Scot Under the Covers

by Suzanne Enoch

  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.

  “I admire your logic,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “and your determination to succeed. That said, I am not looking to wed a military man, retired or not. Thank you, though, for your complimentary words.”

  They did another circle of the room while he continued to look at her. “You are in an inferior position without realizing it,” he stated in the same tone with which he’d proposed—outlined—their marriage. “Speak with your brother.”

  A frown pulled at her mouth, and she fought to suppress it. “I don’t need to speak to anyone. Again, I thank you for your interest, but I simply do not return it. Now, let us be civil until the end of the dance.”

  “I am always civil. Nor do I wish in this instance to play the villain. Speak to your brother.”

  “I don’t—”

  “An argument now is pointless. I shall call on you in the morning at ten o’clock and we shall proceed once you are in possession of all the facts.” Around them the music hit a crescendo and echoed into silence. They stopped moving, but he kept hold of her hand and her waist. “As I said earlier, I believe in promises. And in keeping them.”

  Letting her go, he turned on his heel and strolled off in the direction of the garden doors. Perhaps he was hungry and meant to go swoop down on a mouse or a hedgehog outside. Whatever the devil Captain Vale might think he’d heard from Matthew, this could not be allowed to stand. She would not tolerate hearing the gossip that some too-long-at-sea ship’s captain had declared that he meant to marry Miss Miranda Harris.

  Matthew stood with Eloise and the giant MacTaggert brother, Lord Glendarril, and she set off toward them. When her brother spied her, he actually took half a step backward. Since he couldn’t possibly be reacting to her careful, composed expression, something else was afoot. That idea alarmed her to her toes. Still, he was an affable young man, her senior by only a year, and he might well have said something in jest that the captain took seriously.

  “Might I have a quick word with you, Matthew?” she asked as she reached his side.

  “Eloise and I were about to take a stroll in the garden, Mia. Could it wait?”

  “Nae,” the viscount countered. “Ye’ll nae be strolling in any garden in the dark with my wee sister, Harris.”

  “Coll,” Eloise protested, her cheeks darkening. “It’s just a bit of fresh air.”

  The big Highlander took his sister’s hand in his great paw and set it around his forearm. “Then I’ll take ye. Harris’s sister wants a word with him.”

  “Coll, y—”

  With Eloise still protesting, the two MacTaggerts headed off toward the garden. Miranda didn’t wait to see whether they went outside or not. Instead she took Matthew by the arm and pulled him into the nearest corner. “Your new friend Captain Vale just declared that he and I should marry,” she stated, keeping her voice down. “He said I should speak to you about it, intimating that the scheme has your approval. I don’t know what you might have said to him, but you need to go make it very clear that there’s been a misunderstanding and there will not be a wedding.”

  Her brother opened and shut his mouth. “He’s not a bad sort, Mia. A bit direct because he knows what he wants, but—”

  “You are jesting,” she cut in, the sharpness in her voice making him flinch. Good. “I know you generally like everyone, but you cannot allow some addle-pated lunatic to go about making such declarations to your own sister simply because he’s George’s cousin.”

  “That’s not … You shouldn’t call him addle-pated. Vale’s a sharp stick. He … I—”

  “Matthew Alexander Harris, stop stammering and tell me what the devil is afoot.” Miranda dug her fingers into his forearm. “I do not like where my suspicions are taking me.” Actually, her heart had begun hammering fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and something like horror crawled with cold fingers up her spine.

  He scowled. “Don’t make it so dramatic. You mean to marry eventuall
y, don’t you? And you haven’t found anyone in the five years you’ve been out. Why not—”

  “It took you six years to find Eloise,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but she only came out this year.”

  “What does that have to do with any—”

  “I can’t even count the number of completely acceptable men who’ve tried to court you. Well, Vale’s not one of the horde you’ve already rejected. He—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She curled her fists. The lengths to which Matthew would go to make himself seem like the reasonable one were maddening. “I am not marrying him.”

  “You have to, Mia.”

  That stopped her tirade cold. “And why is that, pray tell?” she whispered.

  “Because I owe him nearly fifty thousand pounds.”

  The amount … Even in her worst nightmares she’d never imagined such a sum. “Matthew!”

  “It didn’t begin that way,” he protested. “I lost a few quid to him at the tables, and then I won it all back and more—I was up by five hundred quid, Mia, so I knew I could best him—and then when I went under again, he kept giving me chances to win it back. The odds that two horses would pull up lame in the same race last week—any sane man would have wagered against that.”

  “No, Matthew, any sane man wouldn’t wager more than he could afford to lose. And for you that number is nowhere near fifty thousand pounds. Good heavens! You know better.”

  “I was already under by twenty thousand. A chance to wipe that out all at once … And it was a sure bet. A sure bet.”

  “Evidently it was not. For God’s sake.” Miranda took a breath, trying to quiet the roaring in her ears. Fifty thousand pounds. She couldn’t even imagine. And yet, there it was. “I thought you’d stopped with all the gambling after you had to sell Winterbourne. And Uncle John—his debt wasn’t even a quarter of what you’ve managed to acquire.”

  “I did stop, mostly. But Vale was fresh in London, and wanted George to take him gambling, and I didn’t want to look like some bumpkin just sitting there.” He looked down, his expression one of abject despair. “It’s only been six weeks. I don’t know how that amount … I don’t know how it happened.”

  She did. Captain Robert Vale had seen precisely who Matthew was, and he’d dug in to bleed him dry. To accomplish that in six weeks told her everything she needed to know about the man. He was a gambler. A very proficient one. “How did my name come into this?” she made herself ask, however clearly she could see it happening.

  “Two days ago, he said he’d decided to remain in London and wanted to purchase a house in Mayfair, and he required the blunt I owed him. When I admitted that I could pay him only two hundred quid, he said I should go to Father—or he would. I can’t—Father would disown me. Or I would bankrupt the family. Or both.” Matthew shut his eyes briefly. “So, I asked if we could reach some kind of agreement for repayment. That’s when he said he required a wife, and that he would forgive the entire amount in exchange for your hand in marriage.”

  “We’ve never even met. How—”

  “We saw you walking on Bond Street right after he arrived in Town. He said you showed very well. Mia, I—”

  “Don’t you dare try to apologize to me. I am so angry with you, Matthew. I can’t even…” Miranda took a breath. “Does Eloise know how much debt you’re in? That you’ve agreed to barter your own sister to clear a ledger?”

  His already-pale countenance grayed at the edges. “Of course I haven’t said anything. Lady Aldriss would call me a fortune hunter and order the engagement ended. Her brothers would murder me. I would deserve it, of course, but I can’t bear the thought of being without her.”

  “But you can bear the thought of your sister marrying to settle your debt,” she snapped. “Thank you very much.”

  “What should I do, then? Throw myself off a bridge? Run off to America and vanish? The debt would still be owed. He has my promissory notes, my signature. And he’s not likely to take pity on us, as Lord Panfrey did with Aunt Beatrice. My life, my future, is in your hands, Miranda, and I don’t know what else to do. I owe the man the money.”

  She wasn’t so certain about that; Matthew seemed more a victim than an unlucky equal in this equation. What, then, did that make her? Just to clarify,” she said quietly, looking at him until he met her gaze, “you expect me to give up my future in your stead.”

  “I—”

  “Stop,” she cut in. “Just stop.” He couldn’t give her advice or aid; Captain Vale had left open only one road for her brother, and reluctantly or not, he saw no choice but to walk it. She, however, was not Matthew.

  When she turned around, he grabbed her arm. “You can’t tell Father or Mother, Mia. Please.”

  Miranda shrugged out of his grasp. “I won’t. Not yet, anyway. For their sake. Not yours.”

  “Then you’ll agree to marry him?”

  The idea made her clench her jaw until her muscles creaked. “I am not as much of a fatalist as you are. And it is far too early to give up hope.”

  She’d experienced life with a poor player who thought himself the equal of every card-counting scoundrel in London. That view, that perspective, would not help her. No, she didn’t need more bleating from the sheep. She needed a word with one of the wolves.

  Chapter Three

  Aden liberated a glass of whisky from a passing footman’s tray and downed a good third of it. Beyond him couples gathered for yet another quadrille—the hostess of the party, he’d learned from her niece, thought the quadrille showed a lady at her most elegant and refined. The woman had scheduled five of the damned things.

  At the side of the room a handful of lasses stood, the desperation with which they were avoiding a single glance at the dance floor only making more obvious how much they yearned to be out there. To one side of them were the so-called damaged lasses, standing or sitting alone or with a mama, each one convinced that her lisp or limp or whatever flaw she’d settled on as most devastating stood between her and any chance of a good match—or even a partner for a single dance.

  Finishing off his drink, he set the glass aside, pushed away from the wall, and made for a plump, spectacle-wearing lass in an expensive-looking green silk gown. A man who had her same nose and eyes but much less girth said something briefly to her that had her sinking lower in her chair before he walked away to claim the hand of a pretty blond lass.

  “Mr. MacTaggert.”

  People didn’t slip up on him much, but in the noise and shuffle of the ballroom he hadn’t noticed Miranda Harris approaching in her pretty yellow dancing slippers. She was a bonny thing, with her brunette hair and chocolate eyes and soft-looking lips that seemed highly kissable even turned down at the edges in a frown as they were, but the lass claimed genuinely to dislike him—on principle, he supposed, since she’d declared it within one minute of their acquaintance. “Aye?”

  She folded her arms across her bosom, pulling the low neck of her yellow gown down a bit to where he could see the curve of her breasts, before she lowered her hands again. “I … spoke harshly earlier. I would be happy to dance this quadrille with you.”

  He folded his own arms, shoving back the unexpected desire to take her up on her offer. What better way to prove a lass wrong about his poor character than to make her fall for him? With a marriage noose hanging over his neck, though, he didn’t have the time or the inclination to dash some woman’s heart against the rocks for frowning at him. “And why is that?”

  Her face folded into a brief grimace before her brow smoothed again. She thought she was being generous, no doubt, and hadn’t expected to have to explain herself. “I would like a word with you,” she finally stated, clasping her restless hands in front of her trim waist.

  “Ye’ve already had a few of those with me,” he returned. “I reckon that even if ye’ve a mind to bite at me some more, I’ve had enough.” Resuming his walk, he stopped in front of the plump, green-garbed lass. “I’ve nae partner for this da
nce,” he said, watching as she jumped and then whipped her head up to stare at him, light-blue eyes enormous behind her spectacles. “Would ye tell me yer name and come prance about beside me?”

  She shot to her feet, grabbing onto his outstretched hand. “Phillipa,” she said. “Miss Phillipa Pritchard. And yes.”

  “Aden MacTaggert,” he returned, and led her into one of the circles just as the music began.

  While Phillipa beamed, nearly twisting herself inside out to catch her brother’s eye with every rotation of the dance, Aden took a gander at Miranda Harris, still standing where he’d left her. Evidently her claim that she had a partner for every dance had been a lie, though he had no doubt she could make it a truth with a snap of her elegant fingers.

  She kept looking about the room, clearly searching for someone who wasn’t there, while her fingers tapped together in a nervous, impatient rhythm. Mayhap some lad had forgotten to claim her for the quadrille, but he didn’t feel inclined to step in and be her rescuer after she’d insulted him. Twice now.

  At the end of the dance, though, she hadn’t moved except to send him frustrated glares every couple of seconds. This wasn’t about a missing dance partner, then. When Eloise and Matthew walked close by her and Miranda turned her back on the two of them, Aden nearly gave in to his mounting curiosity. Something had shifted, sent a breath of unease through the soiree, or at least the part of it where he happened to be paying attention. And now he could claim curiosity instead of whatever else it was that made him keep her close in his thoughts.

  Once he’d returned Miss Phillipa Pritchard to her gawping brother, Aden paused. He wasn’t a man who let himself get punched twice. Or thrice, in this instance. And while his curiosity often served him well, he didn’t allow it to overrule his common sense and logic.

  “Mr. MacTaggert.”

  Damn, she was stealthier than a wild cat. “Miss Harris,” he drawled, turning around.

  She took in a breath, mouth pinching. “Please allow me a word with you.”