idea. But she did. It was not as if he was attracted to her, and certainly she despised him. But he possessed a certain animal magnetism which drew the eyes of many women in the room, and she told herself it was this physical manifestation which was causing her intense awareness of his man’s body against hers. She had never felt like this with Mark, but then Mark was so much thinner, less muscular somehow, and he had never held her so closely when they were dancing.
‘Do you—do you intend to stay in England long, Mr Knevett?’ she asked, attempting a casual conversation, and he looked down at her with slightly raised eyebrows.
‘I didn’t think you cared,’ he drawled, and she pressed vainly against the iron bands that encircled her. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he continued, ‘I intended to return home next week, but Mark’s persuaded me to stay until after the wedding.’
Of course. Mark would. Mark had always admired his older cousin, however remote their relationship might be. But Miranda wished that he hadn’t with a strength that far outweighed the importance of that distant childhood humiliation.
‘My aunt tells me you’ve been working in the local library,’ he said, and realising she could not cause a scene here, on the dance floor, Miranda forced herself to look up at him. He was taller than Mark, and her gaze crossed his face, noting the firm line of his jaw and the lean flesh stretched across his cheekbones before reaching his eyes. But those dark brown depths derided her and she wished she dared say something to wipe that mocking amusement from his face. Apparently he agreed with his aunt and could see no reason why Mark should choose to marry someone socially inferior and so obviously unsuitable.
‘What do you do, Mr Knevett?’ she responded coldly. ‘When you’re not making sport of the working classes? Or is honest toil abhorrent to you?’
His expression scarcely registered her taunt. ‘As it is to Mark, you mean?’ he countered provokingly, and she realised she had fallen into a trap of her own making.
‘Mark works,’ she defended her fiancé hotly. ‘The estate—’
‘—is run by a very efficient bailiff,’ he interrupted her mildly. ‘You see, I do know about such things, but I doubt you do.’
Miranda wished the band would get to the end of this particular waltz so she could return to the safety of Mark’s protection. Every minute she spent with Jaime Knevett seemed to deepen the antagonism between them. She didn’t like him, it was true, but he was her fiancé’s cousin, and she suspected Lady Sanders would still use any method within her power to prevent her son from taking such an irrevocable step.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m a doctor, or I shall be when I’ve completed my training.’
Miranda realised Jaime was speaking again and gathered her thoughts. ‘I beg your pardon …’
‘I said—I’m a doctor,’ Jaime repeated, lowering his head so that she could hear him more clearly and in so doing bringing his lips within touching distance of her hair.
The faintly alcohol-scented fumes of his breath fanned her forehead; a not unpleasant sensation, it made her aware of the other scents about him—the soap he used, the spicy tang of his after-shave lotion, the clean male smell of his body. His hair, as straight as her own, needed no artificial preparation, and lay thick and smooth against his head.
All this her senses told her, sensitising her fingertips against his chest, her breasts swelling against his hardness. A wave of heat began in the pit of her stomach and spread to the outermost extremities of her body, firing her blood and quickening the tell-tale beat of her heart. Dear God, she thought weakly, what was the matter with her? She felt quite faint. Surely she was allowing her imagination to run out of all control.
He had noticed her sudden lack of colour, however, and he said sharply: ‘Are you feeling all right?’
Miranda managed to nod. ‘Yes. No. That is—it’s very hot in here, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ His eyes compelled hers. ‘Shall I take you back to your fiancé? Or would you rather step out into the corridor for a few minutes?’
Either seemed wholly unsuitable. How could she step outside with Jaime and run the risk of being spotted by scandal-hungry reporters? But equally, how could she go back to Mark like this, her legs unwilling to support her, and trembling like a leaf?
‘There’s an ante-room behind the dais,’ Jaime observed quietly. ‘The band use it in the interval. You could go in there for a few moments, if you’d rather not run the gauntlet of the press.’
The ball was being held at the Fleece, the largest hotel in the town, and the ballroom was used for conferences on other occasions and there were several ante-rooms adjoining.
The size of the hall and the press of people made it possible to slip unnoticed into the ante-room. Miranda stood there in the semi-darkness, unwilling to put on the light, and took several restoring gulps of air. She had expected Jaime would leave her, but he leaned against the wall just inside the doorway, watching her with dark inscrutable eyes.
‘Better now?’ he inquired, after she had expelled her breath on a shuddering sigh, and she looked at him uncertainly.
‘I suppose you’ll tell Mark,’ she said.
‘Tell Mark? Tell him what?’
‘About me. About this.’
‘What about this?’ He straightened away from the wall. ‘Why should you think he would be interested?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I—don’t know.’
‘Don’t you?’
He didn’t sound wholly convinced, and she flinched when he put out a hand and touched the creamy pallor of her cheek, his thumb probing the quivering contours of her mouth. When her lips parted, the pad of his thumb rubbed against the vulnerable barrier of her teeth, and then withdrew with an abruptness that left her with an aching pang of regret.
‘Come!’ he said. ‘We will be missed. The band has stopped playing.’
Humiliation such as she had never experienced before washed over her. With trembling fingers she smoothed her hair, checked the neckline of her dress and then swept past him out of the ante-room. But she didn’t get far before cruel fingers caught her wrist, and she was jerked round to face—her fiancé!
‘Mark—’ she began in surprise, and then checked at the thunderous expression contorting the normally pleasant features of his face. ‘Mark, what is it?’
‘Little tramp!’ he muttered against her ear. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’
If Miranda had been pale before, she was bright scarlet now. She looked round desperately for Jaime, for once needing him, requiring him to explain.
‘I—we—Jaime—’
‘Jaime, is it?’ Mark sneered. ‘That didn’t take long, did it? My God, I should have listened to my mother when she warned me—’
‘Warned you!’ Miranda stared at him aghast, praying that no one could hear what they were saying above the sound of the beat number the band had started to play. ‘Mark, I don’t know what you mean!’
‘You
