A Noble Masquerade (25 page)

With another devilish grin tossed over her shoulder, she stepped forward into the halo of candlelight from a tall brass candelabra. “Watch me.”

Ryland flicked his eyes back and forth, inspecting the ballroom. His heart beat faster as he looked for Miranda.

He wanted to talk to her, to get past their unconventional meeting and move forward with getting to know one another, but first he had to break through the shell of propriety that he kept bumping up against. Were the little encounters he'd planned enough to remind her that she had, at one point, actually liked him? Were they enough to get her to let down her guard?

Right now he would take any emotion as a sign he was succeeding. Anything other than the pleasant, perfect lady her mother had convinced her to become.

A movement in the corner caught Ryland's eye and his gaze homed in on a breathtaking woman in pale green velvet. She was stepping into the glowing circle cast by a nearby candelabra, a look of mischief on her face as she said something to someone in the shadows behind her. Miranda had always been beautiful to him, but at that moment she was utterly captivating. Her hair had something sparkly woven into the curls that caught the candlelight and gave her an exquisite glow.

Even as her beauty knocked his breath down to his toes, that mischievous look made his heart cheer. It also had him shoring up his guard. She was planning something, and whatever it was, it wouldn't bode well for him. He would have to counteract it before she had a chance to maneuver him into her plan.

Making his way around the ballroom with the efficiency of a man used to getting where he wanted to be without drawing undue notice to himself, he planned his own strategy.

“Good evening, Lady Miranda.”

“Your Grace.” She curtsied low, the very picture of social grace. Her eyes betrayed the exuberant, passionate woman he'd been drawn to.

“It is quite a crush this evening.” He turned to stand next to her and gaze out over the couples spinning and twirling their way through a quadrille.

“Yes, quite. But not so bad as some I've been to. There is room to move and breathe here, after all.”

“You find it hard to breathe at these events, then?” He thought he felt her eyes boring into the side of his head, but he refused to glance her way to verify the feeling. His eyes remained fastened on the dancers.

“At times. I have been to events where the only way I knew my shoes were on my feet was to grip them with my toes.”

He made some sort of grunt as a response. Not terribly polite of him, but he wanted to see what she had planned.

“Unless, of course, I was dancing. They maintained plenty of room in which to actually dance.”

Another grunt vibrated his lips. He forced himself not to smile as an inkling of her thoughts formed in his mind.

Her fan beat a staccato rhythm against her leg. “The dance floor tonight is especially spacious.”

His hand eased up to cover the surge of a smile that broke through before his disinterested facade sealed it off once more.
He wondered if she planned on kicking him and stepping on his toes while on the dance floor or if she intended to refuse his request in an attempt to humiliate him. Either way, it was easy enough to foil her plan.

“You're right. The dancing looks particularly inviting tonight.” He turned to his left and was pleased to find a woman he had been introduced to at another party the week before. She wasn't exceptionally pretty or popular, but neither was she ignored and reviled. She was perfect for his needs.

Two steps brought him to her side. “Miss Poppyton, might I have the honor of dancing the next with you?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied and smiled, confusion, surprise, and pleasure flitting across her pale features.

He heard a low laugh in the shadows and angled himself to be able to peek sideways in the direction of his current adversary. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Behind her Trent was bent over at the waist, laughing. He was muffling and controlling it as best he could, but it was clear he found considerable humor in the situation. Good. It would only irk Miranda more.

Ryland offered his arm to Miss Poppyton. A spin around the floor with him would do wonders for her reputation. In the end he was likely doing her a favor instead of using her for his own means. The thought eased what little of his conscience felt uncomfortable walking away from Miranda.

The dance was as enjoyable as it could be. Miss Poppyton held her own on the topics of weather, the ball they were attending, and the exquisite cut of his coat. He didn't understand why so many people felt the need to compliment a man on his ability to find a competent tailor, but he'd had the discussion multiple times since returning to London.

Once the dance was over, he escorted Miss Poppyton back to her mother, where three young gentlemen were waiting to vie
for her attention. The blush that graced the young girl's cheeks paired prettily with her shy smile.

He bowed to her mother and then turned to make his way across the ballroom, once again on the lookout for Miranda. She was on the dance floor with Lord Raebourne. The man was a close friend of Griffith's, and he was married. Happily so, if the gossip could be believed. No threat emanated from that corner, then.

Ryland didn't want to lead another young miss out on the floor in an attempt to get closer to his true quarry. Instead he positioned himself near the end of the line of dancers, where he could easily watch her progress her way across the dance floor. The steps caused her to spend a significant amount of time facing him.

She glared.

He grinned.

She turned her nose up at him.

Ryland's grin widened. It was time for them to talk.

Miranda handed her bonnet to Trent's butler. Ryland's behavior at the ball last night still twisted her stomach in knots. Her entire morning had been taken up with reliving those few moments he'd been in the ballroom. How dare he foil her plan to humiliate him and stop this nonsensical feud? The missive from Trent asking her to stop by his house this afternoon was a welcome distraction.

The butler waved her toward the staircase. “Lord Trent asked me to tell you that he was in his study.”

With a nod, Miranda made her way up the stairs. She couldn't begin to fathom what Trent could need that required her to come to him instead of him stopping by Hawthorne House. It
was probably still the newness of having his own place. He'd moved into the narrow terrace house at the end of last Season.

She knocked at the study door and forced herself to wait for his answer before pushing the panel open. They were so close in age, barely a year apart, she had trouble remembering that they were adults now. Trent was a man of twenty-two with his own home and his own duties. The fact that she was still at the mercy of her family's care while her brother had moved out on his own was a bit depressing.

“Why am I here?” She took in the study with its faded wall coverings and worn furniture. Maybe he wanted her to redecorate.

Trent looked up with a smile tinged with nervousness. Trent never got nervous. This brother went through life with nary a care. If he was worried, then something must be very wrong indeed.

Miranda's already anxious stomach threatened to become ill. “Trent?”

“Isn't it obvious? I need a woman's help.” He spread his arms wide and glanced around the room.

She'd noticed as much. But why would that make him look so tentative? “You want me to decorate your house?”

He shrugged. “Maybe a bit here and there.”

She groaned. It was one thing to keep house for Griffith. He was, in many ways, her guardian. If she started working on Trent's home, she could put on her spinster's cap for certain.

“Well, then don't decorate my house. That's not why I brought you here.”

Her heart skipped a beat. This could not be good. “Then why am I here?”

Trent gave her a sheepish smile and nodded to the door behind her.

Miranda whirled around to find Ryland leaning in the doorway to Trent's study. Forget skipping a beat, her heart just gave
up and stopped altogether. With a shoulder propped against the doorframe and one foot crossed over the other, he looked relaxed.

Confident.

Gorgeous.

His coat only enhanced the strain of his muscles as his arms crossed over his chest. The eyes that haunted her dreams drew her in to his chiseled face and tapered jaw. His features held none of the challenge so evident in their last few meetings. “You're here to talk to me.”

Was fratricide legal in England? If not, it should be. Exceptions should be made for cases like this. A girl should have some form of retribution when brothers behaved in such a high-handed manner. Glaring holes in Trent was easier than dealing with Ryland, so she focused on making her blond buffoon of a brother squirm like the worms he used to hide in her bed.

He offered her another sheepish grin and shrugged. “It was time for the two of you to talk this out. You've clearly been miserable since—”

“Trent!” Miranda darted a look over her shoulder and caught the last vestiges of a smirk before Ryland composed his face into a blank canvas once more. She returned to spearing her sibling with her eyes. “Some things are best left unsaid.”

“Right, well, you two go about your business. Don't mind me.” He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and pulled a book across the polished surface. A moment later he turned the page, looking for all the world like a man engrossed in the poems of Coleridge.

“Your book is upside down,” Miranda muttered. It wasn't true, but she was hoping to catch him having to double-check.

Trent ignored her and turned another page.

Ryland strode farther into the room and stood next to her. “He appears to be quite occupied.”

“He's faking. His attention isn't on that book at all.”

Ryland turned to face Miranda. He was silent for so long that she felt compelled to turn her gaze in his direction. His eyes looked like silver fire surrounded by billowing smoke. She felt sucked into their depths, thinking she'd forgive him anything if he would just look at her with that much passion for the rest of their lives. It was enough to make a girl feel positively cherished.

“Shall we test that?” His whisper drew her eyes to his lips.

“Test what?”

“His enthrallment.”

Miranda jerked back at the reminder that Trent was in the room. It wasn't until she regained her bearings that she realized she had taken a step toward Ryland and leaned in, drawn to the promise of his gaze. “How would we do that?”

He appeared to consider it for a moment. His hand reached out and clasped hers loosely. “I could kiss you.”

Miranda's gasp was almost loud enough to cover Trent's pointed cough.

Ryland laughed. “I concede. You're correct. He's listening.”

“Of course he's listening. For all of his underhanded nonsense, he is my brother.” Irritation that it had all been a ruse to get a rise out of Trent had her crossing her arms over her chest and retreating back another step.

“Trent, could I have a few moments alone with your sister?”

Trent looked up, his normally cheerful face wearing maturity better than she expected it to. “Are you going to propose?”

“Probably not.”

“Then no. I believe we shall all stay as we are. You may continue.” He dropped his attention back to his book.

Ryland sighed. “May I at least direct her to the far corner where we may converse with a modicum of privacy?”

Trent waved a hand through the air without looking up. “Be my guest. The acoustics in this room are fabulous.”

Ryland sighed as he grasped her elbow and propelled her
across the room. He angled himself into the corner by the door, leaving Miranda to stand in front of the open portal. She felt very exposed, yet thankful that he hadn't boxed her in.

Neither spoke.

Miranda crossed her arms and looked anywhere except Ryland's face. The wall bore a slight crack between the trim and the wallpaper. One of Shakespeare's plays had been put back on the shelf upside down. Her brother's favorite wing chair was looking a little worn along the arms.

Finally there was nowhere else to look and she brought her consideration back to Ryland. She raised her eyebrows, hoping he would pick up the initiative in the conversation.

He didn't. The complete picture of calm, he stood and watched her.

The only sound in the room came from Miranda's right foot as it tapped sharp staccato beats against the floor. If Trent was still turning pages, he was doing an admirable job of keeping them from rattling.

Finally Miranda said, “I am waiting.”

“For what?”

Miranda's foot stopped midbeat. “For what? For . . . for an apology, of course!”

“You won't be getting one.”

Miranda's arms dropped to her side and her mouth fell open. Remembering that she was supposed to be a refined lady she snapped her mouth shut. “I see.”

“Do you?”

Miranda wasn't sure what to say to that. She had never heard of a gentleman refusing to apologize to a lady. Not a true gentleman anyway. There were always rogues and cads who went about insulting women and refusing to make any amends for it, but even when she'd thought him a valet she'd considered Ryland to be more gentlemanly than that.