A Masquerade in the Moonlight (36 page)

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.”