lastly, if my memory serves me, you also pointed out that we are from different countries, countries that will soon be at war with each other, and therefore we have little chance for any sort of future together.”

“The Club?” Thomas repeated, at last collecting himself enough to rise and begin looking around for his own clothing. His gaze fell to the sheet Marguerite had used to dry the moisture between her legs and he winced slightly as he saw the traces of blood she had left behind. Blood as red as the rubies around her slim throat. The comparison might be beautifully touching, if it weren’t so damning.

“See? You don’t miss a thing! Yes, The Club. That’s what my—what I call them. I don’t know what they call themselves if they have given themselves a name—probably something extremely high-flown and stupid. Donovan—this gown is wrinkled beyond belief! I can’t return to Lady Jersey’s.”

Thomas didn’t give a damn about Marguerite’s gown or whether or not she could go back to the ball or go straight to hell—as long as she took herself out of his sight before he murdered her. Pulling on his breeches, he searched about until he located his shirt and fastened half the buttons before realizing he was doing them up wrong. He ripped the shirt off, sending buttons flying everywhere, and banged drawers in and out, looking for a fresh shirt.

“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.