Free Breathless by Anne Stuart Page A

Jane’s mischievous eyes. Her friend was almost her old self, the wicked behavior stripping away the layers of restraint Mr. Bothwell had heaped upon her. If Miranda had been around she could have done something to forestall the match, but it had been made in the drawing rooms where Miranda was no longer welcome, and it was too late. Jane would never cry off.
    A moment later Jane had disappeared, swung into the arms of a dashing young man in uniform, a half mask over his handsome face, and Miranda wanted to laugh at her startled expression. And then she did laugh, as an older gentleman bowed before her, and she movedinto his arms smoothly, sailing onto the crowded dance floor for the first time in years.
    It was glorious, it was breathtaking, and she felt as if she were flying. Her hood fell back as she whirled around the floor, but it didn’t matter. With her plain brown hair sedately dressed and the loo mask firmly in place no one would have any idea who she was. She could dance, she could flirt, she could laugh and pretend there wasn’t a cloud of shame hanging over her head. A cloud of shame she refused to give in to.
    The Carrimores were casual: no one solicited dances ahead of time, and Miranda moved from one partner to another, her feet flying on the polished wood floor. She danced until she could dance no more. Dinner was announced, people were pairing up and heading into the heavy-laden tables, but Miranda backed away. Her loo mask covered a good two-thirds of her face—there was no way she could eat without getting food on its silk, and the brighter lights of the dining room might be dangerous.
    She faded back into the shadows, pulling her hood back over her head. She’d been silly to ask for a scarlet cape, but it was hardly as gaudy as some of the other outfits that night. She glanced over to the row of dowagers who sat against the wall, most of them unmasked, watching their charges with disapproval.
    These were the ladies who despised her the most, and it gave Miranda a certain pleasure to join their ranks, keeping her disguise firmly in place. They nodded a tentative greeting in her direction, clearly not sure about anyone who wore a red domino, and she nodded back, sinking gracefully into one of the small, straight-backed chairs that creaked dangerously beneath some of theother women’s bulk, grateful to rest her feet. She sat back, listening to their malicious gossip, trying to catch a glimpse of Jane to see if she still danced or had gone in for supper. As long as she sat with the dowagers no one would try to entice her into the dining room, and it was safer that way. Even though all her exercise had worked up an appetite.
    But the dowagers began to annoy her as they found fault with everyone they could recognize, and with their attempts to draw her into their disdain, and eventually Miranda rose, drifting farther into the shadows, away from everyone. The room was too warm, and she longed for the cool night air, but there was no terrace outside the Carrimore ballroom, and no place to escape to. She simply moved back into the deepest shadows, where her bright red domino turned black in the absence of light, and found a delicate table and chair. If Jane remembered she might sneak a cake or something that Miranda could devour when no one was looking. In the meantime she would simply wait.
    She didn’t hear him approach, but then, the room was noisy, filled with the orchestra playing at top volume, the chatter of voices trying to drown out the music, the sounds of feet on the dance floor, the clink of glasses.
    One moment she was blessedly, peacefully alone.
    In the next, she wasn’t.
    â€œDid you tire of dancing, Lady Miranda?”
    There was no mistaking Lucien de Malheur’s sinuous voice. It came as such a surprise she jerked her head up, then wished to God she hadn’t. It would have been so much better if she’d simply ignored him, but it was already too late for