“He means ye cannae wear a kilt,” Coll supplied with a chuckle, clearly amused by such blatant Englishness.
“I ken what he means,” Aden said aloud. “And I ken how to dress like a Sassenach.”
“I wish I could go see that,” his sister, Eloise, commented, grinning. “A MacTaggert at Boodle’s. Good heavens, White’s could be next.”
Aden didn’t care which club it was, except that the stories he’d heard put Captain Vale at Boodle’s. Once he had a way to gain entry there, he could attack from two points—personal, and business. Because for Vale gambling would be a business.
Previously he’d disliked the man on general principle; ruining Matthew Harris in order to dig his claws intoMiranda Harris and take what he wanted of her life like a flea on a dog was just despicable. Now, though, with desire for the lass running hot and thick through him, he didn’t want any other man panting after her for any bloody reason. Aye, he wanted her for himself, and damn any man who got in his way.
Knowing that she’d shied away from him because of her uncle actually reassured him a little. The family had been bitten twice, and there he came, looking like another dog. Except that the MacTaggerts didn’t breed dogs. They bred wolves.
“I nearly forgot to ask you, Francesca,” Mrs. Harris said as Miranda walked over to sit beside her mother—and directly across from Aden—“are you attending the Darlington ball tomorrow night?”
That was the party where Vale had already demanded two dances with Miranda. Aden had no idea whether his mother would be attending, or if any of her sons had been included in the invitation. He needed a way into that ball.
He looked at Miranda as she laughed at something Amelia-Rose—Amy—said, a comment about the delight in suddenly becoming part of a large family.Hisfamily, which had grown larger by three lasses in the past six weeks. Seventeen years ago, he’d lost a mother and a bairn of a sister, and now he had them again, along with a wife for Niall. He adored Eloise, all lace and giggles and an immediate understanding of how to wind her brothers about her wee finger, but Francesca he still didn’t trust. If he allowed himself to be hurt by her again, it would be his own fault.
Miranda’s dusky hair, bound up at the back, flowed free at the ends in a symphony of riotous curls that swayed and bounced as she turned her head. Long lashes framed dark-brown eyes that hid most traces of the dilemma facing her, far more than he would have expected from aproper English lass. But then he seemed to have been favored with more insight into her character than even her dearest friends. And he liked what he’d been permitted to see, liked that she trusted him even if it had been because she considered him more villain than hero.
Aye, he had a mind to marry her. What he wanted to do with her in the meantime damned well didn’t seem heroic. Just because she hadn’t caught him gazing at the curve of her hips and the swell of generous breasts beneath the low-cut neckline she favored in her pretty gowns didn’t mean he hadn’t been looking, hadn’t been imagining his hands stroking her in all the places that fancy green silk didn’t dare hug too closely.
But he was the elusive MacTaggert. No one knew where, exactly, he might be at any given time. He left a lass satisfied, but not certain whether he ever meant to come calling again. His brothers could guess at, but were frequently wrong about, who or what had his interest at any given time. Anything else made him feel like an insect on the end of a collector’s pin—exposed, categorized, and finished.
Whatever he’d decided in his own mind, if he stood up with Miranda in public, if he pushed himself into an argument with Vale over her, there wouldn’t be any slipping away. He would be declaring to his entire damned meddling family that he’d set himself after her, that she was the one. If she disagreed with that, which seemed likely despite her eagerness to kiss him in the shadows, everyone would know he’d made a play for her and failed. Miranda was the one with the established reputation in Society, after all, which was why Vale required her hand in marriage.
Arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and Eloise leaned around the back of his chair to kiss him on the cheek. “Stop staring at Miranda,” she whispered atthe same time. “I thought you two might suit, but it turns out she has a beau.”
“Dunnae wager any money on the captain,” he muttered back, hiding his deep breath.
“Are you serious? Or are you jesting with me again?” his sister demanded sotto voce.
“The answer to one of yer questions is aye. Ye figure out which one.”
“Aden.”
“Go away, ye wee elf.”
Aden turned his gaze to a potted plant.Bloody Saint Andrew.He’d been worrying over how trapped into his decision or whim or flight of fancy he might be if he danced with Miranda over another man’s objections. Apparently, he couldn’t even refrain from staring at her, and lustfully enough that his younger sister, lovestruck and planning her own nuptials, had noticed it.
What the devil was he doing? Miranda had asked him for a damned favor, for a bit of insight into a blackguard. It had taken a single sentence from her to make him understand that she was not a lass to be trifled with. She was a lady, and he couldn’t bed her without ruining her. If he stepped onto that ballroom floor tomorrow, it would be with the idea of forever. He knew that, but after the Darlington ball, everyone else would know, as well. Miranda would know for certain. No more teasing about his motivations.
Generally, the faintest whiff of forever sent him fleeing into the night, as it had with Alice Hardy and her postcoital cloying. He glared at the potted plant, willing the familiar loathing, the imagined years ahead when he would be consumed with regret, boredom, and dissatisfaction, but the palm fronds remained unmoved. His heart remained… not hopeful, because the devil knew he wasn’t the sort of lad who relied on hope, or luck—butinterested. Excited. Engaged. Things with which he wasn’t entirely comfortable. After all, he’d stopped putting faith in the idea that a lass could be trusted with his heart after his mother had fled Aldriss Park when he’d been ten years old.
He risked another glance at Miranda, to find her already looking at him. With a slight smile she turned to reply to something Amy was saying. That movement shook him free from his thoughts a little. After all, he could torture himself into deciding whether he felt trapped by this or not, but ultimately none of that would matter unless she came to the same conclusion. And that, as they said in wagering circles, was not a sure bet.
“Is the gaming that much better at Boodle’s?” Coll asked, kicking his great black Fresian, Nuckelavee, into a full gallop. “Worth a herd of nose-in-the-air Sassenach blowing cigar smoke at ye, I mean?”
Aden kept Loki to a trot; Eloise said galloping was perfectly acceptable as long as they stayed on Rotten Row in Hyde Park, especially this early in the day, but he was more in a thinking mood than a galloping-into-hell mood. Or it could be that if he set off at a run, he and Loki wouldn’t stop until they reached Scotland. Him, aiming to do heroic deeds to help, and to impress, an English lass.
Coll dragged the stallion back around to circle his brother. “I asked ye why ye’re suddenly so keen to be a Sassenach,bràthair,” he intoned.
“Ye asked about the gaming, then went flying off like a great bat before I could answer ye,” Aden retorted. “But aye, I hear it’s better at Boodle’s. Less chance of me taking a knife through the gut when I leave the establishment, too.”
“That makes sense. And I reckon I need to show better than I have been. I’ll go with ye to luncheon.”
Bloody Saint Andrew. “Nae, ye willnae.”
Coll hefted one slash of an eyebrow. “And why is that? What are ye up to?”
