Free Breathless by Anne Stuart

like you, Miranda. You know it’s going to be fun. Like old times. No one will have any idea who we are, and we can behave very badly indeed.”
    â€œI think most people will attest to the fact that I’ve behaved badly enough for one lifetime, precious,” she said wryly.
    â€œOh, I don’t mean that,” Jane said in a dismissive voice. “I was thinking more along the lines of going places we shouldn’t go, ignoring people we don’t want to see. I’m about to be trapped in a dutiful marriage when there are so many places I want to visit, things I want to do. Grant me this much, Miranda.”
    â€œYou should have been born a sailor, love.” It was too tempting, what with the promise of a cape and mask to disguise even her gender if she so chose. And the sadness had momentarily left Jane’s eyes, which were sparkling now with excitement. “When is this going to be?” she asked, wondering if she could come up with a sudden trip out to the countryside. That would be the wise thing to do, remove herself from temptation. But then, when had she ever been wise?
    â€œDidn’t you read the invitation? In three days. We got our invitation weeks ago—yours must have been delayed.”
    â€œOr it took them that long to make up their minds whether to invite me,” Miranda said. Or had someone talked them into it? Someone powerful and mysterious who seemed to have disappeared out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it.
    â€œI can arrange for the dominos and masks,” Jane said eagerly.
    It would be a mistake, as surely as attending Lucien de Malheur’s salon had been a mistake. And she was going to do it anyway—and to hell with all the old biddies who’d be horrified at who was lurking beneath the domino. “Get me a red one,” she said firmly. And the last bit of shadow left Jane’s warm brown eyes.
    Â 
    It was the evening of the Duke and Duchess of Carrimore’s ball and Miranda was angry. Not that she was willing to admit it—after all, why should she care about the likes of Lucien de Malheur? He’d rescued her from a disaster with her carriage, invited her to a musical evening, spent hours alone with her, talking to her, his acid wit and his eccentric charm beguiling her until she half fancied herself attracted to him. And then nothing.
    At one point she thought he might have left town, but she’d overheard two stout matrons discussing the latest scandal concerning his appearance at the opera and a certain dancer, and Miranda couldn’t acquit him of the unspeakable crime of simply forgetting about her. He’d been polite, he’d done his duty, but he must have found her deadly dull. Tant pis. She had no interest in entertaining the likes of him. All she wanted was the quiet of their Dorset home near the high cliffs. It wasn’t asif she was running away. Clearly there was nothing to run from.
    Jane was almost feverish with excitement when she arrived at the house wearing a pale blue domino, the scarlet one Miranda had requested over one arm. The street outside the Carrimore mansion was thronged with carriages, and by the time Jane’s hired hackney carriage brought them to the front portico Miranda was regretting her impulsive decision. It was too late to do anything; the footmen were already opening the door and letting down the steps, and Miranda pulled her hood up over her head, made certain her loo mask was carefully in place and followed her friend into the brightly lit gaiety.
    But her bad mood had begun to lift as she heard the sound of music floating down the stairs from the second-floor ballroom. It had been so very long since she’d danced, and she’d always loved dancing. Tonight she wouldn’t have to worry about who was good ton or bad, who was a proper partner and who was a bad hat. Since she’d come, she’d enjoy herself, and stop worrying about it.
    She met