A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 4

We desire nothing so much as what we ought not to have.

— Publilus Syrus

He stood just beside the window overlooking the square, not in front of the window, but three paces back and slightly to the right, so that only he could see, and not be seen in return. He stood there often in the early morning hours before the majority of the world was awake, mentally constructing his empire and arranging it to suit him.

During those hours of contemplation he dealt with the worthless by means of France’s single grand invention, the guillotine, and gained a near sexual release by contemplating the terror he would one day see in the eyes of all those he deemed unworthy—the poor, the lazy, the flawed—as he ordered their elimination from his perfect world.

And the very intelligent. They too must go. “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” Shakespeare had written. A laudable sentiment, but it would be foolish to stop there. If Shakespeare were alive today, he too would have to die. Writers, thinkers, softhearted visionaries who believed man was best served by helping his fellowman. What emotional, wrongheaded rubbish!

It was survival of the fittest, of the strongest, of the ones who deserved to live, not those that were either a drain on a country’s coffers or a thorn pricking at sensibilities with avowals of equality and justice and all that softhearted drivel. These men, too, would be dealt with, destroyed—just as soon as he was done with them. The moment he had used them to his own benefit, drawing them to his side with his impassioned speeches in Parliament that unflaggingly appealed to what the fools believed they needed to hear.

Lastly, outsiders must go; the Irish, the Jews, the Gypsies, all the impure. England for the English!

It was perfect; it was all thought out; it was preordained.

The divine right of kings—that was the real order of the world, a truth for too long misplaced, so that now all that was left was a drooling, idiot, secondhand “king” of German ancestry wandering the balconies of the royal palace, his tangled gray beard dragging on the ground. A mad king, and his brood of scheming, weak-chinned children, led by the worst of the lot, George, Prince of Wales, who knew the cut of a fine coat but could not rule his own harlot of a wife!

The country was already on the edge of revolt. War with Napoleon Bonaparte, the growing threat of war with America, the royal treasury depleting at a furious rate while the Prince of Wales threw thousands of pounds at yet another ridiculous round of building in Brighton and consulted with his chefs rather than his Cabinet ministers—all these things threatened the possibility of the Prince ever becoming George IV.

There was fear mad King George might die, and equal fear he would live forever. There was talk circulating again about elevating the vain, vacuous, expensive Prince of Wales to the position of Prince Regent, and handing the reins of the government into those patently incompetent hands.

The time wasn’t coming for a new order based on the sanity of raising the chosen few to the rank they deserved and weeding out the best of the worst to serve those few, aid them to build the British Empire into the most envied power in the world. The time was now!

And he would be the one to rule that empire. He would be king one day. No, more than king. He would be All. Everything. The supreme power. Men would one day soon tremble at his feet. And Marguerite, the fair, fiery Marguerite, would be his. All his. The way Victoria had always been meant to be his.

Damn fate! Fate had taken him from home long enough for Geoffrey Balfour to turn Victoria’s pretty head with his poetry and foolishness. Who would have thought her father would be silly enough to allow her to wed at sixteen, before she had even been presented at court? It had mattered at the time, losing Victoria, but it hadn’t mattered as much as losing her to Geoffrey Balfour, his inferior in every way.

He had lost again last year when his calculations had proved wrong and Victoria had shown she was not the woman he had always believed her to be. But he should not have lost his temper. It had been a silly thing to do—foolish, actually, and potentially dangerous. She had been already almost too old, and most certainly too feeble—and had turned stupid into the bargain in the years since that dangerous debacle with Geoffrey. She had been a part of his dream for so long that he hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences of taking on a possibly barren, most probably mentally unbalanced consort.

But he wasn’t hidebound. He could adapt to some small changes in his plan. He had even, in this last year, improved upon it.

For he wouldn’t lose a third time. What had been lacking in the mother was present in abundance in the daughter. Where Victoria had been weak, Marguerite was strong. Where Victoria had let her youth, her promise, slip away, Marguerite fairly brimmed with life and energy and passion.

Soon he would come out into the open, let her know of his growing admiration and affection for her, and begin to gently, subtly ease her toward the thought of a marriage between them. What a dynasty they would found together as he slipped between her silken thighs... to plunge his manhood past her veil of virginity... and home... to spill his seed deep inside her as she arched her back in ecstasy and called out his name....

“William? Ah, William—there you are, standing in that dark corner! Your man said I’d find you in here. Hatching vain empires again, are you?”

William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, turned away from the window to nod a perfunctory greeting to Sir Ralph Harewood. “Possibly, Ralph,” he answered blandly, taking up a seat on the curved back couch in the middle of the room, his spine straight, his two feet firmly on the floor, “but with two exceptions. I, unlike Milton, am not blind to reality, and our empire, as you term it, will be the product of planning and determination, and not the result of application to either Heaven or Hell.”

He smiled invitingly, indicating that Sir Ralph should seat himself on the facing couch. “And now, how are you this fine morning, Ralph? Filled to the brim with good news of our impending success, I trust.”

“Not particularly, William,” Sir Ralph said. “And I’ve not yet found my bed, unlike you, who rise at the black backside of dawn. I’ve come to tell you, the American is useless.” He crossed one booted leg over the other as he slumped against the cushions, his even, nondescript facial features composed in what a close observer might believe to be a frown. It was difficult to tell with Sir Ralph, who rarely displayed any recognizable expression, whether it be one of fear, or amusement, or even intelligence.

Sir Ralph, William had long ago decided, was like a blank slate, and you could write on him what you wished, drawing your own conclusions as to what lay hidden behind his eyes. If you cared to delve that far, of course, which most men didn’t. It was enough, in this age of selfishness, to assume a man like he was simply an agreeable sort, a man who believed what you believed, felt what you felt, and wanted what you wanted. No one, save William, would ever be moved to declare Sir Ralph had an ounce of ambition.

Like and yet unlike himself, William concluded, patiently waiting for his friend to expand on his statement. William knew the face he himself presented to the world, the image projected by his dark good looks, the distinguished smattering of silver that had appeared at his temples these last few years, his aristocratic features, his exemplary carriage and air of impeccable breeding. Only the world could look as long and as hard as it wished and still not discover the real William Renfrew. Not even Ralph Harewood, his friend since childhood, could do that.

Sir Ralph was the optimal second-in-command, the ideal agent and, if necessary, the perfect dupe. He was an able conspirator, capable of issuing orders and outwardly playing the part of the leader of their little coterie, but he was as expendable as any of the others. He didn’t know that, but William did. Everyone was expendable. Everyone was replaceable.

Everyone, that is, save for his consort. Except for Marguerite, who would give him fine, strong sons who would insure the new monarchy.

William steepled his long fingers in front of his face and looked over his fingertips at Sir Ralph. Apparently the man had said all he was going to say on the subject of Thomas Donovan. “That’s it, Ralph? You’re into making pronouncements this morning and no more? Perhaps you are fatigued and feel unable to expound on your words without some sort of impetus from me. All right then. I shall put it to you directly. Why is the American useless?”

“Because he’s an ignorant ass, I suppose,” Sir Ralph returned, shrugging. “I can’t imagine why Madison sent him, unless the American president is only toying with us and doesn’t truly mean to involve himself in what could be viewed in some quarters as questionable covert operations. I mean, diverting arms and money from our own war effort to America, purposely weakening our own troops when we are at war with France—why, even Bonaparte might not consider that sporting. Only remember what happened to Benedict Arnold, William. He was universally despised, even here, once he’d attempted to turn West Point over to Clinton. Stinky bragged to me just last week how he and some of his cronies had been drinking heavily one night a few years ago, gotten themselves fairly well into their cups, and then ridden out to piss on Arnold’s grave.”

Laleham delicately adjusted the lapels of his morning coat. “Don’t be vulgar, Ralph,” he said, sighing. “Be specific. What about this American has led you to believe that he is—in your words—an ignorant ass?”

Sir Ralph stood and began pacing the Oriental carpet laid in front of the couch. “Perry says ignorance is a failing all Irishmen subscribe to in the womb but, although Donovan is definitely not far removed from his Irish roots, I don’t believe the answer is that simple.” He stopped pacing and looked piercingly at the earl. “You see, I really don’t think the man is stupid. On the contrary, I believe him to be quite bright. But he’s approaching this entire business as if it is all a game, some sort of amusing lark—which shows his ignorance. Do you understand, William?”

“I understand this Donovan person has recognized what you still do not see. He has nothing to lose, Ralph. Once we have set our plan in motion, once we’ve concluded our business with him, our Irish-American conspirator will return to Philadelphia, safely away from any of the consequences if our plan is discovered. And, by the simple act of approaching Madison, we have shown that England is already facing trouble from within. The Americans can’t lose no matter how it all falls out.”

The earl slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the Sheraton mirror that hung above the sideboard, to stare at his own reflection. “I had rather hoped they wouldn’t realize our vulnerability. This will make things more difficult.”

“That,” Sir Ralph conceded in his usual flat tone, so that the earl did not know if he should interpret it as fearful or triumphant, “and the fact our wily Mr. Donovan has arrogantly declared he’s bent on seducing Marguerite Balfour before the week is out. Cheeky bastard. I have it on good authority he has all but tipped more than one of this season’s crop of debutantes over on her heels since he arrived in England, so I imagine it isn’t an idle boast. William? William—did you hear me?”

William Renfrew didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He refused to react. He only watched his reflection as, in spite of years spent learning never to betray himself, a small muscle began spasmodically contracting just below his left eye.



“Good morning, Grandfather. You’re up and about early this morning, aren’t you? And don’t you look fine as nine pence in your new waistcoat.” Marguerite dropped a kiss on Sir Gilbert Selkirk’s bald pate, then turned to the buffet and began filling her plate with a selection of the foods nestled inside various silver serving pieces. Clamping a piece of toast between her teeth after ladling out a generous mound of coddled eggs and stabbing a double rasher of bacon and placing it on her plate, she slid onto a chair across from Sir Gilbert, grinning at him around the still warm bread.

“You’re dressed for riding, I see,” Sir Gilbert said, his voice deep and rumbling, as if it arose from the very pit of his rather enormous stomach. “I’ll have Finch here”—he smiled up at the butler who had appeared silently to pour steaming coffee into Marguerite’s cup— “send round word to the stables that you’ll have need of my winch in order to set yourself in the saddle. You’ve enough food there, gel, to keep a full battalion moving for a week.”

“Very good, sir,” Finch said, backing away from the table. “I’ll see that your order is delivered at once.”

“Yes, you do that, Finch,” Marguerite warned the man genially, taking the wedge of toast from her mouth, “and then I’ll tell Maisie how you were ogling that new upstairs maid yesterday when she bent over to pick up her pail.”

“Miss Marguerite, please no. Maisie will lecture me for an hour, probably making me listen to her read from that book of sermons she’s always carrying in her pocket. You wouldn’t do such a thing.”

Sir Gilbert’s appreciative laughter boomed throughout the breakfast room, threatening to rattle the cutlery. “God’s teeth, man, don’t make it worse by daring her not to. Of course she would. The child lives for mischief.”

Marguerite’s giggle ushered the butler out of the room, and then she turned to Sir Gilbert. He was looking fit this morning. “Naughty old man,” she told him, picking up her fork and pointing it in his direction. “Anyone would think I was some devil’s spawn, to hear you tell it. Did you take your morning dose of the new tonic the doctor gave you yesterday?”

“Of course I did,” Sir Gilbert answered, his rheumy blue eyes shifting to his plate, where remnants of his own substantial breakfast obscured the pattern on the china. “You’re going out of your way to be impertinent this morning, aren’t you, gel?”

Marguerite frowned and laid down her fork. Her grandfather was all she had, and she was becoming increasingly aware of the man’s age. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, he was growing older, especially since her mother’s death last year, and she was terrified of his dying, of his leaving her. She was going to keep him alive for another ten years—another twenty years—even if she had to do it through sheer force of will. “You shouldn’t lie, old man. You do it very badly.”

Sir Gilbert lifted his serviette to his mouth and coughed into it, eying her owlishly. “Damn, if you ain’t twice the woman your grandmother was, and that’s three times as much woman as I like riding herd on me. I’ll take the blasted tonic later, child—I promise—and follow its nastiness down with a medicinal nip of gin.”

Marguerite smiled, then took a healthy bite of bacon and looked around the sun-drenched room, glorying in the promise of good weather. “Fair enough,” she told Sir Gilbert when she had done chewing. “Only it shall be a half glass of canary, and not your usual Blue Ruin, that terrible name you have for gin. Now—don’t you wish to hear about the gentleman who is coming to take your only grandchild out riding?”

Sir Gilbert pushed his plate away from him and propped his elbows on the table. “That depends. Is he younger than God? You’ve got a queer way about you, Marguerite, allowing yourself to be surrounded with men more suited to have courted your dear, departed mother in her grass time. And they all did, now that I think of it.”

Marguerite kept her eyes on her plate. “None of them is all that much older than my father would be if he were still alive,” she agreed quietly. “Hardly ancient. But this morning’s gentleman is considerably younger.” And quite possibly twice as dangerous, she added silently.

Sir Gilbert leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes narrowed, “How young? I’ve got a wager going with Finch. Forty? Thirty? Well, speak up, gel—I’ve got five pounds resting on your answer.”

“One and thirty on my last birthday, sir, and it may please you to know I still have all my teeth.”

Marguerite’s head whipped around toward the hall and she saw Thomas Joseph Donovan leaning his long frame against the archway, Finch beside him, his mouth open, as he had been about to announce the visitor’s presence. The butler recovered quickly, more rapidly than Marguerite, who found herself struck yet again by Thomas’s laughing blue eyes. “That’s a fiver you owe me, Sir Gilbert,” Finch said, grinning in obvious satisfaction, then bowed respectfully and withdrew.

“And I’ll pay it, your grinning jackanapes. I’ll pay it gladly!” Sir Gilbert bellowed after the man, then motioned for Thomas to join them at table. “Sit down, my boy, sit down! We don’t stand on ceremony around here, do we, Marguerite? Picked yourself a prime specimen here, didn’t you? Must stand eighteen hands high at the least.”

“Top to toe, closer to twenty, sir, although I have never before considered measuring myself against a horse,” Thomas replied genially, slipping into the chair at the head of the table—just as if he belonged there, Marguerite thought, longing to hate the man. But he looked so good, dressed in fawn riding breeches that outlined his muscular thighs and a well-fitting hacking jacket that showed his broad shoulders to advantage, that she chose to say nothing.

“Yes, well, I’m a country-minded sort,” Sir Gilbert answered, “for all this grandeur you see around here. My deceased wife had the furnishing of this place, you understand. Can’t plant your rump down on half the chairs without worrying you’re going to blast them into splinters. I’m far happier mucking about in the stables, or at least I was, until I ate my way into this condition you see before you now. Marguerite—introduce me to this young man. Where are your manners, gel?”

“Yes, Miss Balfour,” Thomas chided, smiling at her, “wherever are your manners? I believe you have just lately performed an introduction with aplomb, although I also seem to remember you had to be prodded on that occasion also.”

“Grandfather,” Marguerite said sweetly, determined to be polite—at least until she had the impertinent American alone, at which point she just might throttle the man, “may I introduce to you Mr. Thomas Joseph Donovan of County Clare and, more lately, of the city of Philadelphia. That’s in America, Grandfather. Mr. Donovan? My grandfather, Sir Gilbert Selkirk.”

“I know where Philadelphia is, gel!” Sir Gilbert exclaimed, slamming a fist against the tabletop. “An American, is it? Splendid! I always wanted to meet an American. Tell me about the wild Indians, my boy. Finch!” he called out sharply. “Get your spindly shanks in here. More coffee! Another cup! Don’t you know how to serve a guest?” He smiled at Thomas, waving his hand as if to encourage him to speak. “Well, don’t just sit there. Get on with it, lad. Tell me about the scalpings, the massacres. Humor a bloodthirsty old man!”



A full hour later than she had wished to leave, Marguerite was standing in front of the Portman Square mansion, outwardly calm and inwardly seething.

It no longer mattered to her that she was looking her best, clad in a forest green riding habit and military-styled shako hat, her hands enclosed in matching green kid gloves.

It no longer concerned her that she had spent the better part of an hour dressing for this ride in Hyde Park, with Maisie outdoing herself in fashioning her mistress’s long, heavy hair in a fetching-single braid, then winding it artfully at Marguerite’s nape so that it did not interfere with the jaunty placement of the shako, which was tilted forward ever so daringly over her left eye.

It did not thrill her that her mare, Trickster, was dancing about on the cobblestones as the groom held the bridle, eager to be off, or even that the often uncooperative London weather was perfect for a ride.

How could she be happy about any of these things, when Thomas Joseph Donovan was to be her companion for the next hour or more—her unchaperoned companion, no less—his insufferable self riding next to her on the ugly, rawboned, mud-brown gelding he must have hired from some second-rate public stable?

How could her grandfather have been so beguiled by the man that he had suggested, nay, demanded, they take themselves off for a fine gallop without the bother of having to worry about a groom following along behind them on an inferior mount? Could he have been so taken in by the glib American—or his young age—that he had lost all his usual concerns for his only grandchild’s reputation? Donovan must be beside himself with glee!

Oh, how she’d like to turn on her heels and leave the fellow standing in the street with nothing but his atrocious horse and his overweening arrogance for company.

“Allow me to be of assistance, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said, interrupting her internal tantrum. She sliced a look in his direction, to see he was cupping his hands together, forming a cradle for her to use to step up onto the sidesaddle.

“I’ll use the mounting block, thank you Mr. Donovan,” she replied coolly. “I would avail myself of your kind offer only if I were wearing spurs, and could satisfy my curiosity as to whether or not you bleed insincerity when you are pricked.”

And then, before the groom could step forward to assist her, she stepped up on the mounting block, slipped one black-leather-boot-clad foot into the stirrup, and mounted Trickster with the effortless grace of the superior rider. “Are you coming, Mr. Donovan,” she asked, looking down at him, “or shall I ask the groom to give you a boost up?”

Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, for Thomas merely executed an elegant leg in her direction, then took three quick steps toward his mount. The last step was a mighty bound that launched him into the air as if he had been shot from a cannon, so that his palms hit firmly on the gelding’s rump momentarily before pushing off again to grab the reins, so that Thomas landed in the saddle from behind, without once touching the stirrups.

“Coo!” the groom exclaimed, obviously impressed. “Ain’t never seed that a’fore, yer worship. Yer did that slick as Cook’s fat tabby cat catches itself a mouse.”

“And he didn’t even split his buckskins, more’s the pity. Can we be off now?” Marguerite gritted out from between clenched teeth, her riding crop biting into her palm as she squeezed her hand into a fist. “Or would you first care to balance on your hands as you ride once around the square, like the performers at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre? I assure you, I won’t mind at all. We English do so value a good show, although we are accustomed to viewing such performances in a more suitable theater.”

“I’ll pass on that offer, Miss Balfour, intriguing as it sounds.” Thomas slipped his booted feet into the stirrups and turned the gelding so that his knee brushed up against Marguerite’s. “And please forgive my zeal in mounting,” he said, his tone implying that he wasn’t at all sorry for having outdone her in exhibiting his horsemanship. “As your grandfather has agreed we might dispense with your groom, I suggest we proceed to the park before the traffic on the streets becomes oppressive.”

“Yes,” Marguerite agreed, using the pressure of her left thigh to urge Trickster forward at a walk, “I shouldn’t wish to be subjected to two oppressive occurrences in the same morning.”

“And which would have been the first, Miss Balfour?” Thomas asked as his ugly mud-brown mount picked its way over the cobblestones with all the grace of a cross-eyed hen in stubbles. “I know I am meant to ask, even as I know you hope I will not appreciate your answer.”

“And you’d be correct on both counts, Mr. Donovan. Your arrival in the breakfast room was the first,” Marguerite answered sweetly, waving to a passerby as they exited the square and headed toward Oxford Street and the park. “Not that you noticed. Oh, no. You were entirely too occupied with charming a gullible old man with your Irish blarney. And yes, I do know what blarney is, Mr. Donovan.”

“As do I, Miss Balfour. Dear, sainted, Cormac McCarthy, the Lord of Blarney. When your Queen Elizabeth attempted to convince him to give up claim to his title he talked her into circles, never saying yes and never saying no, until she declared—”

“‘This is all Blarney. What he means he never says; what he says he never means!’” Marguerite finished for him, her mood brightening considerably as she remembered her father quoting the queen’s words to her as they sat together in the drawing room at Chertsey one winter’s night, watching the fire die. She smiled, giving up her anger. “You tell a fine story yourself, Mr. Donovan, when we both know Philadelphia hasn’t seen an Indian attack in more than thirty years.”

Thomas’s grin transformed him into a cheeky youth. “More like fifty, but Sir Gilbert doesn’t know that,” he reasoned, turning his horse into the park. “I simply told him an old story I’d heard in one of the taverns. He seemed appreciative.”

“He seemed bewitched, you mean. Letting me go off without a groom.” She shook her head. “He’s never done that before, even when I ride out with William. I can’t decide whether Grandfather believes you to be harmless, or if he’s merely interested in collecting on some terrible wager with Finch.”

“William? Would that be another of your long-in-the-tooth beaux?”

“The Earl of Laleham is no more than fifty, Mr. Donovan, and has been a dear friend and neighbor for all of my life.” Marguerite longed to bite her tongue, for she knew the American was the sort to remember every word she said. She slanted a look at Thomas from beneath her sooty lashes, remembering Lord Chorley’s admission last night that Thomas had boldly announced his intention to seduce her. “Are you jealous, Mr. Donovan?”

“Hardly, Miss Balfour,” he responded with yet another confident, ingratiating smile—so that she longed to murder him. He wasn’t even going to bother to be subtle about his seduction. The cheek of the man!

“But we will invite him to the wedding,” he continued reasonably, “seeing as how he’s a particular favorite of yours. Will you insist on all the doddering old men you favor being there? Chorley, Totton, Harewood—even that pitiful Mappleton, among others? If so, I’ll be sure to have a physician in attendance, in case any of them suffers an apoplexy during the ceremony.”

Marguerite felt her heart beginning to pound warningly beneath the crisp white fabric of her ruffled blouse. She would ignore his inane, absurd teasing about the possibility of a marriage between them. It was disconcerting enough that he had taken the trouble to learn the names of her admirers—her prospective victims. Except for William, of course. He hadn’t seemed to be aware of William. “You appear to have taken an inordinate amount of interest in my social connections, Mr. Donovan. I’m flattered,” she said, looking straight ahead and seeing the riding path was clear. “But for now, I believe Trickster would enjoy a gallop—to the small stand of trees at the first curve in the path—if your mount can keep up, that is?”

Thomas looked to the trees that were a good three hundred yards in the distance, then smiled at Marguerite. “For a fiver, Miss Balfour?” he asked, so that she longed to scream.

“Twice that, Mr. Donovan,” she replied with doubled determination to show the American her heels, then gathered herself to urge Trickster into an immediate gallop. “At the count of three?”

“You may go at three, aingeal, but I shall be the Compleat Gentleman and wait for the count of five.”

Marguerite deliberately eyed the gelding from its bony hindquarters to its overly long neck and ridiculously twitching ears. The horse should be shot; it was that ugly. “Really, Mr. Donovan? Very well, you’re on. One—two—three!”

Trickster responded wonderfully, leaping forward immediately, eager to stretch her strong legs in an out-and-out gallop. Marguerite lowered her body over the mare’s back, quietly urging her on, feeling the power of the animal’s muscles gathering and releasing beneath her, carrying her along as they skimmed over the ground, the slight breeze ruffled into an invigorating wind as they cut through it, heading for the trees, and victory.

Insult her, would he! She had been sat on her first pony before she could walk! Not only could she outride Thomas Joseph Donovan, but she could outshoot him, outfence him, outtalk him—even outlie him!

She and Trickster were no more than halfway between the starting point and the trees when she heard the thunder of hoofbeats behind her and dared to look back to see Thomas and the homely gelding gaining on her.

She couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her! The rawboned horse had metamorphosed, becoming beautiful, its fluid movements a poetry to watch, its rider low in the saddle, a part of a masterful whole, so that they had nearly melded to become one surging mass of power.

Man and horse blew past her as if she and Trickster were running in quicksand, leaving them nothing to do but follow as best they could, although Marguerite was sorely tempted to rein the mare in, turn for home, and leave the depressing defeat behind her.

But she wouldn’t do anything so mean-spirited, though she longed to with all her being. She had been bested fairly, and she had to acknowledge her defeat and congratulate the winner—even if it killed her! How could she have forgotten her father’s advice to always look below the surface? Clearly the ugly, rawboned horse had the spirit and heart of a winner.

By the time she had brought Trickster to a halt in front of the trees Thomas had dismounted and was leaning at his ease against one of them, barely breathing hard, his hands folded over his chest, his shock of tawny hair attractively windblown.

It belatedly occurred to Marguerite, as she looked at him, that they were now in one of the more secluded areas of the park. A heartbeat later, she wondered why that knowledge didn’t bother her as much as it excited her.

Thomas looked up at her, questioningly. “Ah, there you are, Miss Balfour. Did you take a detour? I missed you along the way—unless I was moving too quickly to notice near stationary objects. Do you like my horse? Ireland born and bred, you know—with long experience in outrunning the English. May I help you dismount, or do you wish to impress me yet again with your horsemanship?”

All thoughts of congratulating him on his victory evaporated in the heat of her renewed anger. “You know, Mr. Donovan,” she said, indicating that he might help her to the ground, “I believe I could detest you most completely, if only you weren’t already beneath contempt.”

He lifted his arms to her and, against her better judgment, she kicked free of the stirrup and allowed him to help her down, his touch at her waist sending unexpected shivers up her spine, a reaction she was determined to ignore. “We’ll rest the horses for a few minutes,” she said after feeling her feet once more firmly on the ground, “and then you may return me to Portman Square. It is not necessary, however, that we converse at all in the interim. I, for one, have nothing to say to you—and you never say anything of value.”

Thomas stripped off his hacking jacket and spread it on the soft grass with the grace Sir Walter Raleigh must have employed when draping his cape across a mud puddle for his queen, indicating she should join him in the shade, several yards away from the deserted path. Then, once she was seated—for what else could a lady of breeding do but comply?—he went down on his haunches close beside her, his back against a wide tree trunk.

“If you insist, Miss Balfour,” he said at last, “I will remain mute. But I must remind you—you had agreed to hear the sad story of my life. My poor but honest youth in County Clare, where I was orphaned at the tender age of eleven; my voyage to America, stowed away in with the baggage; my apprenticeship to a printer in Philadelphia; my slow but sure rise to considerable wealth and questionable respectability; my appointment as one of my president’s emissaries to the British government. It is such an exhilarating story, and morally uplifting. But if you no longer want to hear it—”

“I believe I just did hear it, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite pointed out, cutting him off as she stripped off her gloves, laying them down beside her on Thomas’s jacket. But then her interest in what he had revealed got the better of her. “Did you really stow away on a ship? Wasn’t that prodigiously dangerous?”

He pushed himself away from the tree trunk, to sit even closer beside her, and smiled widely, so that she was once more intrigued by the lines that crinkled at the outside corners of his eyes, and captivated by the near living thing that was his full, barely tamed mustache. “Not half so dangerous as sitting here in the shade of this wonderfully concealing stand of trees, Miss Balfour, and looking into your beautiful emerald green eyes. As a matter of fact, I believe I might just drown in their cool depths and go to my death a happy man.”

She lifted her gaze from his mouth to look into his laughing blue eyes, swallowing down hard on a sudden apprehension, a renewed interest, an unladylike curiosity that threatened to betray her. But why was she surprised? Wasn’t this why she had agreed to meet him? Because of this feeling she refused to call by any name other than “curiosity”?

She made an attempt at coyness. “You—you must not speak so intimately, Mr. Donovan. I know I have allowed you liberties I shouldn’t have, but I believe this farce of a courtship has gone far enough. I may be young, but I’m not completely empty-headed—and not without information gleaned from listening well as silly debutantes giggle in withdrawing rooms. That, and the warning I received from Stinky—I mean, Lord Chorley—are enough to have put me firmly on my guard. You are no more than a self-serving flirt, Mr. Donovan, and I refuse to have you amuse yourself any more at my expense.”

“Now I’m hurt, Miss Balfour. I assure you,” he said, his voice rather low, even rough. “I find nothing amusing in our current situation.”

She felt his hand brush the back of hers, his fingers caressing her skin before slipping underneath, where they skimmed light circles on her palm, stroked the sensitive area of her inner wrist, then encircled that wrist, drawing her slowly, but inexorably closer to him.

“I find you fascinating,” he said, his warm breath fanning her heated cheek, his words setting small fires deep inside her chest. “Even frightening.”

Marguerite’s heart began to race, galloping at twice the pace Trickster had set earlier, but still she could not outrun the seductive look in Thomas Donovan’s eyes or the attraction she felt for him, the danger that emanated from him, the insane, illogical, yet compelling need to be closer to him, to feel his mouth on hers.

And he was going to kiss her. She was as sure of that as she was positive she would live to regret this entire morning. She tore her gaze away from his nearly hypnotic stare only to find herself captivated once more by his mouth.

How would his ridiculous mustache be against her skin—rough or soft?

How would it feel to have his strong arms around her, to experience the pressure of the hard wall of his muscular chest against her breasts?

And why was she thinking such things? Had she lost her senses entirely?

“We—I—that is, I don’t think we should...” Marguerite’s voice trailed off as Thomas slid his other hand onto her thigh just above her bent knee, so that she could feel the heat of him through the skirt of her riding habit. She instantly became aware of a responsive tightening between her legs, at the very heart of her being, and was amazed at the never before felt sensation. It was intriguing, to say the least.

“Well, maybe just this once...” she whispered as if to herself, although she knew he’d heard her, then closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, preparing herself for his kiss.

“No, no,” she heard Thomas say as she felt his touch on her mouth, tugging at her tightly pursed bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. Her eyes flew open and she saw that he was smiling, although he was definitely not laughing at her. “For all your bravado, for all your daring talk, you are an innocent. Just as I thought. Just as I’d hoped. Now listen, aingeal. It’s not at all like sucking lemons, this business of kissing. More like sipping the nectar of the gods. Just relax, sweet Marguerite, and I’ll teach you.”

She could feel herself trembling, and feared her teeth would begin to chatter if he didn’t kiss her and get it over with. For once he’d kissed her she’d be cured of him, relieved of her ridiculous attraction for him, no longer afraid of dreaming of him as she had done last night. A wicked dream, full of strong arms and twining legs and hungry lips and dark longings, and one that—if Marguerite were to be so silly as to divulge it to Maisie—would result in a recital of sermons that would last a full month of Sundays. She had no time for sermons, or for dreams, or for kisses. She had a mission before her, and Thomas Joseph Donovan was getting in her way.

“For pity’s sake, don’t lecture me, Donovan!” she demanded fiercely, placing her hands on his shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut once more, bewildered and slightly afraid of the bizarre sensation of heat and, yes, even moisture between her legs. “Just do it!”

It would appear he was nothing if not obedient, for a moment later she could feel his mouth slanted against hers, warm and firm and infinitely pleasurable.

Her eyes shot open, widened with reaction, for some force akin to lightning had shot through her body in that instant.

Her throat felt tight, almost as if she were choking, yet she wasn’t choking.

She was needing.

Needing his arms around her, holding her so that she wouldn’t spin off the edge of the world.

Needing him to deepen the kiss, his possession, although she had no idea what that entailed.

Needing him to touch her, mold her, meld her to him, take her inside him even as she longed to have him inside her, a part of her, a new whole made of two disparate yet perfectly matched halves.

Somehow Marguerite had opened her mouth in response to her thoughts, and Thomas plunged his tongue between her lips, rubbing its tantalizing roughness against the sensitive roof of her mouth.

It felt so good.

His hand had left her thigh, to hold her at her waist, his long fingers spanning her along her spine, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of her belly.

So very good.

His right hand was... Oh, God, his hand; his hand.

Her nipple became a budding flower, straining against the fabric of her blouse, eager to lift itself to the nourishing sun of Thomas’s roving hand, hungry for the freedom to grow and blossom and come into the fullness of its splendor.

And then it was over, and she was clinging to him even as he clung to her, their heads close together, the both of them breathing heavily, as if they, rather than their mounts, had just run a long race.

“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Thomas breathed close to her ear. “I thought... I imagined... but I never... damn.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away from him. “Little girl, you could prove to be a monstrous mass of trouble to a lonely American far from his own shores. Do you know that?”

“Not half the trouble you could be to me, Thomas Joseph Donovan,” Marguerite answered honestly, allowing her hands to slide from his shoulders, down the length of his arms, to his elbows, before finally, reluctantly, drawing away.

The pain of releasing him, of allowing the moment to pass into memory, was surely visible in her face, and would have betrayed her utterly. So she averted her head, picked up her gloves, and busied herself in easing them back onto her fingers. “I suggest you escort me back to Portman Square now, Mr. Donovan—at once, before someone comes along and my reputation gains itself another black mark in society’s copybook.”

When Thomas spoke again, which he did immediately, his voice was once more teasing, jaunty, as if to give the lie to his earlier remark, as if to prove he had not been at all affected by their kiss. Not truly, as she had been. “Your reputation. Ah, yes. I know all about that. Young ladies aren’t the only ones who talk out of turn. You’re known far and wide as the Autumn Miss—something about your penchant for being courted by gentlemen who will never see the summer of their lives again, I suppose. I wonder why you’re so interested in them. Even more so, I wonder—are you still so enamored of old men, Marguerite, now that you have tasted a young one?”

She still refused to look at him, or to further react to either his insult or his distressing, persistent interest in something that was none of his business. Why did he have to come to England? Why did his government have to send him to deal with two of the same men she was out to destroy? Why did she have to be so overwhelmingly attracted to him?

Could her world get any more complicated?

“We must go now, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite said at last, refusing to be baited, then stood, feeling strangely dizzy as she walked back to Trickster, as if all the blood in her brain had somehow been transported to her feet—which it probably had, or else she wouldn’t have acted in such a reckless, dangerous manner. “And I did not give you permission to call me by my Christian name, Mr. Donovan!” she added lamely as she stopped beside the mare.

“You damn well gave me permission for nearly everything else,” Thomas told her as he boosted her into the saddle, then mounted his own horse before she could think of anything else to say that might finally succeed in shutting his infuriatingly frank mouth.

Together, in complete silence, they held the horses to a respectable trot on the short trip back to Portman Square.

Marguerite realized she now hated the quiet she had hoped for and felt as if the journey lasted three lifetimes.

Thomas dismounted first, asking the waiting groom to walk his horse in the square while he helped Miss Balfour down. “So what happens now, Marguerite?” he asked a moment later, looking up into her face as she remained seated on Trickster so that she couldn’t ignore his blue eyes, or his tanned skin, or that damn, insufferable mustache that had faintly abraded the tender skin above her upper lip.

“What happens now?” Marguerite repeated, frowning. “Grandfather won’t be announcing any banns at our church in Chertsey, if that’s what you mean. What do you expect will happen now?”

“I’ve been racking my brains for an answer to that question all the way back from the park. Do you propose we should pretend this morning never happened? To pretend the only thing that kept either of us from tearing off our clothes and making frenzied, impassioned love to each other was the fact we were in the middle of Hyde Park? Not that such a minor inconvenience would have stopped me for much longer if you had kept on mewling softly in your throat as my fingers explored the lovely contours of your extremely inviting body.”

“You’re coarse.” Marguerite whispered hoarsely, feeling her cheeks flame with embarrassed color. She knew she had behaved like an absolute wanton, but it was not his position to point it out to her. “Coarse, and vulgar, and common, and—and American. I never want to see you again.”

She froze as she felt his hand slide beneath the hem of her divided skirt, his fingertips running from the top of her boot, up and over her knee, and onto the bare skin of her thigh. No one had ever touched her so intimately. No one save Thomas, who had touched her breast. Her breast! Dear God! Her breast! And now—now her leg! As if she belonged to him, her body if not her soul his possession.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t react, couldn’t slap at him with her riding crop, couldn’t admonish him without causing a scene. No one in the square could see what he was doing—not even the groom. But she knew. Oh, God. She knew. She knew, and she was not about to make a single move to discourage him. How could she—when the feeling was so delicious, so dangerously delightful, that she never, ever wanted him to stop?

His blue eyes had gone as dark and stormy as the sea in winter. “Never see me again? Are you quite sure, Marguerite? Never is such a long, long time. A long, cold, and lonely time.”

Marguerite closed her eyes, knowing she was wrong, that what he was doing was wrong, that what they had done together was wrong—and that she’d die a thousand deaths a day if they’d never do it again.

Recognize your shortcomings, she heard her father whisper in her ear, and learn to forgive them if you are ever to be entirely happy. At the same time, recognize the failings, the flaws, the weaknesses of others, and use them to your advantage. Unless you love, little Marguerite. When you love, you overlook everything....

Marguerite felt tears stinging her eyes. But I don’t love him, Papa, she argued silently. You can’t love what you don’t know, or what you have reason to mistrust, to fear. You can only hope.

She wet her lips, for her mouth had gone dry as the coal dust that lay on the cobblestones. “Not tomorrow,” she told Thomas quietly, mentally reviewing her plans for the next two days, then recklessly giving in to what she could only consider a heretofore unknown, yet potentially fatal flaw in her character. “Saturday. Just after midnight. I am to have an early evening and Grandfather will be with friends at his club until well-past two. I—I will meet you behind the mansion, just in front of the stables. We can talk then.”

His smile lit her entire world, and she hated him for it. Hated herself for it. “Talk, Mr. Donovan—so you can stop grinning like an ape, thank you. And until then, I would appreciate it greatly if you pretended you did not know I exist.”

“Two days. Two long, lonely, anticipation-filled days. Ah, aingeal, now you’ve gone and done it,” he told her as he withdrew his hand from beneath her skirt and lifted her smoothly to the ground, his teasing Irish brogue turning his voice to music and her bones to jelly. “You’ve gone and proved I’m not wrong to love you so.”

Something inside Marguerite snapped, bringing her to her senses, and she no longer wanted him anywhere but gone so she could be alone with her conflicting emotions. “Go to hell, Donovan. What’s between us has nothing whatsoever to do with any sort of love, and we both know it,” she bit out before brushing past him and all but running up the shallow marble steps to the front door of the mansion. She slammed the door behind her and leaned her body against it, feeling almost physically ill.

“Damn you, Thomas Joseph Donovan,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I’ll have to move my plans ahead more than is safe, no thanks to you, and the devil with your negotiations with Totton and Mappleton. And although I may want you with every breath that’s in me, God help me—you’d better not get in my way!”