“Rossberry,” Archer said tightly as the man stomped over with a younger man in tow. “How nice to see you again.”

A small mouth, hidden behind a molted brown beard, twitched with a growl. “If I had known you’d be here, I’d have hid me shame behind a fool’s mask as well.”

“Ah, but what mask could hide your dulcet tones?” replied Archer lightly. “Unless equipped with a muzzle.”

“Mask, muzzle, that this fair face of mine draws less terror than what you hide is the real pity.”

Miranda’s fingers dug into Archer’s coat, but he did not react.

“Really, Father,” said the young man next to him. “You are practically begging for a duel with Lord Archer.”

His cultured tones were nothing like the Highland lilt of his father’s, yet there was an air of resemblance between the men, from the shine of their dark auburn hair and the depth of their azure blue eyes. “Having witnessed Archer’s cruel efficiency, I don’t think you would fare well in the endeavor.” He extended his hand to Archer. “Hello, Archer.” Wolfish teeth flashed as his eyes raked over Archer’s mask. “You haven’t aged a bit.”

Archer shook the man’s hand briefly. “Kind of you to notice, Mckinnon.”

Mckinnon laughed lightly. The man moved with a quick grace that spoke of strength and assurance. He turned his attentions to Miranda, and Archer murmured an introduction of Alasdair Ranulf, Earl of Rossberry, and Ian Ranulf, his eldest son and heir apparent, who held the courtesy title of Viscount Mckinnon.

“Enchanted, madam,” Lord Mckinnon said, bending over her hand. His gloved thumb caressed her palm as it slipped away, and she bristled. He smiled knowingly. There was something all together animalistic emanating from Mckinnon that made her wary. The look in his eyes said he knew at least a little of her line of thinking and enjoyed the effect.

He had barely let go when Lord Rossberry’s fury returned to Archer. “You’ve got nerve showing yourself, Archer, after what ye did to Marvel. Stay out of my way, an’ away from my son, or I’ll have your heart on a stake for me supper.”

Chapter Ten

Miranda’s feet throbbed as she made another turn on the dance floor with yet another partner. The line of young men wanting to dance appeared endless, the exception being her husband, who had disappeared. She begged off when the last young man stepped on her toes. He flushed deeply and apologized profusely.

Limping from the ballroom to the grand upper-foyer, she searched for Archer, only to see his broad back slip past Lord Leland on the way into Cheltenham’s private study. Leland caught her eye for one moment, his blue gaze flat and troubled before he closed the door, locking Archer in and Miranda out. She glared at the closed door. Damnable man.

“Men can be rather tiresome, can they not?”

Miranda turned to find a dark-haired woman standing by her side. The woman smiled, revealing extremely white teeth from behind painted lips. “I could not help but notice your scowl. Nothing else but a man could produce that look.”

Miranda had to laugh, at both the woman’s wonderfully forthright nature, and the veracity of the comment. “Quite so,” Miranda said with another small laugh.

The woman dimpled. “You are Lady Archer, are you not?”

“Yes. Miranda Archer, Lord Archer’s wife.”

Miranda studied her anew. That the woman was beautiful there was little doubt, blessed with a heart-shaped face and wide gray eyes. Her exact age was another matter entirely. Perhaps she had a skin ailment, for Miranda could see no reason why such an attractive woman should cover herself with so much rice powder. Her near theatrical application of makeup emphasized the fine lines in her face and gave her the appearance of a much older woman, perhaps well into her forties. Yet the firmness of her flesh belied that assumption, as did her trim figure. She could have been twenty, or twenty years older. It was impossible to tell.

Her style was that of a younger woman’s as well. Her dark auburn locks were pulled up high to curl in profusion down her neck. A stylish fringe curled over her brow, a style Miranda admired but hadn’t yet gathered the courage to try. The lime-green gown she wore fell in a narrow skirt to the floor before fanning out from the back in a ripple of fuchsia flounces.

She noticed Miranda’s study and did not appear insulted, but rather pleased. “Apologies,” she said. “I have not introduced myself. I am a kinswoman of yours, though you do not yet know it.” Her head lowered in greeting, a smile curling over her dark lips. “Miss Victoria Archer,” she said as Miranda’s lips turned numb. “I am third cousin to Benjamin.”

It was the eyes, Miranda thought, staring. They were the same shade of silver gray. Slowly, Miranda curtsied in turn. “Pardon me,” she said, coming out of her fog. “I did not mean to stare. I did not think Archer had any living relatives.” She tried to smile. “How nice to meet you.”

Miss Archer laughed, a melodic sound as clear as Waterford crystal. “It is quite all right. I am guilty of a little deception. I saw you with Archer and waited for him to leave.” She gave a sidelong glance around the ballroom. “I should have had Benjamin introduce us but I admit to wanting a little fun.” Her gray eyes tilted at the corners. “My cousin can be somewhat prickly about his private life, no?”

Miranda had to agree. Only, she thought herself a part of his private life. Miranda stared, unable to do less. Did Archer have the same pointed chin? Or wide brow? Did his ears stick out just a bit as Miss Archer’s? She hadn’t pictured him as such, but could it be? She longed to press Miss Archer about his former life but knew, somehow, that it would be unfaithful to Archer.

“Have you just arrived in town?” she asked instead.

“Mmm…” Miss Archer watched the dancers with interest. She had a strong Gallic nose, aquiline yet proportionate to her face. A hint of French touched her speech. Miranda had been sure Archer was more Italian in heritage. “I have but just arrived.”

Behind jeweled-colored fans, the ladies of the ton were buzzing like bees, sending guarded, if not outright hostile, looks in their direction.

Lord Cheltenham appeared, slipping past the ranks of defensive matrons, to stand before them. He bowed shortly. “Lady Archer. Miss?” His narrow face pinked as he grappled.

“Victoria,” she offered with a coquettish tilt of the head.

Cheltenham turned red, undoubtedly horrified by such intimacy. “Yes, well… Miss…”—his large Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his collar—“Victoria, I wondered if you would care to dance.”

That did not appear the case, as he stood stiff and pale before her. But Victoria smiled demurely—if one could look demure wearing smoke-gray eye makeup—and let him lead her away.

Perhaps she was a courtesan, Miranda thought, watching them make a turn. Having never met one, she could not be sure. Aside from the indelicate application of cosmetics, she hardly looked the part. Her gown had sleeves that came to her wrist and a collar up to her chin, though what it lacked in displays of flesh, it made up for in tightness.

Victoria and Cheltenham drifted out of sight as Miranda mused. She fancied following them, but a familiar figure appeared at her side, dark and tall and scowling.

“There you are,” she said, frowning up at Archer. “You know you are going to make me quite dizzy coming and going all night long.”

He took hold of her elbow and began to guide her out of the ballroom. “Then perhaps I should take you home and let you rest,” he murmured, looking around in mild distraction.

“I’d rather we talk.” They sidestepped around a rather boisterously reeling couple. “Besides, I just met one of your relations, Miss Victoria Archer—”

He jerked to a halt. “She is not my kin, nor is her name Archer. Why would you think such a thing?”

Miranda blinked in surprise. “Because that is what she claimed.”

Archer snarled in disgust.

Miranda frowned. “Why would she say that she was?”

“To amuse herself?” he answered tightly, steering Miranda once more away from the crowd. “Because she is a pervasive liar? I cannot begin to know.”

They moved to the edge of the room, and Miranda stopped, not at all liking the hold he had on her elbow, and wrenched free.

“Do stop tugging me all about. I shall bruise.” She rubbed the offended elbow and eyed him with distaste. “She seemed perfectly lovely.” Archer snorted, and her voice rose. “She displayed more honesty and friendliness than any of the other women I’ve met here tonight.”

Archer’s eyes slid round the room behind them as though he wondered if Victoria might appear at any moment through the throng of dancers. “She is a very good actor.” He moved closer, and his large frame cut off the noise of the room. “Look, I apologize for being curt with you just now,” he said, using the rich, persuasive quality of his voice to its fullest. “You could not have known.”

He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Miranda, and she marveled over the effect Victoria appeared to have on him. Until now, Miranda would not have thought him fearful of anyone.

“But you know now,” he went on, his gray eyes pleading and soft. “And I should like very much for you not to speak to her again.”

Pretty words for a direct order. The spark of irritation grew within her breast. “There is something you are not telling me.”

As expected, the corners of his eyes creased slightly. “Such as,” he asked blandly.

“Such as why she bothers you so very much. Such as why she chose to use your name.” Miranda crowded him lest he back away. “Such as why you share the exact, exceedingly rare eye color yet you are not kin in any form.”

Archer’s eyes narrowed, his chest heaving slightly—all signs that an explosion of temper was imminent. She did not care a whit.

“Must I spell things out for you?” he hissed.

“Yes.”

She thought he’d shout, but he leaned in over her like a dark, avenging angel. “She lives in disgrace, with a reputation so low that Cheltenham is asking her to leave as we speak. Association with her can only cause you social harm.”

Miranda could only gape. “I should think you of all people would not concern yourself over ill associations and foul reputations.”

He flinched as though slapped. His eyes held hers for a terrible moment. “Stay away from her, Miranda,” he said flatly, then stalked off, leaving her alone in the corner.

“Blast.”

Archer was not in the hall, or on the balcony. A quick circulation of the dining room, salon, and again through the ballroom came up futile. How could such a large man disappear in less than five minutes?

Miranda turned down a dark hall and went up a small landing toward the side of the house where the family rooms lay. Archer might have overstepped social niceties and taken refuge in the Cheltenhams’ private spaces—either that or he had left her at the party, an idea that made her chest tighten with hurt. Her step grew light, fear of discovery giving her caution; she had no desire to come upon anyone but Archer.

A set of large double doors lay open near the end of the hall. Yellow light spilled out from the open doorway to lie in rectangles upon the crimson rugs. Voices came from within, little more than an indistinct rise and fall of sound. Her step grew slower, for she recognized one voice in particular.

In keeping with Lady Cheltenham’s ornate sense of style, heavy brocade drapery adorned the doorway, with life-sized black marble statues of Hades and Persephone standing guard on either side. Hades’ black hand stretched out toward Persephone’s turned head, his stone mouth open as if in a plea. Miranda placed a hand upon Persephone’s cold marble foot and leaned forward.

A woman’s melodious voice rose up. “You have finally come out of hiding, Benji.”

“Do not call me that.” Archer’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible, but filled with raw anger. “You’ve lost all right to call me anything.”

Curiosity screamed for Miranda to stay, but she owed Archer his privacy.

The woman’s light laughter tinkled like crystal. “You did not used to object to me calling you Benji, beloved.”

Beloved? Privacy be damned; she wasn’t going anywhere now. Miranda risked a look. The pair stood alone before a heavily draped window. Victoria stalked around him slowly, her gloved hand traveling over his shoulder as she surveyed him. Archer stood like timber, his dark head facing forward.

“In fact”—the train of her lime-green gown curled about his ankles—“I remember you being quite fond of me moaning it—”

He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm up hard. “What you remember is your own vanity.” He bent over her. “If you had any eyes for the world around you, you’d know our time together was better forgotten.”

“Bastard!” She moved to strike him. He caught the hand neatly.

“Temper,” he warned lightly, though there was little humor in him. He let her go abruptly, and she fumbled back a pace.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I should say the same to you. You wouldn’t want that mask to come off in a scuffle. People might see what lies beneath.” She gave his chin a light flick, her finger clicking loudly against the hard mask.

The cold cruelty of the gesture cut into Miranda, and she bit her lip hard.

“You do not want your sweet bride to run off, no?” Victoria went on, when Archer didn’t respond. She tutted sadly. “I ought to have said virgin bride. You cannot have bedded her.” She laughed hard, a near mannish sound in all its unfettered glee. “I can just imagine how quickly she’d leave should she gaze upon your horror.”