That sounded very straightforward, or it would have if he hadn’t been gazing at Matthew when he spoke. An abrupt chill went through her even in the warm, crowded room. It took some effort not to hurry her steps as she joined her growing circle of friends. “There you are, Miranda,” Rebecca Sharpe said, clasping Miranda’s hands in hers. “This is a sad crush tonight, isn’t it? There are so many people my elbows are trapped against my ribs.”
“There’s a rumor Prinny might appear,” skinny Frederick Spearman commented, lowering his voice a little.“No one will admit wanting to be seen with him, but everyone wants to make certain they are.”
As much of a disruption as even the rumor of Prince George’s presence caused, the flurry of mixed sycophancy and scorn fascinated Miranda. With his gout the Regent wouldn’t be dancing, but he did have a refined eye for art and fashion. Perhaps he might admire her yellow gown.
“Speaking of seeing,” Helen Turner commented, “I’m saving a spot on my dance card for one of the MacTaggerts. Hopefully Aden. Did you see him yesterday? Muddy and wet, with that hair of his? If he wasn’t a Scot, I would think him a poet.”
“By ‘that hair of his,’ I assume you mean the way it’s nearly long enough that he might consider braiding it,” Miranda returned. For heaven’s sake, queues had gone out of style better than a decade ago. And wearing it loose, the black strands whipping about in the breeze to artfully frame his lean face and whisper against his shoulders—yes, Helen was correct: It was poetic. Too poetic. A wolf trying to convince everyone that he was a harmless sheep.
“Miranda, you shouldn’t say such things,” Rebecca countered, her tittering giggle saying otherwise.
Perhaps she shouldn’t, but Aden MacTaggert gambled. Apparently quite often and quite well, according to the snippets of conversation she’d heard from Matthew and Eloise—and lately, some of her other friends, as well. She glanced across the room at her brother still in deep conversation with Lord George and Captain Vale. For every gambler who played well, there were two dozen who played poorly. And of those poor players, half risked more than they should, or were overly confident or desperate or prideful or… naive enough to think they couldbeat the odds. The professional gambler didn’t care about them, that their squandered money had come from rent or food or university funds. And yet in her opinion, being naive certainly didn’t seem a crime that a man should have to pay for with his future.
An image of her uncle John crossed her memory, a laughing Aunt Beatrice on his arm. John Temple had been amiable and charmingly confident, and not nearly as skilled as he’d believed himself to be. At least the holder of his debts had been a so-called friend, willing to allow John the chance to pay off the sum he’d gambled away—though seeking his fortune in the wilds of America didn’t seem anything a married man with two young daughters should have been attempting. It had been nearly a year since Aunt Beatrice had had any word of him at all, and privately Miranda had begun to think she never would.
She scowled. Matthew had idolized Uncle John, and her brother had confidence enough for a king. Lord George had never been the steadiest of friends for Matthew, but the third son of Lord Balingford at least possessed enough sense to know when to walk away from a table or a wager. And it had been two years now since the last of the angry speeches Matthew had used to earn from their father. Being forced to sell his own horse to pay off his debts, swiftly followed by the disastrous lesson of Uncle John, seemed finally to have made the truth of his shortcomings sink into his stubborn head. Thank heavens for that, because she didn’t think her heart would be able to survive losing him to the Americas—or worse.
“Miranda, Helen’s broken my heart and turned me away from the quadrille,” Lord Phillip West drawled as he moved between her and her view.
“You were simply too late, Phillip,” Helen protested, putting her gloved hand on Frederick’s arm. “I told you I meant to dance every single dance this evening.”
Shaking herself out of her unexpected gray cloud of memories, Miranda smiled and imperiously held out her hand. “I shall dance with you, my lord,” she enunciated, dropping into a deep curtsy.
The Marquis of Hurst’s younger brother took her proffered hand in his, bowing in return. “Thank you. I do admire the way you always keep back a dance or two for us poor, late-arriving unfortunates.”
Actually she had only one nameonher card at the moment. That wasn’t like her. But she seemed to be busy worrying over gowns and sharp-eyed gamblers and nebulous, unnamed, unarticulated dreads this evening. Hopefully a quadrille with the charming Lord Phillip would settle her so she could enjoy the evening again.
Ten minutes of twirling and quick-stepping did make her breathless, and she grinned as the music stopped.Ah, much better.Together with Phillip she returned to her friends—stopping her approach only when a broad chest appeared directly in front of her.
She looked up. A strong chin, a mouth turned down at one corner and up at the other, clearly amused, high cheekbones and a straight nose, gray-green eyes that abruptly made her conjure secluded, mist-covered pools in some ancient forest, and a fall of black hair framing the portrait and hanging in slight waves almost down to broad shoulders.
“Good evening, Miranda Harris,” Aden MacTaggert said, catching the r’s of her name in that deep brogue of his.
She drew in a breath, blaming her accelerating heartbeat on startlement. “Mr. MacTaggert. Has your sister arrived? Matthew has been practically pacing, waiting for her.”
“Aye. She’s here.” He tilted his head, a lock of hair falling across one eye. “Ye’re to be my sister-in-law. I reckon we shouldnae be unfriendly.”
“We’re not unfriendly,” she countered. “We simply have nothing in common. That happens quite often, I believe.”
“Even so,” he pressed, ignoring Lord Phillip and evidently anticipating her response, “I’ve some curiosity. Most lasses who decide they dunnae like me have at least conversed with me first. Do ye have a dance to spare for me this evening? Then we can chat and ye’ll have a reason to loathe me.”
Rather than argue over her degree of dislike and whether it was warranted, which was undoubtedly what he wanted, she smiled. “I’m afraid not,” she lied, glad her dance card lay safely in her reticule. “It’s such a sad crush this evening, and I haven’t one single free spot on my card.”
The tall Highlander inclined his head. If he was disappointed or simply oblivious to the snub she couldn’t tell; his expression remained one of mild amusement. But then he was a gambler, and knew how to disguise his thoughts. “I’m nae a cat. Curiosity willnae kill me.” Inclining his head, he strolled off, pausing to speak with the absurdly nervous Sarah Tissell. A moment later the poor thing held out her dance card, and he wrote down his name.
Well. Good for him, then. Sarah rarely danced, so she had the unfortunate tendency to become so concerned over making an error that she inevitably tripped or misstepped. He likely didn’t know that, but Sarah’s fingers twisting the strings of her reticule were difficult to miss. He was looking for a bride, as everyone knew, and Sarah would likely expire on the spot if he asked for her hand.
The music for the country dance began, and as Lord Phillip hurried off to collect his next partner Miranda abruptly realized she didn’t have one.Dash it all.Twirling, she spied the short, balding Francis Henning holdinga glass of whisky and gazing about the ballroom absently. “Mr. Henning,” she said grandly, taking the glass from his hand and setting it into a potted plant, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”
“What? I—oh, well, dashed splendid,” he stammered, letting her half drag him onto the polished floor. “Certainly. Sterling. Far side of the floor, if you don’t mind. Want my grandmama to see me socializing.”
Miranda stifled a smile. Mr. Henning’s grandmama was famous for being ridiculously difficult. “Of course.”
That had been a near one. No one liked to be caught in a lie, and especially not three seconds after uttering it. Of course, now she had seven more partners to find for the evening. Perhaps she felt a little less annoyed with Matthew and Captain Vale after all. They’d saved her one search, at least.
Francis’s request put them in the group of dancers also occupied by Mr. MacTaggert. She danced down the line, pairing briefly with him and making a point to meet his gaze as they brushed hands, but he only lifted an eyebrow at her. Perhaps hewasmerely curious why she disdained gambling and gamblers, then, but Matthew was very nearly a part of the MacTaggert family. If her brother wanted them to know about his previous recklessness, or the better-known tale of their uncle, he could tell them himself.
As the dance ended, she escorted a panting Mr. Henning to the refreshment table and fetched him an awful orange punch, which he gulped down. Pulling her fan from her reticule, she waved it at him. “Thank you, Miss… Harris,” he wheezed. “Been spending too much… time sitting about holding yarn… for my grandmama.”
