Archer leaned toward her. “We are amateurs all, playing with things beyond our ken.”
She might have replied, but a disgruntled snarl sounded in hall.
“I wasna aware the society was holdin’ a costume ball,” came an irate Scottish burr from behind Cheltenham. The men turned at the sound, and Miranda’s breath caught. The devil’s own blue eyes glared daggers at Archer from lash-less slits. A map of raised scars, silver white and angry red, twisted the man’s features into something barely recognizable as human. She clutched Archer’s forearm by reflex.
“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.