of Ravenscar, and I am just a provincial nobody who scarcely knows who her grandfather was." She smiled up sweetly at him.
Ravenscar let out a groan. "You aren't going to let me forget that, are you?''
"No, I don't think so."
"Let me make my apologies, Miss Upshaw."
"All right." She looked up at him expectantly. "Go ahead. Make them."
Her words seemed to fluster him. He glanced away, saying, "Well, ah..."
Miranda suspected that apologizing was something the man rarely did. "Yes?"
"I apologize," he said finally, and looked back down at her. “I should not have acted the way I did or said the things I did. I have no excuse, except. ..frankly, I was angry, and I am afraid that I took it out on you."
Ravenscar looked faintly surprised, as if he had not expected to say what he had—or perhaps had not realized the truth of it until this moment. He hesitated, then said, "May we talk?"
"I thought that is what we were doing."
"No, I mean—" he guided them to the edge of the dance floor and stopped "—let's take a stroll, get a breath of fresh air. And talk."
"All right," Miranda agreed. She wasn't sure what Ravenscar was up to, or exactly why he had this sudden urge to talk. She supposed that he was working on some way to get her to accept his proposal. She would not put it past him to try some nefarious scheme to get her to marry him—such as ruining her reputation—but she was confident that she could outwit him. And she was interested in finding out what he had devised to convince—or force—her to accept his proposal.
She put her hand on his arm and walked with him around the perimeter of the room until they reached the wide double doors open onto the terrace of the spacious house. There were other people on the terrace, escaping the hot, confining air of the ballroom. Some strolled along as they did, and some stood in knots of conversation. Miranda saw more than one pair of eyes slide in their direction and away, and she glimpsed just as many hands raised to cover whispers. She felt sure that everyone was talking about them. She did not know exactly what the gossip was or how much everyone in Ravenscar's set knew about his proposal, but it was obvious that there had been rumors flying.
Ravenscar smoothly guided Miranda away from the other occupants of the terrace and down the shallow steps onto one of the garden paths, lit by lanterns placed here and there among the trees.
"I did not want to have to marry," he said to her. "That was why I was angry—and embarrassed. So I acted the fool." He cast a sideways glance at her. "If I had known who you were, it would have been entirely different."
"Indeed?" Miranda responded coolly. If the man thought that this was an adequate apology, then he had a great deal to learn.
He came to a stop, so that she had to stop, too, and turned her to him. Miranda looked up into his eyes, dark in the dim light of the garden, and suddenly her knees felt a trifle weak. Perhaps this apology was quite enough, after all. She felt a rush of sensations that had nothing to do with holding a grudge against the man.
"Why, yes. The mystery woman who came so boldly to my aid...the beautiful woman I see before me...how could I be anything but intrigued?"
"Despite being those things," Miranda replied, "I am also still the American nobody whom your mother is forcing you to marry."
His eyes flashed. "I am not forced by my mother to marry you. She hasn't the power."
Miranda turned away, hiding a smile. It was almost too easy to goad him. She had found that when others underestimated her, it was much simpler to manipulate them. It had often worked to her advantage when dealing with men who thought her incompetent simply because she was a woman. It was just as easy with these British aristocrats, who thought her unsophisticated and even dull-witted simply because she was an American.
"I am sorry. I should have said, whom you were forced to marry to keep out of—how is it you say it here?—
Ravenscar let out a groan. "You aren't going to let me forget that, are you?''
"No, I don't think so."
"Let me make my apologies, Miss Upshaw."
"All right." She looked up at him expectantly. "Go ahead. Make them."
Her words seemed to fluster him. He glanced away, saying, "Well, ah..."
Miranda suspected that apologizing was something the man rarely did. "Yes?"
"I apologize," he said finally, and looked back down at her. “I should not have acted the way I did or said the things I did. I have no excuse, except. ..frankly, I was angry, and I am afraid that I took it out on you."
Ravenscar looked faintly surprised, as if he had not expected to say what he had—or perhaps had not realized the truth of it until this moment. He hesitated, then said, "May we talk?"
"I thought that is what we were doing."
"No, I mean—" he guided them to the edge of the dance floor and stopped "—let's take a stroll, get a breath of fresh air. And talk."
"All right," Miranda agreed. She wasn't sure what Ravenscar was up to, or exactly why he had this sudden urge to talk. She supposed that he was working on some way to get her to accept his proposal. She would not put it past him to try some nefarious scheme to get her to marry him—such as ruining her reputation—but she was confident that she could outwit him. And she was interested in finding out what he had devised to convince—or force—her to accept his proposal.
She put her hand on his arm and walked with him around the perimeter of the room until they reached the wide double doors open onto the terrace of the spacious house. There were other people on the terrace, escaping the hot, confining air of the ballroom. Some strolled along as they did, and some stood in knots of conversation. Miranda saw more than one pair of eyes slide in their direction and away, and she glimpsed just as many hands raised to cover whispers. She felt sure that everyone was talking about them. She did not know exactly what the gossip was or how much everyone in Ravenscar's set knew about his proposal, but it was obvious that there had been rumors flying.
Ravenscar smoothly guided Miranda away from the other occupants of the terrace and down the shallow steps onto one of the garden paths, lit by lanterns placed here and there among the trees.
"I did not want to have to marry," he said to her. "That was why I was angry—and embarrassed. So I acted the fool." He cast a sideways glance at her. "If I had known who you were, it would have been entirely different."
"Indeed?" Miranda responded coolly. If the man thought that this was an adequate apology, then he had a great deal to learn.
He came to a stop, so that she had to stop, too, and turned her to him. Miranda looked up into his eyes, dark in the dim light of the garden, and suddenly her knees felt a trifle weak. Perhaps this apology was quite enough, after all. She felt a rush of sensations that had nothing to do with holding a grudge against the man.
"Why, yes. The mystery woman who came so boldly to my aid...the beautiful woman I see before me...how could I be anything but intrigued?"
"Despite being those things," Miranda replied, "I am also still the American nobody whom your mother is forcing you to marry."
His eyes flashed. "I am not forced by my mother to marry you. She hasn't the power."
Miranda turned away, hiding a smile. It was almost too easy to goad him. She had found that when others underestimated her, it was much simpler to manipulate them. It had often worked to her advantage when dealing with men who thought her incompetent simply because she was a woman. It was just as easy with these British aristocrats, who thought her unsophisticated and even dull-witted simply because she was an American.
"I am sorry. I should have said, whom you were forced to marry to keep out of—how is it you say it here?—
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