Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  “Would you prefer my room?”

  “Are you mad?” she gasped, struggling to pull her arm from his grasp. “You’ll ruin me.”

  “The study it is,” he decided and led her forward at a leisurely rate. “It occurs to me that you are forever bemoaning the possibility of ruin, and yet your good name remains intact.”

  “No thanks to you,” she bit out.

  “Nor you,” he retorted without heat. “Wandering the halls at night as you are.”

  “I most certainly was not wandering. I was visiting Kate—whose door, I’ll remind you, is only three down from my own.”

  “A lot can happen to a young woman in the space of three doors.”

  “Like being dragged off by a fiend disguised as a gentleman?” she asked pointedly.

  “Why yes, that was the very thing I was thinking. How funny you should mention it.”

  “Hilarious.” She gave up trying to free herself. “If you must be an overbearing ass, Whit, couldn’t you at least do it more expediently?”

  When he failed to move any faster, she leaned up to hiss in his ear. “If we’re discovered, your mother will insist you do the honorable thing and offer for me.”

  His pace increased exponentially, until they were very nearly trotting. The relief she felt was instantaneous, as was her annoyance at the obvious insult.

  “Not that I’d have you,” she huffed.

  “Here we are.” He pulled her into his study where several candles were already—or possibly still—glowing. He shut and locked the door behind them.

  “We’re safe enough now, I think,” he said, no longer whispering.

  “Hush, what if someone should hear you?”

  “There’s no one close enough to hear anything,” he assured her.

  “You can’t possibly know that. People are always skulking about at house parties.” She tossed her arms up. “Look at us.”

  Unconcerned, he walked over to lean a hip against the enormous oak desk. “Yes, and as it’s my house, I’m perfectly aware of where each and every one of them is skulking about.”

  “That’s absurd, you can’t possibly—”

  “Mr. Dooley is passed out drunk in the orangery,” he began, folding his arms across his chest. “The lonely Mrs. Dooley is consoling herself in the arms of Mr. Jaffrey. Mrs. Jaffrey, well aware of her husband’s roving ways, has taken her revenge upon him by slipping into Lord Habbot’s room. Lady Habbot isn’t in residence, of course, but her nephew Mr. West is busy entertaining the willing Mary—Mrs. Renwald’s lady’s maid—while Mrs. Renwald herself, is occupied in the stable with Mr. Bolerhack’s grooms. Mr. Renwald, blissfully unaware of his wife’s proclivities, is fast asleep—”

  “I beg your pardon.” She just had to ask. “Did you…did you say grooms?”

  “I did.” He grinned at her wickedly. “I did indeed.”

  “But what…how…I…”

  “Would you care for an explanation, imp? A description, perhaps?”

  “No.” Good Lord. “Thank you. I’d rather you explain why you dragged me in here.”

  “In a moment. Did you speak with Kate?”

  Deciding she might as well make herself comfortable while she was being annoyed, she took a seat at a small settee in front of the fireplace. It might have made more sense to have chosen the chair in front of the desk, but she rather felt as if that position would have put her in the role of subordinate, and the man’s arrogance was intolerable as it was.

  “I did speak with Kate,” she informed him stiffly. “And as it happens, you’ve made a fuss over nothing. She’s composing.”

  “Composing,” he echoed.

  “Yes, I assume you’ve heard of the phenomenon? Little dots on paper representing musical notes?”

  “I’ve some grasp of the concept.” A line formed across his brow. “Why did she lie to me? And why did she act as a child sneaking treats when I asked her what she was about? For God’s sake, I’ve seen feral cats less skittish.”

  “The fact that you’re frightening to children and small animals is hardly cause—”

  “You gave your word, Mirabelle,” he reminded her in a cool tone.

  “Oh, very well.” She leaned back against the cushions for a clearer view of his face. “She’s working on a symphony.”

  “And…” he prompted when she said nothing more.

  “And, what?” she asked. “She’s working on a symphony and has been for some time now. She’s excited and nervous, and she’s worried. It isn’t entirely acceptable for a young lady to pursue music as anything more substantial than a hobby. She’s concerned you won’t approve.”

  “That’s absurd,” he snapped. “I can’t hum two notes without sending the dogs to barking. What business would I have instructing my sister on how to use her talent? What business has anyone, come to that? If someone’s said something to her—”

  “You needn’t shout at me, Whit. I’m not arguing with you.”

  He blinked. “You’re not, are you?”

  “No. Unlike you, I’ve a lovely singing voice,” she informed him. “But my musical aptitude is nothing, less than nothing really, in comparison to Kate’s. I’m in full support of her endeavor. It won’t be easy for her, I suspect. The goal itself is a lofty one, and she’ll be subject to some criticism and censure once she obtains it.”

  He settled his gaze on her, considering. “And you’re certain she’ll obtain it?”

  “Of course,” she responded, returning the challenging stare. “Aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. He rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “Well, this is interesting.”

  “I suppose, though not exactly shocking, is it? When one thinks about it, it was only a matter of time before Kate delved into—”

  “I wasn’t referring to Kate—I’ll sort this out with her tomorrow—I was referring to us. We’re in agreement on something.”

  “I…so we are.” And it felt, she suddenly realized, a bit odd. Uncomfortable, she rose and ran her hand down her skirts. “Well, stranger things have happened, I imagine.”

  “Not much stranger.”

  She dropped her hands and rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve lived in constant dread of this dark day, but perhaps now that it’s finally here, you can find the strength to move past it and get on with your life.”

  “I’ll put some thought into that. Why don’t you sit back down, imp. We’re not quite finished here.”

  “I’d rather stand, thank you.” It was a lie, but she felt foolish sitting again when she’d only just risen. “What else is it you wanted?”

  “It isn’t a matter of what I want, but of what my mother has…requested.”

  “Your mother?” A tickle of unease formed in her throat.

  “She’s asked that we set aside our differences for a time—call a truce of sorts.” He twisted his lips in thought. “Perhaps she was more put out this morning than I realized.”

  “I…” She paled. She knew she paled because she could feel every drop of blood drain from her head to pool in her stomach where it sloshed about, making her queasy.

  It wasn’t possible to have been at Haldon so often as a child and not earned Lady Thurston’s disapproval from time to time. Poor judgment and poor behavior are inescapable facts of childhood. But Mirabelle had put an enormous amount of energy into avoiding Lady Thurston’s censure—certainly, a great deal more than most children would have—and oh, how she hated when she failed. She owed so much to the countess, and to repay her kindness with worry or vexation was unforgivably selfish.

  “Is she very angry with me?” she asked in a strangled whisper.

  “She’s not—” Whit broke off with a curse and stepped forward to take her arm. “Sit down. You look half ready to faint.”

  “I don’t faint,” she argued unconvincingly, but let herself be guided back to the settee. “What did she say to you, Whit?”

  “Nothing that warrants this sort of r
eaction,” he replied, but his words were gentled by a soothing pat on her arm, and by the good-sized glass of brandy he poured and pushed into her hand. “Drink it down.”

  She made a face at the amber liquid. She didn’t think spirits would settle well in her stomach at present. “I don’t want it. I want to know what your mother—”

  “And I’ll tell you, after you have a drink.” He tapped the bottom of the glass to nudge it closer. “Go ahead.”

  She scowled at him, but drank the contents of the glass in one quick swallow. She coughed, wheezed, and spluttered her way back. “Oh, ack!”

  Chuckling softly, Whit took the glass from her and set it aside. “Brandy’s generally sipped.”

  “Well, I’m not drinking a second,” she informed him after a hard breath. “So my way will have to do.”

  “Fair enough.” He searched her face. “Feeling better?”

  “No.” Which she really wasn’t. “There was nothing wrong with me to begin with.” Which there really was.

  “Huh,” was his inarticulate and—she was forced to admit—diplomatic reply. He straightened and looked down at her. “I forget sometimes how much you care for her.”

  “Lady Thurston? I love her, with all my heart.”

  “I know you do. But I forget.” He patted her arm again. “She’s not angry with you in the least. Nor with me. She…Are you looking for a husband?”

  “Am I…?” She gaped at him, wondering if the inquiry had really come from nowhere, or if the brandy had begun working much faster than anticipated. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a simple enough question. Are you considering marriage?”

  Because it was Whit asking, she stared at him long and hard without answering.

  “Imp?”

  She held up a finger. “A moment—I’m trying to ascertain if there’s an insult in the question.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, when I insult you, you’ll know it.”

  “You do lack subtlety,” she agreed and ignored his sneer in favor of thinking aloud. “The question then, was a preamble to the insult. Are you going to offer up an unsuitable candidate for the position? Someone like…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Jim, for example? That’s cruel, you know. He has troubles enough without people poking fun at him.”

  “I’ve no intention of…Who the devil is Jim?”

  “Jim Bunt,” she supplied. “Short man with a missing leg? Spends his days outside of Maver’s Tavern, always with a bottle about him? Surely you’ve seen him.”

  He blew out an aggrieved breath. “Yes, I’ve seen him, though I can’t begin to imagine how it is you’ve come to use his given name—”

  “Oh, Kate and Evie and I often bring him food and—”

  He cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. “Never mind. If you would just see your way to answering the question. Are you looking for a husband?”

  “No,” she said clearly. “I most certainly am not. Does this have something to do with your mother’s request?”

  He leaned forward a bit and searched her face, much as he’d done almost moments ago, but it wasn’t concern in his blue eyes now, it was the inexplicable heat of temper. Why ever would he still be irritated, she wondered. She’d answered the question, hadn’t she? Of course, Whit was irritated with her as a rule—her presence alone was sufficient to spark his ire. But there was something different this time. Unable to put her finger on just what, she watched him in return, fascinated as the fire was banked, if not entirely extinguished.

  He straightened once more with a quick nod, as if coming to some decision. “Mother is under the impression that you’re seeking marriage, and that our disagreements could hamper your attempts to find an eligible gentleman.”

  “That’s absurd,” she scoffed. “She knows very well I’ve no interest in chaining myself to a husband.”

  “Chaining yourself?” He pulled a chair over to sit across from her, close enough that their knees almost brushed as he sat. “That’s a rather grim view of marriage, don’t you think?”

  “No,” she replied with all sincerity. “And I doubt you do as well, given that you’re past thirty and still unwed.”

  “Taking a wife is an entirely different matter. It’s a responsibility that requires a great deal of forethought, planning, and—”

  “I had no idea you were such a romantic,” she drawled.

  He shot her a hard look. “My wife, when I take one, will want for nothing—including romance.”

  She sighed, suddenly tired and a little fuzzy from the brandy. “I know,” she reached over and patted his knee congenially. “You’ll make some fortunate girl an excellent husband one day, Whit.”

  Whit shifted slightly in his seat. He wasn’t about to let her see how her brief touch, her nearness, was suddenly, surprisingly, interfering with his train of thought.

  She laughed at his wary stare. “No insult. I’m in earnest. You’re a catch and not just because of your wealth and title, though I can’t imagine that’s a detriment.”

  “Will you admit to having said this tomorrow, in front of witnesses?”

  “Oh, I’ll suffer the tortures of the damned first.”

  “Thought so. You’re just a bit foxed, aren’t you?”

  She thought about it, but having never before been foxed, she decided she couldn’t quite say for certain. She’d had a glass or two more champagne than was wise in the past, however, and rather thought she felt now as she had on those occasions.

  “I believe I’m a bit tipsy,” she admitted. “It’s your own fault, pushing that brandy on me.”

  “I hadn’t expected you to down it in one gulp,” he pointed out.

  She shrugged. “Quickest way to get rid of the vile stuff.”

  “A man once offered fifty pounds for a bottle of that vile stuff,” he informed her.

  “Really?” She puffed out a breath and shrugged. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

  “Apparently, not.”

  “I prefer champagne myself,” she said a bit dreamily, leaning back against the cushions.

  “Do you?” he asked on a chuckle.

  “Hmm. The bubbles are very agreeable.”

  “They are that…Perhaps we should resume this conversation in the morning.”

  It occurred to her that she should probably be offended by the laughter in his voice. And she would be, she decided—later. When it would be easier to concentrate on the matter. For now, she needed to turn her mind to Lady Thurston’s request.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary to postpone this,” she said, attempting to instill a touch of sobriety in her words. “I’m a bit worse for wear, I’ll admit, but I can follow the conversation well enough. Your mother has asked us to call a truce, correct?”

  “Yes,” he replied, and she decided to ignore the twitch of his lips.

  “Very well. For how long?”

  “Until…” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve no idea. If my mother had been right, I’d have suggested we’d keep at it until you were comfortably settled with a husband.”

  “Ah, so it would be a permanent sort of arrangement. That might be asking a bit much for the two of us.”

  “I agree. I suggest we do the thing in stages.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “We’ll start by agreeing to remain civil for the duration of this house party and any events hereafter in which my mother—or someone likely to report to my mother—is present. Should we find the task to be accomplishable without any great hardship, we can reevaluate and decide at that time if we wish to make it a permanent arrangement.”

  “That sounds immensely sensible.” She bobbed her head good-naturedly before tilting it to study him. “You’ve great gobs of sense in that head of yours, don’t you, Whit? You must, to have turned your family’s fortunes around in so short a time.”

  “It’s true,” he agreed with another twitch of his lips. “I am all that is good and
wise. And my astounding intellect tells me now that it is past time for you to crawl into bed and sleep off the brandy—not that I don’t like you this way,” he added.

  “And what way might that be?”

  “Inebriated,” he supplied with a grin. “And pleasant.”

  She made a face at him. She wasn’t sure what sort of face it was, exactly, as she was experiencing some numbness about the nose and lips, but she was relatively certain it was some form of scowl—possibly even a haughty glower. “I’m not pleasant…that is…I’m not inebriated. I’m only—”

  “Tipsy, I know.” He stood and took her hand. “Up you go, then.”

  She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

  “Do you really think we can—” She broke off when she realized he wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t even looking at her.

  Well, he was actually, and quite intently. But his gaze was clearly focused below her face. A breathlessness stole over her, and her skin seemed to prickle and warm as he did a slow sweep of her figure, his expression one of…

  What did one call that? Irritated bemusement? Reluctant interest?

  She found the irritated and reluctant aspects a touch insulting. She dropped his hand.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked in what she hoped was a cool tone.

  “The matter?” he echoed without raising his eyes.

  “Yes, the matter,” she repeated. Tucking her chin for a better view of her gown, she trailed her fingers along the neckline.

  “Have I a spot?” Oh dear, what if she’d dribbled brandy down the front of herself without realizing? “You might have mentioned earlier, you know,” she grumbled.

  She looked up when he didn’t respond and found his gaze focused on where her hand rested against her chest. He looked just as intent as he had a moment ago—standing absolutely still, with his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. But he didn’t look half as reluctant. And she suddenly felt twice as breathless.

  “Whit,” she snapped, a little amazed she’d found the necessary air.

  His eyes snapped up to hers. “What? Yes. No. I beg your pardon?”

  “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “Not a thing,” he offered, then blinked, waited a beat and added, “I’m checking for swaying.”