Page 2 of Two Lies and A Lord

“Sir!” she protested, pulling back.

“Don’t you mean ‘my lord’?” Miles asked grimly, snatching her right hand as the strains of a waltz began. Naturally, Rothingale’s orchestra was playing the scandalous new dance that required a man to hold a woman in his embrace. “You know perfectly well who I am, Miss Wharton.” He placed his left hand on her back and began dancing, hoping that no one would notice them in the mass of people.

She gracefully matched his steps, for all she was scowling at him from behind her mask. “Anyone could recognize you, Lord Devin, since you have made no attempt to disguise your identity. You are not wearing a mask, and you’re taller than most.”

“More to the point, what if someone recognizes you? No proper young lady would enter Rothingale’s house. The man is a well-known degenerate.”

“I was just starting to realize … But how could I have known? My mother received an invitation!”

“Lady Wharton was invited to this event? Impossible.” He said it flatly because Rothingale would never make a mistake of that nature. The only women invited would be from the demimonde, on the fringes of respectable society, if not below.

Her brow pleated. “I suppose it might have been addressed to my father. I didn’t notice.”

“I suggest that you do not open Lord Wharton’s mail in the future.”

“’Twas in a pile of invitations!” she protested. “Why would my father receive an invitation to such a disgraceful event? He spends most of his time in the country.”

Miles had no intention of answering any questions about Lord Wharton. “Given that you are here without a chaperone, you would be courting scandal even if this were a respectable event. I surmise that you stole out of the house like a schoolboy avoiding chapel.”

She didn’t answer; she was gazing about with bright curiosity, not looking repentant in the least.

“Surely you don’t need me to tell you that your reputation will be ruined if you are recognized here,” Miles added in his most autocratic tones, ones that cowed everyone except his sisters.

Rather than burst into tears, she curled her lip. “You are here as well, Lord Devin, unmasked and known to all.”

“Irrelevant.”

“I think not.”

“You are an unmarried young lady, and—”

“So no one will want to marry me based on this evening? What of you? You’re an unmarried man!”

“The comparison is pointless.”

“Granted, you’re not precisely an unmarried young man!” she retorted. “My presence here is due to a simple mistake. Your presence indicates that you welcome distasteful attachments that have nothing to do with marriage.”

Miles prided himself on having an even temperament. When other men raged and stormed, he maintained equanimity. Yet now he found himself so angry that his heart was thumping in his chest. “I’m not yet thirty,” he pointed out, avoiding her second point.

“As I said, old!” She tossed her head and more platinum hair spilled down her back. “I suppose you came here hoping to make a … connection, shall we say?” She turned her head from left to right, her plump lower lip curling as she surveyed the crowd. “I am loath to offend you by questioning your judgement—or your taste.”

“I was just leaving.”

She raised an eyebrow, so he growled begrudgingly, “No, I do not have a mistress, nor was I looking for one. You are remarkably blunt. I would be greatly offended if my sisters brought up this topic.”

“Then you should be comforted by the thought that they probably haven’t the knowledge to do so. Ladylike ignorance makes it easier for a gentleman to indulge in extramarital activities without his wife’s knowledge.”

Daisy said it evenly, without bitterness or sarcasm, but Miles winced inwardly. Even leaving her own familial situation aside, she was right about the inequitable treatment of the sexes. His disagreeable work in the House of Lords had taught him that most ladies were horrified to encounter garden-variety debauchery, let alone more esoteric practices.

He whirled her about just in time to avoid the drunken lurch of a giggling couple. “You waltz very well.”

“You also dance well,” Daisy replied with the air of someone forced into civility. “Unfortunately, the scandal surrounding my uncle’s charge of treason means that I shan’t have a chance to waltz again until next Season, after I’m approved by Almack’s patronesses.”

“If anyone recognizes you here, Almack’s will be the least of your problems,” Miles said. “As soon as this dance concludes, we will slip away, hopefully without notice.”

“I shouldn’t have made such a personal remark about your reasons for attending this masquerade,” Daisy said suddenly. “I apologize. We genuinely thought the event would be akin to that given annually by the Duchess of—”

Miles interrupted her. “We?”