hot like the blast from a bake oven. Rossberry felt the change and stepped back a pace, a shadow of fear clouding his eyes.
“I would not advise it,” she said in even tones that she did not feel.
They stood silently taking each other’s measure, when a soft voice caught her attention.
“Lady Archer?” Lady Blackwood, dressed as a regal Queen Elizabeth, glided up to them, concern marring her smooth brow.
Rossberry flinched as though yanked from a trance.
“Is everything all right?” A touch of warning deepened Lady Blackwood’s soft voice as she looked pointedly at the elderly earl.
Rossberry’s twisted lips were wet and trembling as if he might start shouting. Finally, he snarled in irritation and stepped back.
“You are a fool to cast your lot with that man,” he hissed, pointing a clawed finger at Miranda. “And now you’ll pay for it, just like the others have.” Spinning around, he stalked off, leaving her alone with an equally stunned Lady Blackwood.
“I must apologize for my uncle,” she said with a flush. “He is a cantankerous, paranoid man. Though quite kind to his kin.”
“Your uncle?” The serene woman before her seemed a world apart from Rossberry.
Her lips lifted wryly. “Great uncle, actually. He gave my husband and me this house as a wedding gift.”
“How generous.” What more could she say? That he should be in Bedlam seemed indelicate.
Lady Blackwood shook her head slowly, rustling the large Elizabethan-style ruff around her slender throat. “I fear he has been holed up in the wilds of Scotland for too long.” Lady Blackwood’s small hand touched Miranda’s elbow. “Really, he is quite harmless.”
To whom, Miranda wanted to ask, but held her tongue. Lady Blackwood’s blue eyes were wide and pleading for understanding.
“It is quite all right,” Miranda said. “There is a mad aunt lurking in my family closet. We let her out, of course. But only at Christmastime.”
They both smiled. The pained smile of repressing ugliness for the sake of propriety.
“I shall think no more of it,” Miranda said with false lightness. “Nor shall I mention it to Lord Archer.”
Lady Blackwood eased visibly, but then eyed Miranda’s hair. “Oh, dear. Your coiffure has fallen.” Her cheeks pinked. “I really do apologize for the incident. Let me have a maid see to your hair. Shall I escort you to the lady’s retiring room?”
Miranda hesitated. The unruly state of her hair would surely cause gossip and speculation as a lady’s hair did not come undone without a struggle. While she’d like to think the catty gossips wouldn’t assume Archer was the brute who accosted her, Miranda knew that’s exactly the conclusion they would settle on.
“It is an easy fix, Lady Blackwood,” Miranda said. “One that I can see to myself. If there is a room I could use to freshen up, I would be most grateful.”
Thankfully, Lady Blackwood seemed to understand the implications of Miranda’s dishevelment as well. Further, Miranda did not think the lady wanted it to get out that her mad uncle had accosted a guest. “At the top of the stairs there is a small guest room,” Lady Blackwood said. “Feel free to use it for as long as you wish.”
As Miranda climbed the stairs to the guest room, she resolved to push the incident with Rossberry out of her mind. Unfortunately, it did not stop her from feeling like the fox in the wood.
Miranda had called him something foul when he’d left. An expletive so low and quick, Archer wondered if she was aware that it had escaped her lips. The word was quite apropos—he felt more like one at this moment than she would ever know. Normally, he enjoyed sparring with her, waiting to see what she’d throw back at him. But he could see that he’d disappointed her with his rejection. In truth, he had wanted to dance with her, badly. But feared if he’d taken her in his arms, he’d never let her go. He had to smile at her foul little mouth, however. It made her all the more delectable. Perhaps it was the Italian in him but every “damn” that sprung from her plump lips, every “bloody hell” uttered with her smoke-and-honey voice sent a lick of fire over his cock. Every time.
The polka moved into a waltz as he wove through the crowd while trying to keep from spilling the glass of champagne he held. It was too hot in this crush of people. His mask itched; sweat trickled down the side of his face with no hope of