“I’m not so certain of that, Eloise,” her friend put in. “People see what they want to see, and that is generally what’s most convenient for them.”
Aden straightened. Insightful, and not a thing about the weather at all. That had only been one sentence, though. How would she fare with two, this lass with the dark eyes and dusky-brown hair? “And who might ye be, lass?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eloise exclaimed, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Aden, this is Matthew’s sister, Miranda Harris. Miranda, my middle brother, Aden MacTaggert.”
Now that he knew the lady was related to Eloise’s fiancé, he could see the similarities. The dark-brown hair with its hints of sunset gold, the eyes dark as liquid chocolate. Miranda’s face was narrower than her brother’s, her features more delicate, and while she didn’t have Matthew’s height, the top of her head did come to just above Aden’s shoulder. She was a tall lass, since he stood an inch above six feet himself. And he was the short brother.
“Miss Harris,” he said, remembering enough of his manners to incline his head. It wasn’t that he was struck by her. It was just that she’d surprised him a little. He’d still be willing to wager that weather would enter the conversation within the next two minutes, though. Aye, Brògan was the most promising lass in London so far. All she wanted was food and a blanket, and she didn’t pretend to be after anything but that.
The lass—not the dog—curtsied smoothly. “I’m so pleased you and your brothers are here,” she said, her accent very cultured and very English. “Eloise has been telling stories about you for ages.”
Since the stories had apparently come to Eloise viatheir father, Angus, Aden had to doubt their authenticity. Lord Aldriss did like a good tale. He should have come down to London with them and seen his daughter for the first time in seventeen years, but Angus had decided he was about to perish from the shock of learning of his wee bairn’s engagement. Or more likely, he was too scared of Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert to leave the safety of the Highlands. “I reckon she told ye tales about Coll mostly, a handful about Niall, and nae a one about me.”
Miranda Harris tilted her head. “Only if the story about you starting with a shilling, going wagering, and ending up with a horse a day later is false.”
He grinned. She hadn’t fainted or blushed, or mentioned the chill in the air. Yet. “I’ll give ye that one, then.”
Eloise released her friend. “I’ll be right back,” she said, sending Aden a swift wink that clearly said she thought she’d found him his future wife. With that she dove back into the dog-petting circle.
“If ye kept straight which tale was about which brother,” Aden commented, “I have to give ye credit for paying attention. Here in London I’m at best ‘a MacTaggert brother,’ and at worst I’m ‘one of those Highlanders.’”
She folded her hands primly in front of her. Miranda Harris had long fingers, he noticed. Gambler’s hands, some called them. And those dark-brown eyes, her lips slightly pursed now in either a stifled grin or an escaping grimace, he could tolerate. More than tolerate, as long as her next sentence wasn’t about the damned weather—as if a soft Sassenach even knew what weather was.
“I did pay attention,” she said in her proper tones, “especially because of the wagering. I detest gambling. And gamblers.”
That straightened him up a little. Nothing much caught him flat-footed these days. Miss Miranda Harris had justaccomplished that feat. “That was admirably direct,” he drawled. “Well done, lass.”
Her grimace deepened. “I was not offering you a compli—”
“I know ye didnae intend to say anything I’d admire,” he cut in, taking half a step closer and setting aside the inner question of why he was bothering to verbally fence with a woman who’d apparently set herself against liking him before they ever met. Perhaps it was because he generally made a point of being fairly likeable. And because even if he didn’t like the words, she’d bothered to speak her mind—when most of the Sassenach in London wouldn’t dare spit out a direct insult to save their own lives. He’d seen fewer twists in a snake. “Ye need to keep in mind that I’m nae some wilting English dandy. In the Highlands we like to disagree with our fists. What ye said almost sounded like flirting to me, Miss Harris.”
For a second she looked like she wanted to give the fisticuffs a go. “You don’t seem to be obtuse,” she returned, her voice clipped, “so I will assume you are deliberately misreading my statement. I shall be more clear, then. I know what Eloise was about, and I have no interest in a match with a gambler, a wagerer, someone who views the inferior skills of others as an invitation to rob them.”
Aden kept the loose grin on his face—mainly because it seemed to annoy her, but also because he’d never expected to cross paths with such a sharp-tongued lass in this soft country. A bit of fire. “That’s a shame, lass, because wagering is about patience and finesse, about intimacy, and about having hands that know how to do more than shuffle cards.”
The fine color of her cheeks darkened just a shade. “I could say the same about being a rat catcher. And he doesn’t trick people into poverty.”
He could argue that rat catching didn’t have shite to do with intimacy, but he could also certainly make better use of his time by finding a woman who wouldn’t spew vitriol at him. It was a shame, really. One lass who’d dared a direct word with him, and it was to proclaim that she wanted nothing to do with him. “I’ve been ordered to wed an English lass. I reckon I dunnae need to spend my time convincing one who doesnae see past the gossips. I’ll leave ye be, Miranda Harris.”
And she still kept her feet beneath her. Looking a wee bit relieved, as if she’d expected him to toss a deck of cards at her or something, Miss Harris nodded. “As long as we understand each other, Mr. MacTaggert.”
“I understandye. The rest isnae my concern.”
Chapter Two
Miranda Harris sipped a glass of Madeira, her attention on the pairs and trios of guests as they emerged from the crowded hallways of Gaines House and flooded into the ballroom. Thus far no one else wore the same deep-yellow chiffon with light-green lace and trim she’d acquired just yesterday, but even if it didn’t happen tonight it wouldn’t be long before she set eyes on her apparel twin. The color was simply too vibrant to pass by, and Mrs. Allen the dressmaker had confessed that she’d acquired a great quantity of the very expensive material from Paris.
Her friends strolled into Gaines House in drips and droves, favoring her with waves and smiles and motions to join them for conversation. For the moment she put them off; the soiree would last well into the wee hours of morning, and she very much enjoyed watching the newly arrived guests. Not that she looked for anyone in particular, though it would be fortunate if she noted when Aden MacTaggert arrived.
It had been bad enough when she only knew him by reputation; now that they’d met—and with silly Eloise actually trying to make a match of them, for goodness’ sake—she found him even worse than she expected. Hedidn’t look at all like an inveterate gambler should. Not a hint of narrow, suspicious eyes or the odor of cigars and alcohol, no stringy, unkempt hair or rumpled clothes. His accent seemed intended to be charming rather than menacing, not that she found him to be anything other than… just someone to be avoided.
“Could I fetch you a glass, Mia? They have an orange punch that looks passable.”
Sighing as a deep-yellow chiffon trimmed with peach glided into the ballroom on the frame of Lady Caroline Mays, Miranda faced her brother. One evening of being complimented as shining like the sun would have been lovely, but she did still adore her new gown. “That’s the third time you’ve offered me a beverage, Matthew. Why are you my shadow this evening? Why aren’t you lurking about the doorway, waiting for Eloise?”
“It’s already dreadfully warm in here and I thought you might be thirsty, Eloise sent over a note earlier that she won’t be arriving until half nine, and I’m your brother. Why shouldn’t I dance attendance on you? Or would you rather stand beside Mother and Father as they get their ears talked off by the Applethorpes?”
Miranda grimaced. The last time she’d spied her parents by the library door, the Applethorpes had still been chatting at them. “Very well. I concede I am perhaps a little grateful not to have to listen to Mr. Applethorpe’s tales of fighting those upstart Colonials again. Orange punch, if you please.”
