“Chance for what?”
“To escape.”
“Escape?” Miranda frowned.
“Into each other’s arms,” he added, leaning close enough for his breath to feather the tendrils of hair at her temple.
She sighed, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to do as he suggested and melt into his embrace. The thought of being held in his arms while they circled the room at a romantically breathtaking pace thrilled her. Daniel was wickedly handsome, and Miranda knew he could be quite charming when he wanted to be. And she knew he had a healthy sense of humor—she’d seen and heard him poke fun at himself and his lofty position in society on a number of occasions. But this was something new. In all the years she’d known him, Daniel had always been in complete control, had always behaved as a consummate gentleman.
She’d never seen his dangerous side before, or experienced this blatantly naughty flirtation. And heaven help her if he decided to put her attraction to the test. Miranda was intrigued and more than a bit excited. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, more than willing to singe her wings … until she caught a whiff of his breath. “Daniel, you’re foxed!”
“I am,” he confirmed, swaying on his feet, admiring the depth of her décolletage even as he fought to keep his balance.
“But why?”
“Because I’ve been drinking.”
“Yes, you have.” Miranda struggled to keep from smiling but lost the battle. “My guess is whisky. Quite a bit of it.”
“Quite.” Daniel nodded, swaying on his feet once again. “Lucky for me, I’ve always been able to hold my liquor.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Miranda put out a hand to steady him and felt dampness against his waistcoat. He groaned in obvious pain. “Daniel?”
Daniel glanced down. “Bloody hell.” He reached inside his waistcoat and cursed beneath his breath. “Mistress Beekins won’t be pleased. She told me not to lift my arm.”
Miranda’s ears pricked up at the sound of an unfamiliar female name. “Who is Mistress Beekins?”
“The lady who sewed me up,” Daniel replied matter-of-factly.
“Sewed you up?” Miranda wrinkled her brow in confusion.
Daniel nodded. “In nice, neat stitches.” He frowned. “But it appears to be for naught, because I seem to be bleeding again.” He fought to keep his feet, leaning heavily on Miranda for balance. “There’s the end of the quadrille. Come, Miranda, I want to waltz with you. Now.”
“Have you lost your senses?” she demanded, digging in her heels as he attempted to steer her onto the dance floor. “You’ve been hurt badly enough that someone had to sew you up, and you want to waltz?”
“Sssh!” Daniel warned. “Someone might overhear you.”
She glanced around to make sure no one had overheard her, then lowered her voice. “You said you’re bleeding again. What happened? How badly are you wounded? What sort of trouble are you in?”
“None that I can’t handle,” he replied. “So long as I manage to leave this ballroom without anyone else finding out.”
“Without anyone else finding out that you’re foxed? Or that you’re bleeding and in obvious pain?” Miranda whispered fiercely.
“Yes,” he managed, through tightly clenched teeth, as he offered her his elbow. “Shall we join the others on the dance floor?”
“Good heavens, Daniel!” She looked closely and saw the sheen of perspiration on his face. “You’re in no condition to waltz.”
“Don’t you want to dance with me?” he cajoled.
“Of course I do,” she answered.
“Because I want to dance with you …”
“That’s not the point,” Miranda said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He looked as if she’d hurt his feelings. “Of course I should be here. What sort of gentleman would I be if I invited you into the lioness’s den, then left you alone to become dinner?”
“Oh, Daniel …”