Scot Under the Covers Read online

  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 understand ye. 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. He didn’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.”

  With one of his affable grins her brother bowed and disappeared in the direction of the nearest refreshment table. She might have found his information about the expected arrival time for the MacTaggerts helpful, but he had no cause to know that. At least she could put Aden MacTaggert from her thoughts now, though she had no idea why she kept conjuring him, anyway. Perhaps it was because he should look as odious on the outside as a gambler was on the inside, and he simply didn’t. Annoying man.

  A group of her friends had begun forming at one end of the room, but for the moment she remained content to observe, and to look for more yellow chiffon gowns. At least Mrs. Allen had cut the two dresses differently. While Lady Caroline’s boasted half sleeves and a straight neckline, her own had a gathered waist, short, puffed sleeves, and a deep, rounded neckline her mother had deemed “nearly scandalous.” Miranda liked being in the “nearly” category. It made her feel a little daring while never earning her more than the occasional raised eyebrow from the powdered wig-wearing set of elders.

  “Here you go,” Matthew said, handing over the brimming glass of orange-colored liquid.

  “Thank you.” She took a sip. Oh, good heavens. Lady Gaines had clearly been experimenting with her culinary creations again. Orange and … Oh, crushed marigold? Miranda put her hand over her mouth to keep from spitting it out. The marigold explained the dark, vibrant color, but in that concentration, it was unbearably bitter. “Sweet angel of mercy,” she gasped. “That would curl the wallpaper.”

  “Would it? Hand it over,” her brother demanded.

  Giving it back to him, eyes watering from the bitterness of it, she pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. Lady Gaines must have decimated an entire field of marigolds. No doubt their hostess had been attempting to find the perfect orange color rather than bothering over the taste of the concoction.

  He tasted it himself, because of course he would. With a grimace he put it on the tray of the nearest passing footman. “With a pint—or a gallon—of vodka added, I imagine it would be nearly tolerable,” he commented, then cleared his throat. “You are dancing this evening, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. I missed the last three grand balls tending Aunt Beatrice and the babies. They are darlings, and I don’t begrudge them a moment of the weeks spent away from London, but it is nice to be back again. And to not find dried porridge in my hair.”

  When Matthew didn’t respond to that she glanced over at him, to find his attention on the doorway. Lord George Humphries stood giving his greetings to Sir Eldon Gaines and his wife Lady Harriet, but her brother’s gaze was on the tall man in the naval captain’s uniform beside Lord George.

  “Who is that?” she asked, taking in the deep-set eyes beneath a prominent brow, the narrow, thin-lipped mouth, and the long, straight, down-angled nose in between. With short, upright brown hair to complete the ensemble, in profile he looked rather like a crested bird of prey, a blue-dressed falcon grown too large for perching in trees.

  “Hm?” Matthew started a little as he turned to look at her.

  “Who is that with Lord George?” she repeated.

  “Oh. It’s his cousin. Captain Robert Vale. He’s been in India for a time.”

  That would explain why she didn’t recognize him. Lord George and her brother practically lived in each other’s pockets, after all, and at three-and-twenty this was her fifth Season in London—yet her first sighting of this species of falcon. “Is he here on leave, then, or—”

  Matthew offered his arm. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  “That’s not nec—”

  “Come on, Mia.”

  When she put her hand over his sleeve, he seemed … stiff, his muscles tight. For her easygoing brother to be tense about anything immediately seemed odd. He’d recently been introduced to his fiancée’s three towering Highlander brothers, after all, and Father said he’d barely batted an eye. And they’d suggesting drinking and brawling as a get-acquainted ritual. “Matthew,” she muttered, “what is—”

  “Captain Vale,” he said over her protest, stopping before the two men. “My younger sister, Miranda. Mia, Captain Robert Vale. George’s cousin.”

  The captain, hat beneath his arm, swept a bow before he took h
er hand and bent over it. “Miss Harris. I’ve heard a great deal about you. So glad we could finally meet.”

  He had a falcon’s eyes, as well, light-brown with a hint of amber, and a direct, unblinking gaze—almost as if she were a rabbit he’d just spied. Of course, his predatory appearance wasn’t his fault, and he spoke mildly enough, but even so she retrieved her hand the moment she could politely do so. “Captain. Matthew says you’ve been in India,” she said anyway, because her brother seemed to like him. “Are you here on leave?”

  “No. I’ve retired,” he returned. “I’m deciding my future, as it were. I have friends and business connections in India, but it’s a very … warm place. I prefer a cooler clime.”

  “I imagine it would be quite warm. Were you not on the water, though?”

  He lowered his head a little, eyes still on her. “It’s warm on the water, as well. Not quite as hot and humid as it is inland, however.”

  “Mia, give Vale a waltz, won’t you?” Matthew put in abruptly. “Help welcome him home.”

  She would have preferred not to, and Matthew needed to have his foot trodden upon for even making the suggestion, but she’d been trapped into it now. “Certainly.” Summoning a smile, she retrieved her dance card and pencil from her reticule and handed them over to the captain.

  “The third one’s a waltz,” Matthew pointed out helpfully, reaching over her shoulder to gesture at the appropriate line.

  As the captain wrote Vale in a neat hand on the appropriate line, Miranda abruptly wished she’d joined her friends when she’d had the chance. All the dances on her card would have been taken, or at least the two waltzes, but instead she’d decided to look for yellow dresses. Dash it all.

  Hopefully Captain Vale could dance adequately, because she didn’t wish to have her toes crushed. And hopefully he could carry on a polite conversation, because nothing was worse than standing face-to-face with someone and attempting to carry on a chat by herself. Still smiling, she retrieved her card. “I’ll leave you three to chat,” she said, giving a shallow curtsy. “I see my friend Helen, and I promised her a moment.”

  It was a lie, of course, but Vale clicked his heels together. “There is nothing more important than honoring a promise.”

  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 could beat 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 name on her 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 qui
te 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.”