“Whydidyou waltz with me, then?”
“Curiosity,” he answered smoothly, because that answer made more sense than him admitting that perhaps her loathing did trouble him just a whit. Or that in general he admired a lass who could stand toe-to-toe with him in a conversation, and one who looked like a sultry goddess while she did it. Or that he could imagine her eventual apology, and that it would be spectacular.
On the tail of that thought he stopped near a line of chairs so she could take a seat if she needed to. Freeing his arm, he gave her a nod and turned away.
“You’ve given me some things to consider,” she said from behind him. “Thank you for that. As for causing someone’s ruin, even ifyouwalked away from the table, you left someone desperately unskilled in the hands of others. Don’t expect praise for that. Not from me, at least.”
Aden kept walking. Arguing with a pile of rocks didn’t budge the stones. She’d made up her mind about who he was before they’d ever met, and nothing he said would alter her opinion. Whoever it was who’d gotten into debt with some talented swindler, with that tongue of hers she likely had as fair a chance as anyone of negotiating a settlement.
He generally liked a sharp tongue on a lass, a bit of fire to warm a chill night. And Miranda Harris had that aplenty, with a touch of flame in her brunette hair and a smolder in her deep-brown eyes to match. It was a shame she didn’t seem to want to warm up to him as much as she wanted to burn him to a crisp and shovel him into the ash bin. But then tonight he’d asked her for a dance, and whatever the twisting path was they’d traveled, he’d danced with her.
By the time the clock in the foyer had edged past half nine in the morning, Miranda had thrice put on and removed her bonnet and shawl, begun and abandoned two pointed letters, and contemplated simply announcing to her parents that she’d tired of London and meant to spend the remainder of the Season at home on their small estate in Devon.
Her brother had put her squarely in the middle of his troubles, and her flight, her rebuke, would do nothing to remove the debt he’d incurred. And while she’d several times decided that his stupidity in no way obligated her to do anything but tell their parents, she’d known that to be a lie even as she was thinking it.
Matthew was her brother, and she would not allow his ruination—or her family’s—if she could do anything to prevent it. And he’d been correct when he’d worried what their parents would do if they discovered he’d been wagering again. It would take more than selling his beloved horse to settle this debt. It would take more than selling Harris House here in Mayfair and its entire contents, she imagined. It would take more than the lot of them fleeing to the Americas to find their fortunes, because acquiring that much money in any of their lifetimes seemed beyond impossible.
The knocker swung against the front door, and a shiver rattled through her as Billings answered it. She’d kept to the morning room since an early breakfast; the last thing she wanted was for the butler to have to come looking for her and arouse everyone else’s interest about who might be calling.
She glanced at her maid, who sat in the corner mending a stocking. “Remember,” she whispered. “No matter what, you do not leave this room.”
Millie nodded. “I would never.”
Billings rapped on the half-open door. “Miss Harris, a Captain Vale is here to see you.”
“Please show him in, Billings.” With a hard breath,clenching her hands together behind her back both so he wouldn’t touch her and so he wouldn’t see them shake, she took up a position between the end table and the window. It was a flimsy piece of furniture, but this morning it was the best shield she could manage.
The butler stepped aside and Vale walked in, still neat and precise in his naval blues, his hat tucked beneath one arm. “Miss Harris,” he said, inclining his head.
“Captain. That will be all, Billings. Please shut the door.”
Sparing her a curious look, the butler did as she asked. Both Matthew and her father had already left the house—Matthew fleeing like a cat with its tail on fire—but her mother remained abed. Balls always did her in until at least noon, and hopefully today would be no different.
“You’ve agreed to see me,” Vale said into the silence, “so I presume Matthew has spoken to you.”
“Yes, he has. The subject of our conversation made me curious, however. As you wagered with him, surely you realized that you encouraged a debt far beyond my brother’s ability to repay. Absurdly so.”
“I will point out that your brother also knew his own… budget, shall we say? And that he passed by that number with his eyes open.”
“I understand that, though I might compare the two of you to a snake and a mouse. The only reason the mouse doesn’t flee is that he doesn’t see the snake—until the snake’s jaws clamp down over him. Once beyond a certain point, the debt became so absurdly large that playing deeply to extract himself was undoubtedly the only thing that made sense to my brother. But my question to you is why keep playing when you could not possibly hope to receive ten thousand pounds, much less fifty?”
He tilted his head a little, the gesture making him lookeven more falconlike. And today she was definitely the rabbit. “Because he might think himself capable of repaying five thousand or even ten thousand pounds. At fifty thousand—well, to be succinct, I own him. There is no escape but the one I suggest.”
The statement reminded her of what Aden MacTaggert had speculated—that Vale had had a goal, and he’d reached it regardless of any harm it might cause to others. “And you suggested a union with me.”
“Just so.”
She forced a chuckle. “Frankly, Captain, I am not worth fifty thousand pounds. But you did say you were thinking of purchasing a house in Mayfair. I imagine my father would be willing to assist you in that. He is also on the boards of several clubs, which could bene—”
“Why would I accept a discounted house and a membership at Boodle’s over fifty thousand quid, which would gain me all that and more?”
“Because you’ll never receive fifty thousand pounds from Matthew. It simply doesn’t exist.”
“But it does. I’m looking at it. The fact of whether you’re worth that amount of money isn’t the point. The point, Miss Harris, Miranda, is that to me you are worth enough to convince me to make the trade: you for your brother’s debt.”
“But why?” she burst out. For heaven’s sake, none of this made sense. Logic. She wanted logic. That, she could argue against.
“Your brother pointed you out to me one day shortly after I arrived. I recall it quite clearly. ‘That’s my younger sister, Miranda,’ he said. ‘Half the bucks in London are after her, the ones with taste, anyway. She’s a smart one, knows everyone, and never makes a misstep.’ You are what I require. Anyone can purchase a house. You areSociety. Everyone knows you and, more important, likes you. And a love match between us grants me all those things, as well. Therefore, an imaginary fifty thousand quid in exchange for a lifetime of chances at investment, of dining with dukes and princes, of being admired and feted—I must disagree with my previous statement. Youareworth every shilling of your brother’s debt.”
