“I—”
“Stop,” she cut in. “Just stop.” He couldn’t give her advice or aid; Captain Vale had left open only one road for her brother, and reluctantly or not, he saw no choice but to walk it. She, however, was not Matthew.
When she turned around, he grabbed her arm. “You can’t tell Father or Mother, Mia. Please.”
Miranda shrugged out of his grasp. “I won’t. Not yet, anyway. For their sake. Not yours.”
“Then you’ll agree to marry him?”
The idea made her clench her jaw until her muscles creaked. “I am not as much of a fatalist as you are. And it is far too early to give up hope.”
She’d experienced life with a poor player who thought himself the equal of every card-counting scoundrel in London. That view, that perspective, would not help her. No, she didn’t need more bleating from the sheep. She needed a word with one of the wolves.
Chapter Three
Aden liberated a glass of whisky from a passing footman’s tray and downed a good third of it. Beyond him couples gathered for yet another quadrille—the hostess of the party, he’d learned from her niece, thought the quadrille showed a lady at her most elegant and refined. The woman had scheduled five of the damned things.
At the side of the room a handful of lasses stood, the desperation with which they were avoiding a single glance at the dance floor only making more obvious how much they yearned to be out there. To one side of them were the so-called damaged lasses, standing or sitting alone or with a mama, each one convinced that her lisp or limp or whatever flaw she’d settled on as most devastating stood between her and any chance of a good match—or even a partner for a single dance.
Finishing off his drink, he set the glass aside, pushed away from the wall, and made for a plump, spectacle-wearing lass in an expensive-looking green silk gown. A man who had her same nose and eyes but much less girth said something briefly to her that had her sinking lower in her chair before he walked away to claim the hand of a pretty blond lass.
“Mr. MacTaggert.”
People didn’t slip up on him much, but in the noise and shuffle of the ballroom he hadn’t noticed Miranda Harris approaching in her pretty yellow dancing slippers. She was a bonny thing, with her brunette hair and chocolate eyes and soft-looking lips that seemed highly kissable even turned down at the edges in a frown as they were, but the lass claimed genuinely to dislike him—on principle, he supposed, since she’d declared it within one minute of their acquaintance. “Aye?”
She folded her arms across her bosom, pulling the low neck of her yellow gown down a bit to where he could see the curve of her breasts, before she lowered her hands again. “I… spoke harshly earlier. I would be happy to dance this quadrille with you.”
He folded his own arms, shoving back the unexpected desire to take her up on her offer. What better way to prove a lass wrong about his poor character than to make her fall for him? With a marriage noose hanging over his neck, though, he didn’t have the time or the inclination to dash some woman’s heart against the rocks for frowning at him. “And why is that?”
Her face folded into a brief grimace before her brow smoothed again. She thought she was being generous, no doubt, and hadn’t expected to have to explain herself. “I would like a word with you,” she finally stated, clasping her restless hands in front of her trim waist.
“Ye’ve already had a few of those with me,” he returned. “I reckon that even if ye’ve a mind to bite at me some more, I’ve had enough.” Resuming his walk, he stopped in front of the plump, green-garbed lass. “I’ve nae partner for this dance,” he said, watching as she jumped and then whipped her head up to stare at him, light-blue eyes enormous behind her spectacles. “Would ye tell me yer name and come prance about beside me?”
She shot to her feet, grabbing onto his outstretched hand. “Phillipa,” she said. “Miss Phillipa Pritchard. And yes.”
“Aden MacTaggert,” he returned, and led her into one of the circles just as the music began.
While Phillipa beamed, nearly twisting herself inside out to catch her brother’s eye with every rotation of the dance, Aden took a gander at Miranda Harris, still standing where he’d left her. Evidently her claim that she had a partner for every dance had been a lie, though he had no doubt she could make it a truth with a snap of her elegant fingers.
She kept looking about the room, clearly searching for someone who wasn’t there, while her fingers tapped together in a nervous, impatient rhythm. Mayhap some lad had forgotten to claim her for the quadrille, but he didn’t feel inclined to step in and be her rescuer after she’d insulted him. Twice now.
At the end of the dance, though, she hadn’t moved except to send him frustrated glares every couple of seconds. This wasn’t about a missing dance partner, then. When Eloise and Matthew walked close by her and Miranda turned her back on the two of them, Aden nearly gave in to his mounting curiosity. Something had shifted, sent a breath of unease through the soiree, or at least the part of it where he happened to be paying attention. And now he could claim curiosity instead of whatever else it was that made him keep her close in his thoughts.
Once he’d returned Miss Phillipa Pritchard to her gawping brother, Aden paused. He wasn’t a man who let himself get punched twice. Or thrice, in this instance. And while his curiosity often served him well, he didn’t allow it to overrule his common sense and logic.
“Mr. MacTaggert.”
Damn, she was stealthier than a wild cat. “Miss Harris,” he drawled, turning around.
She took in a breath, mouth pinching. “Please allow me a word with you.”
“Mayhap if ye didnae look like ye’ve scented shite when ye speak to me, I’d be more inclined to converse with ye,” he returned.
“I don’twantto speak with you,” she countered. “However, I require some insight that I believe you can best provide.” She paused, her gaze aimed at the floor. “I need your assistance.”
Behind him another damned quadrille began forming. “But ye didnae need my assistance earlier when I asked ye for a dance.”
“No, I did not.”
