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 holding a 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 he was merely 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.”
“And how is your grandmother?” she asked dutifully.
“Oh, she’s fit as a country horse, don’t you know. If you’d care for a chat with her, I’d be happy t—”
“Miss Harris,” a low, precise voice uttered from directly behind her, so close she could feel warm breath on the back of her neck.
Jumping a little, she turned around. Captain Vale gazed down at her with his bird-of-prey eyes. “Captain. Is it time for our waltz?”
“Yes.” He held out one hand.
Stifling an inward sigh, she set her gloved fingers into his bare ones and they walked onto the dance floor. Ah, well. She required a partner for this dance, and he was one. He also appeared to be more fit than Mr. Henning, which boded well. When he put a hand on her waist, she put hers on his shoulder, resting her fingers on the gold braids and epaulets that adorned all captains in the British navy. Even retired ones.
She looked up to realize they were the first ones on the floor, which left them poised like anxious statues as the rest of the couples gathered around them. “Are you enjoying your evening?” she asked, to break the silence.
“Yes.”
“How long has it been since you were last in London?” There. That would require at least two words to respond, doubling his total thus far.
“It’s been seven years since I was last in England.”
Oh, ten words at once! “You never even returned for leave until now?”
“No.”
And back down to one-word answers. Before she could summon another query for him, the orchestra began the waltz. He knew the steps, wherever he’d been, and he danced precisely and neatly. What he didn’t do was smile, instead continuing to gaze at her until she rather desperately wanted to look away. Deliberately she slid one foot a touch sideways, at the same time tightening her grip on his fingers and looking down toward her feet. Swiftly she blinked a few times before she lifted her gaze again, this time angling her head to view the dancers around them rather than him.
“Has your brother spoken to you about me?”
Drat, now she needed to look at him again and pretend he didn’t remind her of a hawk. “No, he hasn’t,” she returned, managing to focus on his left ear.
“I thought not. As I said, Miss Harris—Miranda—I have been away from England for quite some time. Now that I’ve returned, I wish to establish my place here among the peerage. The most efficient way to do so is to marry someone whose place and reputation are already both established and unblemished—as are yours. A marriage between us would be efficacious, and we should proceed without delay.”
Her feet kept moving, but Miranda couldn’t quite hear the music any longer. Of all the—what—how was she supposed to reply to that? Matthew might have warned her that his new friend was softheaded. She meant to kick her brother in the shin the moment they returned home.