“For…oh.” The logical explanation made her feel silly. What else would he have been doing? “Right, well, I’m not. Swaying that is.” She quietly slid her right foot out a little.
“So I can see,” he said with enough lingering amusement that she was reminded of the question she’d meant to ask.
“Do you really think we can manage to behave civilly to each other for the whole of the week?”
“Of course. Nothing to it—for me, at any rate. You’ll need to employ your skills as an actress.” He gave that some thought. “Or perhaps we should just keep you in brandy.”
She merely lifted an eyebrow, which had him swearing, which, in turn, had both her eyebrows lifting.
“From insulting a lady, to swearing at her.” She tsked at him. “You’re beginning very badly, you know.”
“We’ll start tomorrow.”
She turned her head pointedly—if a little wobbly—toward a clock on the mantel. Its hands indicated that it was well past midnight.
“We’ll start,” he ground out, “at sunrise.”
“You see? Gobs and gobs of sense.”
Whit saw Mirabelle back to her room before heading toward his own. She’d probably been capable of finding her way on her own, he mused as he pushed open his door, but he had just as soon not have her stumbling about in the dark. He’d never seen her quite so tipsy before—or perhaps “fuddled” suited better, he thought with a private laugh.
Certainly, he’d never seen her smile at him for such an extended length of time. She had a rather nice smile, he decided, as he pulled off his cravat and tossed it over a chair. It made her nose wrinkle just a little, and the humor in her expression reached all the way up to her chocolate eyes.
He stopped in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. She didn’t have chocolate eyes, did she? Surely not. The imp’s eyes were brown. Just your everyday sort of brown. Where had he gotten the idea they were something else? And what the devil had he been thinking, looking the chit over as if she were a bit of muslin?
Damn blue satin, he mentally groused. That’s what he’d been thinking.
“Been working too hard,” he decided and resumed undressing.
“If I may be so bold, my lord—yes you have.”
Whit tossed a smile over his shoulder at his valet. Even half asleep the man looked a fashion plate in his dressing gown and quickly, but effectively, arranged hair. “Go back to bed, Stidham.”
“Of course, my lord. Let me help you with that—”
“If I needed help undressing, you may be sure I would have had the foresight to find a pretty young thing to see to the job.”
It felt odd enough, having another man pick out his clothes as if he were a child or an incompetent fool. Under no circumstances, outside of complete physical incapacitation, was he going to let said man undress him as well. In truth, he’d just as soon take care of the whole business on his own, but a gentleman of his station was expected to retain the services of a valet. Besides, he was quite fond of Stidham.
“I’m sure there are a host of pretty young things in the house who would be all too eager to oblige you,” Stidham said with a straight face. “Shall I fetch one for you?”
“Generous of you, but I’ll pass for to night.”
“Very good. If you have no need of me then, I’ll wish you a good night.”
“Good ni…Stidham?”
“My lord?”
“You’ve been here with me at Haldon for some years now.”
“I have.”
“What…” He hesitated, wondered if there might be a way to form the question without making a complete ass of himself. And came to the conclusion that there really wasn’t. “What color are the imp’s eyes?”
“Miss Browning?” If Stidham was surprised, or amused, by the inquiry, he was too dignified to show it. “I believe they’re a very dark brown, my lord.”
“Very dark brown,” he repeated. “Would that be another way of saying chocolate?”
“I suppose it would.”
In the small hours of the morning, while the rest of the house slept, a man and a woman stood in the darkest corner of the library and spoke in hurried whispers.
“Is this it, then?” the man asked, reaching for the small box wrapped in brown paper that the woman held.
“It is.” She drew her hand back, out of his reach. “I’ll have your word this won’t come back to haunt my family.”
“I’d like to give it,” he said gently. “I’d like nothing more, but it’ll be for Whit to decide what’s done.”
She nodded once and pressed the package into his hand.
“You’ve great faith in the boy,” he murmured.
“When one has trust and respect, faith becomes irrelevant.”
“Then it is to be hoped our trust is not misplaced.”
Seven
Mirabelle hadn’t enough personal experience with over-imbibing to fully appreciate her good fortune in waking the next morning feeling whole and hale, but she could appreciate fine health on a warm spring day in a general sort of way. She was a trifle muzzy perhaps, but that was easily countered with a cup of hot chocolate and some fresh air.
She avoided the guests in the breakfast room, preferring to take her cup from the kitchen to a small bench in the garden. There wasn’t anyone presently up and about she cared to speak with, at any rate. Kate, Evie, and Sophie were all still in bed. The first two by choice, and the last, no doubt, by virtue of having an overprotective husband. It would be an hour yet, maybe two, before any of them emerged from their rooms.
As she had tiptoed past the breakfast room, she had heard Lady Thurston’s soft voice mingling with the guests’, along with Whit’s deeper one, but she wasn’t ready yet to face either of them.
To make pleasant conversation with a man she’d spent more than half her life dreading the very sight of…
No…no, that wasn’t quite right.
She sipped at her hot chocolate, contemplative. She’d never dreaded the sight of Whit. Not once, that she could recall, had she been unhappy to see him. It seems she had always been unhappy with him—annoyed, irritated, angry, furious and…and pleased, she realized with a start.
She’d always been at least a little bit pleased to be annoyed, irritated, angry, or furious.
She set her cup down on her knee with a small thump, failing even to notice when some of the liquid splashed over the rim onto her dress.
Good Lord, what was the matter with her? What sort of person enjoyed being aggravated—and aggravating?
She gave that a great deal of thought and decided that it was the very same sort of person as Whit.
She wasn’t solely to blame for their continuing rivalry, after all, and she certainly wasn’t the only one to gain pleasure from it. He had initiated their disagreements as often as she, and she could recall, quite vividly, more than one occasion in which he’d clearly been having a grand time of it while they went at each other with slights and barbs.
She blew out a short breath and rubbed a hand on her thigh.
They were both deranged. It was as simple as that. She suspected seeing their way to not being deranged would be a much more complicated matter, but Lady Thurston wanted it done. In Mirabelle’s opinion, standing in opposition to the countess was not only the act of the deranged, but of the plainly stupid. She’d just as soon not be both in one day.
She heard the distant approach of footfalls on the gravel path leading to her bench. Her muscles tightened instinctively, so that she had to force herself to relax them again. Was it strange that she should know the sound of his walk, she wondered? Perhaps not—she knew Sophie’s quick and light steps, and Evie’s steady and uneven ones. Kate’s were slow and meandering. Lady Thurston’s were brisk and…
And this was silly, concentrating on the way her friends walked in an attempt to still her sudden nerves. She wasn’t a green girl to be ruffled by the idea of speaking with a man—a man upon whose head she’d once dumped an
entire plate of eggs. Remembering that fine occasion, she relaxed, smiled, and waited.
She was still smiling when Whit stopped to stand in front of her.
“Good morning, Miss Browning,” he offered.
He looked almost adorable, she thought, with his hands clasped behind his back and his blue eyes brimming with such determined sincerity.
“Good morning,” she returned.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Er…very well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Fine, fine.”
Determination or not, what followed after that painfully stilted conversation was a long and awkward silence.
She scraped her toes against the gravel path.
He rocked on his heels.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” he tried again.
“Yes. Yes, very.”
Whit waited a moment more. Then lifted a brow and tilted his head forward and to the side. Unable to decipher what that could possibly mean, Mirabelle just stared at him until he gave up and blew out an exasperated breath.
“You have to say something I can respond to, imp. ‘Yes, very’ is hardly sufficient to keep a conversation going.”
“Oh, right! Right…Er…” She bit her lip and struggled to come up with something suitably benign to say. “Oh! Have you any plans for today?”
He nodded once, though whether it was in response to, or in approval of, her question, she couldn’t say. “I do, in fact. Several of the young ladies expressed an interest this morning in a tour of the grounds, and I’ve agreed to act as a guide.”
“That was kind of you, Whit. I wonder, which of the…Why are you glowering at me now?”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to call me Whit,” he told her.
“Whittaker then?” she asked with a sugary smile. “Or would you prefer Whittaker Vincent?”
“You’re edging perilously close to being insulting. You’ll address me as ‘my lord.’”
Mirabelle snorted, twice, at the mere thought. “I will not.”
“It’s only proper. I addressed you as Miss Browning, so—”
“Then don’t,” she suggested. “It doesn’t sound right coming from you, at any rate. Why don’t we refer to each other by our given names? Your mother has asked us to behave as friends, not new acquaintances. And I can’t very well start—”
“You’re arguing, imp.”
“No I’m not, I’m—” She heard the beginnings of temper in her voice and cut herself off. She took a very deep breath, held it, then let it out. When she spoke again, it was in careful, measured tones. “You’re absolutely right, I am. But in the interest of doing this thing well, I must tell you—in a calm and objective manner, of course—”
“Of course.”
“—that I am uncomfortable with, and therefore unlikely to, refer to you as ‘my lord.’ As we have known each other from earliest childhood, I believe it would seem odd and forced.”
“Very well, I’m willing to—”
“Also, it is improbable that I shall remember.”
“You’re making this exceedingly difficult—”
“Also, I think it best you refrain from calling me ‘imp.’”
“I swear to—” He started and broke off as her words filtered through frustration. “Have I called you ‘imp’? This morning, I mean?”
“More than once.”
“I…really?” He squinted as if trying to remember. “I hadn’t realized.”
Mirabelle shrugged. “I don’t mind, but your mother might take offense.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. Does it bother you when I call you ‘cretin’?”
He slanted her a look. “Yes.”
“Very well. I’ll not call you ‘my lord,’ but I’ll refrain from referring to you as ‘cretin.’”
“Among other insulting names.”
“Among other insulting names,” she agreed. “I’ll address you as ‘Whit’ or ‘Whittaker.’ You may address me as ‘Mira,’ ‘Mirabelle,’ or even ‘imp’ if you think your mother won’t mind.”
“I don’t think it will bother her overmuch.”
“Are we in agreement, then?” she asked, and wondered if two intelligent people had ever had a more ridiculous conversation.
“I’ll agree, but for the record, ‘Whittaker Vincent’ is out of the question.”
“So noted.”
On the other side of the lawn, Lady Thurston stood in the cool shade of a willow tree and watched the young couple with mounting frustration. Even from a distance, she could see their discomfort in the way they held themselves so rigidly. Whit with his polite tilt of the head and Mirabelle with her ramrod-straight back. She could just imagine the infuriatingly formal tone of their conversation.
Lovely weather we’re having. So unusual for this time of year.
Yes, very.
She scowled in their direction. Then scowled at the man standing next to her. “Well for heaven’s sake, this isn’t working at all. The next thing we know they’ll be addressing each other as Lord Thurston and Miss Browning.”
William studied the couple a moment longer before answering. “It does seem to be headed in that direction.”
“I thought you’d done this sort of thing before.”
He shifted at the quiet hint of accusation. “I have, and with some success, I’ll remind you.”
She nodded toward the pair. “And was this the way your earlier success proceeded?”
“The two cases are entirely different.” When she only stared at him, one eyebrow raised, he coughed nervously into his fist. “There were, I’ll admit, one or two…er, complications.”
“Complications,” she repeated with narrowed eyes.
“Well, they do happen,” he said in a defensive tone. “I’ve taken a lesson from them and tried to go a bit more simple this time ’round, but I’m not a fortune-teller, am I?”
She blew out a quick breath and reached to give his arm a gentle squeeze. “No, of course not. Please accept my apologies. I’m a bit concerned is all. Her uncle’s hunting party is at the end of the week and I had rather hoped she wouldn’t have to go.”
“If all goes well, it’ll be the last she need ever attend. Did the invitation arrive?”
“Same time every year,” she affirmed. “The man’s an idiot. A vile, drunken idiot.”
“I’ll not argue it,” he said softly. “But Mirabelle’s safe enough, my lady. As safe as any of us can make her at present.”
“I know.” She turned to give him a smile filled with gratitude. “I’ll never be able to repay you adequately for that kindness. It’s a priceless gift you’ve given me.”
“Well now.” He coughed into his hand a second time and shuffled his feet. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just a favor for an old friend.”
“You give it too little credit. I’m in your debt.”
“No, no—”
“But as for the other matter we discussed.” She turned to face him. “Whit may be a man fully grown, but he is still and always will be my son. If he comes to harm while under your command, I’ll use every resource at my disposal to see you suffer. And you may be sure my methods will be a good deal more…thorough than anything your clever but unimaginative men ever thought to devise.”
His only response was an audible swallow.
Satisfied she’d made herself perfectly clear, she smiled and gave him a soft pat on the arm before leaving. “Wipe your boots when you come inside, dear.”
Mirabelle scooted over to make room for Whit on the small bench. Having successfully concluded the monumental task of agreeing on names, they were now once again at a loss for what to discuss.
“Well,” he said pointlessly and looked about him, searching for inspiration.
“Well,” she returned, feeling several degrees beyond foolish.
She was generally rather good at making friendly chatter. She was a popular dance partner during
the London Season for that very reason. Ye t here she was, quite unable to think of a single topic of conversation. Or perhaps more to the point, quite unable to think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t have one or the both of them up in arms within minutes.
Truth be known, the one thought that kept popping into her mind just now, was that she couldn’t recall a time before in which she’d ever sat so close to Whit.
Physical avoidance had been included in their feud. Probably less out of a conscious distaste for the contact than out of a concern for safety—Whit’s primarily. But their knees and shoulders were brushing this morning, and she could feel the heat of his form through her gown. There seemed to be an awful lot of it, she noted. An awful lot of him.
Why that should make her uncomfortable now, when they were sitting together in peaceful—if awkward—silence, was a question she’d just as soon not answer. She might recognize the little jolt her heart gave at the contact, but it didn’t stand that she had to acknowledge it.
She reached for something to say, something to take her mind off their closeness.
“Whit, I—”
“Would you care to join the tour this morning?” he asked suddenly.
She snapped her mouth shut, what ever she was about to say instantly forgotten. Until that moment, Mirabelle would have been unable—even upon pain of death—to recall a single instance before in which Whit had extended her an invitation without his mother’s immediate prompting. Unless, of course, she’d been allowed to count the times he’d invited her to go to the devil, in which case she’d have had ample examples—
“Mirabelle?”
“Oh, sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“I guessed as much. Merino or just your everyday sort of wool?”
“Merino,” she decided with a smile. “And I think I’d like to go for that walk this morning. Where will we be going?”
“The lake path, if it suits the ladies.”
“Really?” Mirabelle asked, genuinely pleased. “That’s my favorite.”
“Is it?” He studied her face. “Honestly, or are we still being polite?”
“Both, I suppose. We’re behaving remarkably well, in my opinion. And it truly is my favorite walk. I particularly enjoy the curve on the far eastern side, where that enormous old oak stands and the reeds grow high as my waist. Did you know, last spring, there was a nest of ducklings right on the other side of that tree?”
Tempting Fate Page 7
