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only his touch, his hand on hers . . . and the memory of his arms around her, his hands stroking her, his
mouth ravishing hers in the most intimate kiss she had ever felt or even imagined. Then the moment
passed as fleetingly as it had come. They retreated to their designated sides and the dance moved on.
Later that night, she danced twice with Lord Griffith, then with Lord Alec, who showed up fashionably
late. She also stood up with a few young officers from the regiment who had known her uncle. She did
her best to muster up a smile when she ran into the boys who had rushed to her aid on Bond Street, and
who had introduced themselves that night at Drury Lane as Ollie Quinn and Nigel Stanhope.
When they each asked her to dance, there was no graceful way to refuse, despite the fact that the
boorish Mr. Quinn would not stop ogling her chest. Yet even this did not annoy her as much as seeing
Damien dutifully standing up to dance with other ladies. Of course, he could not have done otherwise
without appearing unforgivably rude, but she felt a twinge of jealousy, nonetheless. At length, she
escaped Mr. Quinn and Mr. Stanhope by accepting Alec s invitation to visit the refreshment table with
him and Lord Griffith. The pregnant duchess was already there, nibbling at the sumptuous offerings;
Lucien and Alice were dancing.
Miranda joined the duchess and, at her bidding, took a taste of pineapple for the first time in her life. The
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spiky-topped fruit was the height of extravagance, the enduring symbol of hospitality imported from some
exotic, sunny land. She exclaimed fervently over the juicy, tangy fruit until Lord Griffith, watching her,
laughed outright at her enthusiasms.
Wherever did Damien find you? he asked, regarding her with growing interest in his unusual,
tawny-gold eyes.
I ll never tell, she replied with a tart smile, then turned to inspect the more traditional fare that spanned
the table. Aren t you eating anything, my lord? How can you resist? It all looks and smells delicious.
Indeed, he murmured, gazing at her.
Standing off to the side, Alec looked from Lord Griffith to her, then lifted his eyebrow and gave her a
slight nod of approval. Miranda blushed slightly, shot him a scolding look, and turned her attention
willfully back to the food. She had barely eaten all day in her nervousness over the ball, but now that she
had settled into it, there was much to tempt her trestles of syllabub in several varieties, the quintessential
Christmas pudding, endless cakes and trays of delicate biscuits, festive red pippins and orange wedges,
as well as innumerable meat pies and brawns for those who wished for a light supper. Lord Griffith
turned away to speak to a few guests who had greeted him, and Miranda sampled an almond syllabub.
Just as she started to lift another sweet spoonful to her lips, somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned around; then her eyes widened and her face paled. Standing before her in the full regalia of
the Eleventh Dragoon Guards was a young cavalry officer with straight, sandy-brown hair. His high
cheekbones tapered down to his narrow, slightly cleft chin. The boyish smirk she remembered so well
still lingered on his lascivious mouth, but his dark green eyes had grown harder.
Trick! she breathed.
Hullo, kitten. He gave her that satyric crook of his eyebrow that used to make her heart race, but
which struck her now as altogether practiced and calculated.
She stared at him in amazement.He s changed. She could not believe the dissipation she saw in her old
beau. His hair was slightly greasy and askew. He reeked of drink and was not terribly steady on his feet.
God, look at you. When did you become this goddess? Where did you learn to dance so beautifully?
Damn my eyes, but you re ravishing, he purred, slurring his words slightly.
And you are in need of a shave, she replied, folding her arms across her chest.
With a laugh, he touched the stubbled gruff that roughened his jaw. Haven t been home since the day
before yesterday. I ve been going from one party to the next. What are you doing here? You re a long
way from Birmingham and that farmer s shed where we used to meet. He flashed her a smile that
made her whole body stiffen with alarm. You haven t forgotten, I trust.
She looked away, blushing. Please do not speak of it.
Don t be embarrassed my pet. You guarded your virtue well. God knows I tried everything short of
taking you by force.
She looked away with a wave of remembered hurt and anger rushing through her. You certainly did.
You even promised marriage.
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I would have promised anything to lift your skirts. What can I say? I was young and foolish.
So was I, she whispered.
He lifted his eyebrow with a look of distaste, then wobbled on his feet with drunken, arrogant
indifference. Surely you know better than to take me seriously, M'randa. You knew I was going off to
war. Why so bitter? It wasn t as though you didn t enjoy it.
She steeled herself. Good-bye, Trick. Our acquaintance has long been over.
My, what a fine lady we ve become! He grasped her arm, stopping her. Are you too good for me
now?
Trick, you horse s arse, I always was. Let go of me.
Don t you walk away from me. You might be something fine now, but I remember when you were little
better than a peasant girl. You have to admit we had fun, Miranda. What say you to another rendezvous
for old times sake?
When hell freezes over. She flicked a contemptuous glance at his white-gloved hand locked around
her upper arm. Let go of me, Trick. You are playing roulette with your life.
He scoffed. As I recall, that uncle of yours didn t pose much threat last time I had my hands on you, so
why should I . . . His bold words withered and his face paled. His hand dropped from her arm and he
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