Free The Price of Indiscretion by Cathy Maxwell

Hightower to take her out onto the dance floor.
    It was an insult, one Miranda felt powerless to avoid. And she could feel the opinions of those at the party turn against her. She also wondered what it was about her that men wanted to the point of being possessive.
    As she danced with Mr. Hightower, Miranda found herself evaluating the other women in the room, trying to see them as a man would. In her opinion, they were each lovely. And yet more than once, she caught their dance partners stealing sly leers in her direction.
    The moment the dance was done, another one of Sir William’s men, Mr. Graves, presented himself as her partner. Miranda noticed that this time, no Azorean gentlemen were waiting to meet her.
    Her earlier goodwill toward Sir William eroded in the face of high-handed ways. Not for the first time did she wonder if she could go through with Charlotte’s scheme. Apparently she had little patience with men.
    A rustle of interest from the other guests caught her attention. A whisper seemed to flow from one person to another. Fans appeared in ladies’ hands as if by magic and began fluttering with interest.
    Miranda turned in the direction they looked, and saw Alex standing in the doorway of the house, flanked by two torches. She also understood why the ladies were impressed.
    He cut a noble figure in a black jacket and breeches. His shirt was snowy white against his dark skin and tall boots, with a polish that reflected the torchlight.
    But he had not completely come as an English gentleman. Instead of a neck cloth, he wore a choker hammered out of silver, and his hair, the blue-black of a raven’s wing, reached well past his shoulders.
    He paused a moment, overlooking the assembled company in the garden, and then started down the stairs, by far the most masculine man present.
    Senhor Esteves came out from hiding, rushing up to welcome Alex. Women moved forward, anxious for an introduction. In the same way Miranda had found herself surrounded by men, Alex was now the center of female attention.
    “What the deuce does he have around his neck?” Sir William said. “Looks like a necklace.”
    “It’s a silver collar,” Miranda said. “A symbol of his rank in the tribe. His grandfather gave it to him. It’s a part of his heritage.”
    A keen sense of loss for what might have been shot through her—accompanied with a strong dose of jealousy as Alex took the hand of a petite, sloe-eyed beauty with an abundance of glossy, thick hair and breasts the size of melons. His teeth flashed white in his smile as he led her onto the dance floor for the next set.
    Not once had he looked at Miranda.
    “He looks heathen in that necklace,” Mr. Hightower muttered. His fellow officers, gathered around her and their captain, seconded his opinion.
    “Would you care to dance, Mr. Hightower?” Miranda asked impulsively. She was not going to stand on the sidelines and let Alex snub her.
    The junior officer looked to his captain. Sir William nodded, and Mr. Hightower again led her out onto the dance floor. Couples were quickly claiming their places. Miranda and Mr. Hightower ended up almost directly behind Alex and his partner.
    The music started. It was a stately pavane. Miranda did her best not to notice Alex.
    She failed. She also had to watch as, after that dance, he claimed another Azorean beauty as his partner.
    “That savage doesn’t dance well at all,” Mr. Hightower observed disdainfully to his comrades.
    “He dances very well,” Miranda answered, and he did. In fact, Alex danced better than what she remembered. She danced next with the other British officers one by one, all under Sir William’s watchful eyes. As the night wore on, with Lady Overstreet’s encouragement, he grew more and more overprotective. No Azorean gentlemen approached her. They commiserated with Senhor Esteves, who sat in the shadows of a tree, nursing hurt feelings.
    A glass or two more of sherry didn’t ease the tension building in