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
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
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