Scorpion's Dance. Anne Mather
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carved staircase, she made her way towards the library where Mark and his mother usually enjoyed a drink before dinner. But before she reached the leather-studded door, a man rose from the depths of one of the armchairs by the fire and said: ‘Good evening, Miranda.’
His sudden appearance startled her, and because he was not Mark or his mother she thought for a moment he must be the ghost of one of their ancestors. But no Sanders was ever so dark or so big, and her hands clenched tightly as she realised who he was.
‘It—it’s Mr Knevett, isn’t it?’ she asked, unwilling to speak to him at all but equally unable to ignore him. It was five or six years since she had seen the brutal violator of her childhood tea-party, and then only from a distance. She couldn’t recall that he had ever spoken to her, not even to apologise for what he had done. And now he spoke to her as if he knew her! How dared he? And what was he doing here anyway?
AS IF IN answer to her unspoken question, Jaime Knevett flexed his shoulder muscles, and said: ‘I seem to have arrived just in time for the wedding, don’t I?’
He spoke English without a trace of an accent, as well he might, she thought broodingly. He had attended school in England, after all, and his father was English. But he didn’t look English. He looked Brazilian, or Portuguese, with that straight uncompromising nose and those fine lips. And yet there was something about his eyes which was wholly alien to either of those nationalities.
‘You’re—staying?’ she asked now, not quite knowing what to do, and he inclined his head gravely. Belatedly, she saw he was wearing a fine mohair dinner jacket, and his shirt front was an intricate mass of pleated lace which contrasted wildly with his hard, wholly masculine features. Was he to attend the ball with them? And why hadn’t Mark told her he was coming?
‘I gather you don’t approve,’ he observed dryly. ‘Haven’t you forgiven me yet?’
Miranda felt the wave of colour sweeping up her neck to her face. ‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ she protested, but patently he didn’t believe her.
‘I think you do,’ he told her insistently, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket to leave his thumbs hooked outside. ‘But never mind. You’re almost a member of the family now.’
‘Not your family, Mr Knevett,’ she retorted, and saw the faint smile that lifted the corners of his mouth.
‘You may call me Jaime,’ he said, refusing to argue with her, but she determined he should never have that satisfaction.
Lady Sanders’ appearance curtailed any further conversation between them. Black lace became the older woman very well, although her eyes flicked almost enviously over Miranda in her cream velvet. Mark was evidently well pleased with his fiancée’s appearance, and his hand curved possessively about her waist as he asked Jaime whether he didn’t envy him his good fortune.
Jaime’s response was as enthusiastic as he could have wished, but Miranda was aware of the cynicism in the older man’s gaze, and hated him for it.
The ball was a glittering occasion in the county, and because the Sanders were there, the press were out in force. Miranda was forced to face so many flashbulbs that her head began to feel as if it was exploding, and she hardly noticed who took advantage of Mark’s diverted attention to draw her away to dance. It was such a relief to escape from the pressures of being Lord Sanders’ fiancée that she didn’t particularly care who engineered it.
But once on the dance floor, with Jaime’s arms linked about her waist in the manner of the young people present, she had to press her palms against the soft material of his jacket to keep some breathing space between them.
‘What’s the matter?’ he inquired softly. ‘We’re only dancing.’ But Miranda could not relax.
Her breathing was unaccountably quicker, and she looked round determinedly at the other dancers, endeavouring to dismiss the hardness of Jaime’s thighs close against her own. There were lots of young people present, all dancing in the way they were dancing, the girls often with their arms looped about their partners’ necks, so why she should feel so uncomfortable she had no 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