A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 14

The ruling passion, be it what it will,

The ruling passion conquers reason still:

— Alexander Pope

Marguerite entered the room with her chin held high, a thoroughly cowed Mrs. Billings three paces behind her, and refused to look left or right at the ladies and gentlemen of the ton who had yet to make up their minds as to whether or not Miss Marguerite Balfour had reduced herself to the level of an Untouchable by her outrageous flaunting of correct dress the previous evening.

As if she cared a whit what they thought! She was Marguerite Balfour and not some dieaway miss who would rather take the veil than face a roomful of frowning busybodies with nothing better to do than judge people by the clothes they wore, the depth of their pockets, or which side of the blanket their parents had been on at the time of conception.

Besides, she was here this evening on a mission. Several missions. The note she had received that afternoon from Maxwell had gone a long way toward cheering her, for both Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton were taking to the bait with delicious enthusiasm, and Lord Chorley had already begun his swift, humbling descent into public disgrace and—as soon as he realized how utter was his defeat—banishment.

But she needed to see William. She would have received him earlier in the day, if only her eyes hadn’t still been so red-rimmed and puffy. She could not let the interview go another day, much as she wished she never had to speak to him again. He was the only member of The Club who actually frightened her.

And then there was Donovan. She had sent a note to the Pulteney, informing him she would be attending Lady Southby’s musical evening, arriving at eleven, after a dinner in a private home. That last bit had been a fib, of course, but she didn’t want Donovan in the way before she had met with Laleham, for he was sure to interfere.

Thomas Joseph Donovan. The man interfered with everything she did. Her revenges, her dreams, even her confusions. And yet, if she didn’t see him again tonight, hold him again tonight, love him again tonight, she had no great desire to live to see the dawn.

And if that made her a wanton, so be it. She’d not be short of company in hell!

“Miss Balfour! You are in looks this evening. How gratifying that your indisposition of this afternoon is now a thing of the past.”

Marguerite clenched her teeth together tightly for a moment, swallowed down on an impulse to shiver, then turned to curtsy to the Earl of Laleham, who always seemed to look at her as if she was a property he was considering purchasing. “La, sir, I thank you,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him as she had seen a young woman named Araminta do to Donovan before he had joined her last night. “You must be the bravest of men, your lordship, to be willing to be seen with me. I am in disgrace, you know.”

He bowed over her extended hand, his lips cool and dry against her skin. “On the contrary, Miss Balfour,” he said, and she watched, bemused, for his lips barely moved as he uttered the words. “It is your chaperone here who has fatally blotched her copybook. Everyone knows full well you are motherless, and therefore it is your chaperone who must be held accountable if you are to inadvertently commit a minor faux pas, and so I have already informed our hostess. I believe the dear lady is even now passing along my words to everyone in attendance.”

“Oh, Lord. I’m doomed,” Mrs. Billings moaned quietly, so that Marguerite prudently took hold of the woman’s elbow, in case she swooned, and quickly suggested they adjourn to the row of chairs at the back of the crowded room where the amateur musicians would soon perform.

“Perhaps we might seek out a glass of lemonade for your chaperone, Miss Balfour?” Lord Laleham suggested a moment later, as if he could read her mind.

“Yes,” she answered, slipping her arm through his so that everyone could see she was with him, that he accepted her. She didn’t care if she were to become a pariah, but being in disgrace would limit her invitations, and she wished to be on the scene to watch each of her victims fall. “I believe that might be best. We can then give dear Billie a few moments alone in which to collect herself.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Billings said, sighing, then reached into her reticule for her vinaigrette.

Together, Marguerite and the earl made one circuit of the long room, greeting mutual acquaintances, Marguerite smiling as if she were truly enjoying herself before adjourning to one of the dozen or so tall, open windows looking out over the gardens that had been thrown wide to catch the evening breezes.

“Sir Gilbert is still shunning society, dear Marguerite?” Laleham inquired as if he truly wished an answer.

“You know my grandfather, William,” Marguerite replied, watching as a young couple strolled down one of the dimly lit paths, their heads pressed together. Will I soon be out there with Donovan? “He would rather visit the tooth drawer than spend an evening listening to amateur musicians sawing away on their instruments. In truth, so would I. Do you suppose Lady Southby is going to sing? She did two weeks ago, at Lord March’s, and I had to pinch the inside of my wrist to keep from jumping up and stuffing my shawl down her gullet. If anyone made such a terrible racket near the home farm at Chertsey the hens would lay square eggs for a fortnight. But enough of that! How are you, William? It has been so long since we’ve spoken. Is your injury quite healed?”

“Descriptions of my injury were quite exaggerated, my dear,” he said, taking her elbow and assisting her in stepping over the low windowsill and out onto the balcony. “I am much recovered, as my presence here tonight proves. But I have learned my lesson. Never turn your back on an American, my dear, for they are not dedicated to any notions of fair play.”

Marguerite longed to slap him. “Are you saying, William,” she asked, careful to keep her tone even, “Mr. Donovan took advantage of your good manners and attacked you unfairly? How utterly expected of the man. I barely know him, but I believe he hasn’t a single scruple.”

Lord Laleham smiled, stepping in front of Marguerite so that she could not advance to one of the stone benches and sit down. “I have always known you were an intelligent young lady, Marguerite, ever since you were little. Do you remember my visits to Chertsey—and your excursions to Laleham Hall? Those were wonderful days, with your parents and I such good, good friends. Why, we were almost a family.”

Marguerite felt a chill sweep across her shoulders and pulled her pale pink shawl closer around her. Why was he doing this to her? Why was he bringing up old memories, old hurts? “My family is all gone now, William, except for Grandfather.”

He took hold of her hands, bringing them to his chest. “You can begin another family, my dearest Marguerite,” he said, his voice low and faintly fevered, his dark eyes boring into her very soul. For the first time in her recollection, he seemed not quite in control of himself. “I am reluctant to embarrass you, but that man Donovan has been bruiting it about that he plans to make you his wife. Yet you have just now told me you dislike him. That’s good, Marguerite. Very good and most reassuring. Your Selkirk lineage is perfect. You are entirely too precious to throw yourself away on just anyone. Why, with the right man at your side, Marguerite, you could become the beloved matriarch of a dynasty.”

Was he suggesting a marriage between the two of them? No. That was impossible. William was twice her age—more! She must have misunderstood. But wait! He seemed overly concerned with her lineage, as if he had already considered a union with the Selkirk family. Had he been the one in the maze? The one who had proposed to her mother? It was possible. Anything was possible. Marguerite opened her mouth, not knowing what she could answer, and then heard herself ask, “A dynasty? Really? As you would have done with Victoria?”

She watched, unable to look away, unable to move, as his skin seemed to tighten over his cheekbones, pushing the blood from his face. “Perhaps you are still laboring under the strain of your recent indisposition, my dear, to have even considered such a possibility. I was Geoffrey’s friend. His very good friend.”

“Yes, yes you were, William,” Marguerite agreed, remembering her father’s diary, remembering her mother’s admission of a year ago that her father had taken his own life. She pushed her suspicions from her mind, but not too far, for she would consider them again later, when she was alone. After all, it could have been William that day in the maze. It had to have been one of them. Why not William? “You must have been devastated when my papa died so suddenly.”

Still Laleham held her hands in his, her knuckles brushing against the folds of his cravat. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath when he opened his mouth, to utter what she immediately knew was a lie. “I always thought he had a poet’s frail constitution—but his death was still so sudden. Your dear mama never really recovered from her loss, did she?”

Beware the man without weaknesses. Marguerite heard her father’s words ringing in her head. He hadn’t heeded his own warning, but she would. She did. She had no plans to involve herself personally in Laleham’s destruction. Sir Ralph would do it for her, thanks to his fear of death, thanks to his new pursuit of eternal life. To gain his “Shield of Invincibility” Ralph would spill all his secrets—and all of William’s secrets—to his trusted fortune-teller, thus giving her all the ammunition she would need to destroy the man. But it was so difficult not to call Laleham on his lies, so very difficult to stand here, smiling, and listen to his assertions of friendship, his nearly declared proposal of marriage. A dynasty? Dear God—did William possess a weakness after all?

Marguerite blinked rapidly, tears that were close to the surface anyway now helpful to her as she said, “Dear, William. Such a good friend, and yet you don’t know. I had thought—I had always assumed... William, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Papa did not die peacefully as you were told. He—he hanged himself in the gardens. Grandfather told me everything last year, after Mama died. You see, it was she who found him there. It was she who ever after suffered from a weak heart—and with good reason.”

Laleham released her hands only to draw her against his chest, her head pressed into his shoulder. “Dear, sweet child! Of course, I knew. But you were never to be told. What good would it do? What harm could it deal you to hear such terrible truths? You’re an innocent, my dear—an innocent! Your mind shouldn’t be cluttered with terrible visions.”

An innocent? Now Marguerite knew the man was mad. She hadn’t been innocent in the ways of man since last spring, when her mother had collapsed in Laleham’s maze, died in Laleham’s own country house. Surely he had to know that! Now, since last night, she was no longer an innocent in the ways of love. She was in the process of bringing five men to their knees for their part in her parents’ deaths. If she were any less innocent she would have already sprouted horns and a pointed tail.

She carefully disengaged herself from Laleham’s embrace —an embrace that didn’t feel the least avuncular, especially in sight of his prattlings about a “dynasty.” Averting her eyes, for she could no longer look at him without wondering yet again, Is he the one? Is he the one who was in the maze with Mama? she said, “I believe I should like to be returned to Mrs. Billings now, William. I suddenly feel the need to sit and reflect upon all we have said here tonight.”

“I agree,” he answered quickly, as if he too needed to think, then took her arm and led her back into the brightly lit room. “I did not mean to shock you, my dear child. But I have been watching you all these years, watching and feeling proud as you grew into a beautiful young woman. Slowly, over this past year, it dawned on me that our little Marguerite was ready for marriage. Even you must notice that you seem to seek the company of mature men. No one like that clod, Donovan! Our lands already march together, and Sir Gilbert would want for nothing all the remaining days of his life. But I would never frighten you, my dear. There is time for you to consider what I’ve said. Truly. I am nothing if not patient.”

“Thank you, William. I am grateful, truly I am.” Then another thought struck her. “You—you aren’t planning to speak to Sir Gilbert about Mr. Donovan or—or anything else, are you, William?”

“There will be no need for that,” he answered shortly, and she looked up at him, startled at his arrogance, to see him glaring at something across the room. Without turning her head she sensed that Donovan had arrived. “Come, my dear,” he commanded, “and I’ll return you to your chaperone. I would stay and listen to the program with you, enduring the pain with you, but I have just now recalled an invitation elsewhere I cannot shirk. The Season is so full of entertainments. You will forgive me, won’t you?”

Forgive him? She’d consider searching out a trumpet to send him on his way, if only he’d go now and not confront Donovan, who was looking particularly handsome this evening—and particularly angry. “Of course, William. Perhaps I will see you again at Lady Brill’s masquerade on Friday? Grandfather has given me permission—reluctantly —and it should be great fun. I have never before attended a masquerade.”

The earl halted in front of Mrs. Billings and bowed over Marguerite’s hand after she was seated in the uncomfortable, straight-back chair. “Masquerades are fast becoming frowned on, but if you are going to be there, Miss Balfour, I would not miss it for the world. I will not even ask you to disclose your costume to me, for I feel sure I would know you anywhere,” he said, then withdrew before he could see her wipe the back of her hand against her silk skirts, attempting to banish the memory of his touch.

“I fear, Miss Balfour,” Mrs. Billings announced a moment later with great formality, “that I have no choice but to tender my resignation as of the conclusion of this evening. I have failed you, as his lordship so rightly pointed out, and failed myself. I should have shown more backbone, but I have always been a timid sort. A woman with no jointure, no income, needs must be as her employer wishes her to be. You have wished me to be a mere shadow, with no voice, no opinion, and no weight. I have done so, much to my chagrin, and now I am ruined. I have no choice but to take myself off to Scotland or Wales or some other such godless place and begin again. But before I leave, Miss Balfour—Marguerite—I wish to tell you something.”

She shifted on her chair and declared heatedly, “Marguerite Balfour, you are by far the most outrageous, impertinent, most perfectly horrible creature it has ever been my misfortune to bear-lead, and I would like nothing more than to dunk you head and ears in the ocean, just to see you splutter!” She bobbed her head a single time, nearly dislodging her purple turban. “There! I’ve said it, and I’m not sorry!”

Marguerite looked at Mrs. Billings for a long moment, watching a tide of hot color rise in the older woman’s cheeks. And then she smiled in real enjoyment. “Why, Billie—you do possess some backbone after all. Good for you! I think I’ll ask Grandfather to increase your wages. That, and a letter of recommendation once the Season is over—a letter that is so glowing it will bring tears to your eyes to read it.”

“Increase—increase my wages?” Mrs. Billings looked to either side of her, as if expecting a rocket to explode in the midst of Lady Southby’s musical evening, then peered intently at Marguerite. “And a recommendation? Why?”

“Why?” Marguerite repeated, smiling. “That’s simple enough, Billie. You already are convinced I’m beyond redemption, so that I no longer have to listen to your endless homilies on the correct behavior expected of a young girl just Out. You have a gratifying respect for the damage I can do a person if I’m opposed in any wish to get my own way. And lastly, but still important, it would fatigue me greatly to have to find another such informed, conformable lady willing to turn her head the other way while I go about the business of ruining myself. In short, I cannot lose you Billie. You are the epitome of incompetence, and I despair of seeing your like again.”

“You’re a horrid, horrid creature, Marguerite Balfour,” Mrs. Billings said feelingly. “I shall pray for your immortal soul.”

“Do that, Billie,” Marguerite answered, seeing Donovan moving toward the same window she and Laleham had passed through not that many minutes ago. “But you will remain in my grandfather’s employ?”

“For my sins, yes.”

“Good. I see Miss Clemmons is approaching the harp for our first selection. Now why don’t you sit here like a good little chaperone while I escape what is bound to be a most unfortunate interlude? Feel free to pray quietly while I am gone—your prayers joining with those of dearest Maisie, who is doubtless even at this moment determinedly beating down the good Lord’s door with her entreaties for mercy. Or perhaps you’d rather busy yourself adding up how much more money you will be making to turn a blind eye to my affairs?”

Mrs. Billings tugged on Marguerite’s skirts, detaining her as Donovan disappeared onto the balcony. “You will be back for me yourself this time, won’t you?” she inquired plaintively. “Not that I didn’t enjoy Mr. Donovan’s company—for he is a quite entertaining gentleman.”

“So it has been rumored, Billie. And yes, this time I will return for you—eventually. Now smile, and pretend to enjoy Miss Clemmons’s performance. I’m off to toss the remainder of my reputation to the four winds.”

Marguerite skirted the edges of the large room, barely causing anyone to turn her way, and quickly exited through one of the low-silled windows before Miss Clemmons had murdered more than four chords of what was probably well-written music. She squinted to see in the rapidly descending darkness as she felt her way to the centrally located wide stone steps leading down into Lady Southby’s gardens. “Donovan?” she whispered loudly. “Where the devil are you hiding yourself? I can’t be gone above thirty minutes.”

She had just reached the soft grass when she felt a hand grasp her wrist, and she was pulled under the trees and hard against a male chest. “Donovan!” she exclaimed, bracing her hands against his shoulders.

“I received your note,” he said, his eyes roving over her hungrily, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. “Marguerite, you can’t mean what you wrote.”

She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “But I did, Donovan. I meant my apology with all my heart. And, yes, I want us to be together, but there can be no more talk of marriage. I—I have matters to settle before I can think about the future.”

“The Club,” Thomas said, his eyes steely. “You’re still after them. And you’re not going to tell me why, are you?”

“No, Donovan, I’m not. Just as I’m not going to ask you why you’re so persistently dealing with them instead of pursuing the diplomatic channels the rest of Madison’s envoys use. I suppose we’ll simply have to trust each other—or walk away now and forget last night ever happened.”

She felt his hands on her upper arms as he began stroking her skin, caressing her gently as he shook his head. “I can’t forget. Call me a liar, call me a fool, but I love you, Marguerite, and I won’t be sorry for it. Even if we never kissed again, if I never were to hold you again, I’d love you until the day they put pennies on my eyes—and beyond.”

She felt tears stinging her eyes—tears that had been so easy to shed these past four and twenty hours, after so many years of holding her emotions tightly inside her so no one could see the hurt. “I was horrid to you last night, Donovan, and you were nothing but kind. I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of a child, the possibility I might hurt you, hurt anyone. I just acted. Selfishly. Willfully. I haven’t always been like this, Donovan, I promise. I barely recognize myself this last year. I was just incredibly mean to Billie, and she can’t help herself. I’m so sorry.”

She watched, amazed, as Thomas smiled. “I rather enjoy seeing you humble, aingeal. Will I ever see it again?”

The corners of her mouth tilted and she returned his smile. “I doubt it most devoutly, Donovan, but you can hope.”

“Can I hope to win your love?”

Marguerite closed her eyes. Now was the time to tell him what she had decided, what she had always known but only recently—very recently—acknowledged. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression solemn. “You already have it, Donovan. Now it’s up to you to decide if you want to keep it.”

That was the last thing she said for several moments, as his mouth came down to claim hers and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him close as their lips slanted first this way, then the other, as she attempted to—she thought wildly—eat the man alive.

Her teeth nipped his bottom lip and he quickly returned the gesture; then their lips opened and he devoured her with his mouth, his tongue ravaging her as she took great gulps of his warm breath, drank in the moistness from his mouth as she shared hers with him, each of them feeding each other life-giving moisture as if they were savoring their first nourishing sips of water after a long drought.

She felt his arms at her waist, at her sides, cupping her buttocks, pressing her most intimate parts against his most aroused, arousing parts, traveling to her bodice, roughly, almost frantically kneading her breasts inside their damnable confinement as she strained to get closer to him, ever closer.

This was madness. This was a hunger such as she had never known. This was heat and light and passion and a longing for possession, to be possessed, that meant more than air to breathe, water to drink, or food to eat. This was her life, her reason for living, her only reality, her mind-exploding explanation for why she existed at all.

This was love.

She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath the taut material of his jacket. She raked her fingers through his thick hair, pulling him closer, grinding her mouth against his, moving her hips in small circles, feeling the bulge of his manhood against her soft stomach. She pressed one leg between his, trapping that manhood against her thigh, exulting in the knowledge she may have passed beyond rational thought but then, so had he.

He tore his head away from hers and she moaned in loss before he buried his lips against the side of her throat, breathing heavily as he showered her with hard, burning kisses from her ear to her shoulder.

She felt him begin to move, holding her feet above the ground as he nearly staggered deeper into the trees, out of sight of the light spilling from the windows, but still close enough to the mansion to be discovered by anyone who might decide to go poking about in the bushes. She didn’t make his passage into the greenery any easier for, while he continued to press kisses against her throat, she discovered that nibbling on his earlobe, alternately laving it with her flicking tongue, brought the most delicious groan rising from deep in his chest.

And then she was falling backwards, kept from fear only by holding tightly to Donovan’s back, feeling his arms supporting her until she was lying on something woolen, some cloak or cape her most ingenious Donovan had provided for her, the darling. It would appear that he’d had a good opinion of his ability to win her again this evening.

He followed her down, lying half on her, half beside her, one hand cradling her head even as the other began hiking up her skirts. As their lips met in another ravenous kiss, she pushed her hands down, reaching for the buttons on his breeches, knowing that once again there would be no time for words, no reason for prudery, no excuse for delay. Their passions were running too hot, too fierce, for either of them to go slow. Their need was too great for shame, their very position in this small secluded space amid the shrubbery adding to the excitement, the pleasure.

She felt his hand on her leg, her thigh, the soft skin above her white silk stockings, and smiled against his mouth as he realized that she was not wearing any undergarment save the wisp of material that secured those stockings. If she was going to be wanton, Marguerite had decided, she was not going to do it by half measures!

She felt the last of the buttons slip its mooring and hesitated only a moment before reaching inside the gap and colliding with Donovan’s aroused manhood. She had glimpsed him briefly last night and been amazed by his beauty, his size. Raised on a working estate, she was no stranger to the business of male and female parts, had even sneaked down to the fenced yard the day Squire Hadley’s stallion had been mounted on Sir Gilbert’s prize mare, but never before had she seen any beauty in the maneuverings.

Until last night.

Until Donovan.

She felt the bristle of his curled hair as she pressed her hand against his smooth lower belly, then felt a shock of pleasure pierce her most intimate places as her fingers discovered the silky, velvet, yet amazingly hard shaft of him. At the same time, she could feel his fingers moving between her legs, dipping inside her, stroking her until she thought she would have to scream.

She lifted her head to his shoulder and bit him, hard.

“Christ, Marguerite,” Donovan whispered hoarsely, burying his head against her breasts. “I don’t believe this. I should be better—stronger. But I can’t wait, aingeal. I have to have you now or disgrace myself.”

She was nothing if not agreeable, even when he rolled completely onto his back and pulled her on top of him, so that she was on her knees, straddling him. “Donovan?” she questioned him, peering down at him through the darkness.

“You can’t disappear again tonight, darlin’,” he answered, pushing his breeches down his strong legs to the knee, then arranging her skirts so that her bare buttocks were tickled by the hair on his thighs. “This is the only way we can keep you from being mussed past redemption.”

Marguerite lifted one eyebrow, considering his words, then smiled. She rather liked the idea, especially when she felt his hands between her legs once more, his fingers spreading her wide, to find the small bud that had burst into bloom for the first time not so long ago and now quickly blossomed again in memory and expectation.

She sensed the tip of his manhood pressing against the entrance to her womb, and she began to raise up slightly, accommodating him, guiding him, then settling herself so that she once more rested against him, his fullness deeply, pleasurably inside her, filling her.

His hips lifted, pushing into her. She pressed her hands against his belly, balancing on her knees, and allowed her head to fall back, her eyes tightly closed as she reveled in the sensations coursing through her body. Her tongue had to push forward, sliding between her lips, moving from side to side as if she were licking honey from them, feeding the hunger that grew deep inside her, urging her to move her body forward, then back, then to the left, then to the right, each small movement bringing the swelling bud in closer contact with Donovan’s body, each slight shift in position sending her higher and higher, until she didn’t think it could get any better.

But, a moment later, when Donovan eased her fullness from her low bodice and began rubbing her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing silken threads of desire from her breasts to her belly, it did.

His hips moved in a steady rhythm, beating out a song of love and desire and passion and commitment, and her body sang in reply, the two of them making a new, grand Music that only they could hear, only they could understand—glorying in its beauty, listening with their hearts pounding as it built to a crescendo, then climaxed with a crashing of cymbals that reverberated and echoed and vibrated, exploding into a symphony designed for the ages.

Marguerite collapsed against Donovan’s chest, blessing him with kisses, trembling as he smoothed her bodice back into place and held her, stroking her, gentling her after her adventurous ride.

“Ah, aingeal,” he breathed into her ear when at last she settled beside him, her head on his shoulder, her senses still vibrating like a plucked harp string, her mind still flushed with passion even now that the music her body had made continued to throb, but was beginning, slowly, to fade. “My darling, daring, Marguerite. And to think you were so silly as to ask me if I’ll ever leave you?”

“Will—will it always be like this between us, Donovan?” she asked.

She felt his chuckle as his chest vibrated. “If it is, darlin’, I’ll be dead from old age within the year. But, believe it or not, going slow can be even better. Why, I believe I could spend entire hours just kissing you.”

“Really?” She lifted her head, wanting to kiss him now, then frowned. “Donovan! I knew there was something different about you. Your mustache. It’s gone!”

He smiled, and she saw the hint of a dimple close beside his mouth, where the mustache had once hidden it. “Of course it is. If we’re going to be sneaking about like thieves in the night, I couldn’t have you going back into well-lit ballrooms with your soft skin all scraped, now could I?”

She traced his smooth upper lip with a single fingertip. “Donovan, you’re as much a schemer as I could ever be, do you know that?”

He tipped his head back slightly and nipped at her finger with his even white teeth. “Of course. It’s a vast part of me charms, don’t ye know,” he said lightly before helping her to rise, inspecting her gown for any stray leaves that might give them away when she went back inside.

Marguerite watched in silence as he smoothed down his own clothing, then folded what was in reality a good size blanket and stuffed it back in the bushes, probably putting it there so he could retrieve it later. “But only one part of them, Donovan,” she answered, allowing him to guide her back to the steps. “The other is your ability to turn your head away as I go about my business—no questions asked. It’s one of the reasons I love you so.”

“Yes, well, about that, Marguerite,” he said, stepping in front of her so that she could not pass by him and climb the steps. “I’ll settle for half a loaf for a while, but not forever. I’m many things, but I am not a patient man.”

William is, Marguerite remembered, wishing she could banish thoughts of revenge from her mind for at least an hour, at least during these precious moments with Donovan. “You won’t get in my way, Donovan,” she declared, tilting her chin defiantly, “and I won’t get in yours. What we do apart is entirely different from the way we feel when we’re together. You promised. You said you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I’ll have Paddy refresh my memory on what to say in the Confessional when next I go to clear my soul of sins,” Donovan said, stepping back so that she could return to the party. “But for now, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Marguerite climbed two steps, then turned to look down at him. He looked so young, so handsome, so very wonderful, and she hated leaving him. “Donovan,” she whispered, her heart in her voice, “I worried I wasn’t really, truly in love with you—that I was confusing passion for love. But I was wrong. Do you know how I can be so sure?”

He shook his head, grinning. “No, but it’s my heart that’ll be pleased to hear it, m’darlin’,” he said, his brogue now so thick she believed she could slice it with a knife.

“I know,” she answered, refusing to react to his foolishness, “because you present nothing but trouble to me, and I still feel quite confident I’ll love you until they put pennies on my eyes—and beyond.”

And then she lifted her skirts and ran up to the balcony, only stopping to collect herself—and to wipe the smile off her face—before stepping over the low sill and into the room where Lady Southby was blistering the air with her nasal soprano.