Masque of Betrayal by Andrea Kane Page A

respectable decision was not wholly unselfish, Dane acknowledged honestly. The truth was that the idea of marriage to Jacqueline appealed to him immensely, which was indeed a surprise. Marriage had always seemed a faraway goal to Dane, something to be considered only when youth was gone, leaving in its stead a yearning for the complacency offered by one mate and the feeling of immortality fulfilled only by the siring of children.
    The ironic thing was that the woman he wished to wed had never mentioned either marriage or children, and had a personality that would offer him about as much complacency as a captive eagle straining to soar.
    But she was such a challenge, such a beautiful, untamed bundle of contradictions, such a bewitching, infuriating little hellcat. Dane wanted her fire, her spirit, her newly born passion. He wanted her brilliant mind, her exquisite body, her carefully guarded heart. He wanted her love.
    Because, in truth, he was already half in love with her.
    It was midmorning and Jacqui was deeply engrossed in the new edition of the General Advertiser. Since Dane’s tirade the month before, she had been very careful to keep Laffey’s columns straightforward … at least as straightforward as she could without compromising her beliefs. She nodded, satisfied with the day’s results, and tucked her legs beneath her on the settee.
    The newspaper moved in her hands.
    “Whiskey, stop it!” Jacqui scolded without looking down at her lap. She could feel the kitten’s sharp claws as they penetrated the fine material of her gown and dug into her skin—Whiskey’s ploy to get his mistress’s attention. When it proved unsuccessful, he lifted his head and yowled.
    Jacqui tossed the paper aside. “I was trying to read!” she said in exasperation, ignoring his forlorn look. “You are dreadfully annoying. What is it that you want?”
    Whiskey responded by licking his lips.
    Jacqui sighed, glancing out the window at the bright June sky. “Yes, well, it is warm today and you have been running about for hours. Are you thirsty?”
    Whiskey’s eyes widened in anticipation.
    Jacqui fetched a small bowl of water from the kitchen and placed it on the sitting-room rug. “Here.”
    Whiskey fairly flew to the bowl, leaned over, and lowered his tongue eagerly to drink. All at once he froze. Lifting his head, he gave the water a look of utter disdain, turned about in a most haughty manner, and stalked away. He paused beside the table that boasted two decanters of wine and turned to Jacqui hopefully, blinking his huge green eyes.
    “Absolutely not.” Jacqui refused, shaking her head emphatically. “That is Father’s finest Madeira and it most definitely is not for cats!” She pointed to the untouched water. “I’m afraid it must be the water, my little friend. Either that or nothing. It is your choice.”
    Not one to readily accept defeat, Whiskey sauntered over and rubbed up against Jacqui’s legs, issuing his most beguiling meow.
    “No,” Jacqui repeated, unmoved.
    With an arrogant, disgusted expression, Whiskey gave in, taking but one reluctant lick of the detested liquid. Then, in order to convey the full extent of his indignation, he lifted a small black paw and, with one strategic motion, flipped the still-full bowl over, splashing water every which way.
    “Whiskey … you miserable wretch!” Jacqui exploded as the copy of the General Advertiser she had been holding grew soggy, the contents unreadable.
    Whiskey glared back brazenly. Then, having made his point, he lifted his nose, turned his tail in the air, and sashayed out of the sitting room.
    Jacqui was about to dash after him when she saw him pause in the hallway, then stop, a predatory gleam in his eye. Arching his back, he began to hiss loudly, his body poised to spring. Whatever he was staring at, Jacqui could see that he was about to attack. Suddenly Greta charged through the hallway, chastising Whiskey rapidly in German and shooing him into the