Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  “Sophie’s giving lessons on knife throwing,” Kate informed him as she angled her bishop forward two spaces. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  As a rule, Whit preferred to react to unsettling situations in a manner that befitted a man of his stature. And, as a rule, men of his stature did not pale and stammer.

  But sweet hell, Kate throwing knives?

  “Are you…is she…for pity’s sake, Kate.”

  She turned cool blue eyes on him. “Have you always thought me an idiot?”

  He blinked, remembering the conversation he’d had with their mother on the back lawn not long ago, and how swiftly he’d been maneuvered into that trap. He took what he hoped would prove a settling breath.

  “No.” He made the mistake of glancing again at the knives. “The possibility has only just occurred to me.”

  “Does it look as if I’m participating in the lesson, or does it appear, perhaps, as if I’m enjoying a game of chess with Alex while we watch?”

  He didn’t bother to hide a wince. “Point taken, Kate—”

  Kate sniffed and turned back to the game. “Clumsiness isn’t synonymous with idiocy, you know.”

  “I know, and I apologize.” He stepped over to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. “It was ill done of me.”

  “As for the rest of you…” Whit turned to Alex, steadfastly ignoring the amused glint in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re allowing this.”

  “I can’t believe you expect me to argue with a group of armed women,” Alex countered.

  “I don’t expect you to argue. I expect you to disarm them.”

  “Ah, don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Well, you’re here now.” Alex waved his hand at him. “Have at it.”

  He turned, intending to do just that, but when he opened his mouth, he met three pairs of annoyed eyes, and decided instead to hold out his hand in silent demand.

  No one moved.

  “The knives please, ladies,” he prompted.

  “You’ve known him longer,” Sophie said to the others. “Is he being brave, or merely stupid?”

  “That would depend, wouldn’t it?” Mirabelle replied.

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not we skewer him.”

  “I vote you make him stupid,” Kate piped in. “He called me an idiot.”

  Whit shot a sharp look at his sister. “Stay out of this, Kate. No one here will be skewered, because, in a moment, I’ll be holding all the knives.”

  “Just not in his hand,” Evie added.

  “You,” he shot at Evie, “are supposed to be helping Mother with preparations for the ball.”

  “Oh, oh no, I’d forgotten.” Evie actually paled, which made him feel a touch guilty.

  “She’s not upset with you, Evie, she was only wondering where you were.”

  She wasn’t listening to him. She passed her knife to Sophie and ran for the house.

  “I should go with her,” Kate murmured and followed Evie into the house.

  “She’ll feel terrible about that for days,” Mirabelle said with an accusing glance at Whit.

  “I’ll speak with her, after you give me the knives.” He pointed a finger at her. “You made a promise not to fight with me.”

  “I’m not fighting with you. I’m quietly disobeying,” she countered. “It’s entirely different.”

  “Mirabelle.”

  “Oh, all right.” She gave up her knife, but like Evie, she handed it to Sophie. “I should see if Lady Thurston requires more help, anyway.”

  Whit watched her go, mostly because he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from looking at her. The slight limp did the most interesting things to her backside, and he had a brief image of following her inside and…

  Damn it.

  He spun away before he embarrassed himself and concentrated on his remaining opponent. It felt a bit off, giving orders to Sophie when Alex was right there, and she was such a stubborn creature to boot, almost as bad as the imp. But surely she could be made to see reason.

  “For God’s sake Sophie, you…you’re….” He waved his hand in the general vicinity of her belly. “You know.”

  She didn’t, apparently, because her only response was a blank stare. Feeling a little desperate—and not a little foolish—he tried the other hand, then both, then added in a jerk of his chin.

  “I believe he means you’re with child,” Alex prompted with a grin.

  “Oh, yes,” Sophie assured him without changing her expression. “I managed to translate that. Somehow. But I’m trying to fathom what one thing could possibly have to do with the other.”

  “It’s just…” Wrong, he thought. So very, very wrong, on so very many levels. “Unsafe.”

  Again, the blank look.

  “You could be injured,” he added.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she finally said on a laugh. “How?”

  He honestly didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to admit to that. “I’d prefer not to dwell on it. Give me the knives, Sophie.”

  “They’re daggers, actually, and I won’t give them to you because they belong to me.” She sighed and stepped over to pick a leather satchel off the ground. “But since you ran off my students, I might as well put them away for now.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say “for good” but he decided to swallow the argument and take the victory he’d been handed. Mostly.

  “It would be appreciated if you were to keep them put away for the remainder of the house party.”

  “Appreciated by whom? Certainly not Evie and Mirabelle. They’ve a right to learn how to best defend themselves.”

  “They know how to best defend themselves—they come to me.”

  “Or me,” Alex added, though from the amused look on his face, the comment wasn’t an indication he wished to join the argument, just add to it here and there.

  “The two of you are not always available,” Sophie countered.

  “Careful where you tread, Sophie,” Whit advised.

  “I mean no offense. I know you to be the most faithful and reliable of brothers, Whit, and I can certainly attest that you’re the most protective of husbands, Alex, but you can’t be with every one of your women at every moment, can you?”

  “If anyone ever attempted to harm one of you—”

  “Then they might very well succeed if they caught Evie or Mirabelle alone, and there’d be nothing you could do but demand satisfaction after the fact. That would be gratifying, no doubt, but would hardly undo what had been done.”

  “It’s my responsibility to see that they’re never in a position—”

  “I know, and you do an admirable job of it. I don’t mean to argue with you—well, yes,” she amended after reconsidering, “I do, but I don’t wish to anymore. Consider what I’ve said, Whit.” She swept past him towards the house. “Even the most sheltered of women have had to face danger alone, and even the most trusted of men aren’t privy to every secret.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” he called out to her retreating back. When she slipped inside without answering, he whirled on Alex. “What did she mean by that?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “She’s your wife.”

  “Doesn’t mean I understand her half the time.” He gazed at the door Sophie had just passed through. “Amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Delightful,” he ground out. “Has something happened to one of them?”

  “Do you think I wouldn’t have told you, if I knew of such a thing?” Alex shot him a reprimanding look. “I’m not one of the women to be keeping secrets.”

  Whit swore and dragged a hand through his hair.

  Alex took pity on him. “I’m sure she was speaking theoretically, Whit. Passionately, I’ll grant, but you did interrupt one of her great pleasures.”

  “Knife throwing,” Whit muttered. “I can’t fathom why you’ve allowed it.”

  “It was a compromise. One of a great many made to keep her safely distanced from
my work with William.”

  “She knows of that?”

  “She does, and a bloody load of trouble it’s been too,” Alex grumbled.

  “Then why did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t, though I suspect I would have eventually. I wouldn’t care to keep something like that from her.”

  “How did she come to know of your work, then?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll relate it some other time.” Alex turned to leave. “I need to check on Sophie. Like as not, she’s halfway up a ladder by now, hanging garlands.”

  By nine o’clock that evening, Mirabelle was starving, exhausted, and immensely grateful that Lady Thurston hosted only one ball during her pre-Season house party rather than her famous three as she did during her larger end-of-Season gathering.

  She had worked through the noon meal, as well as tea, assisting Lady Thurston in everything from decorations to seating choices for the meal. Mirabelle didn’t mind in the least, but she was now more than ready for the chance to sit down and eat.

  She stopped by her room for a quick wash and change. Most of the guests would be in the parlor by now, waiting for the announcement that dinner was served. She was finishing her hair, repinning the parts that had fallen during the day, when she saw it—the slightest movement on the bed.

  It was nothing more than a twitch of her pillow, but it had her arms falling to her sides and her mouth opening in surprise.

  Someone had put something in her bed, and she’d bet her last pence she knew who that someone was. More amused than annoyed, she stalked over to pull the bed linens away.

  She very nearly laughed at the small frightened lizard cowering under her pillow.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.”

  If Victor Jarles had been a mischievous young man rather than a cruel one, she might have brought the small reptile back into his room to lay under his blankets. It would have been a grand laugh for the both of them in the morning. But the little monster would likely kill the thing as not, so she fetched a basin and towel instead.

  “Poor little thing,” she murmured, scooping up the lizard and gently placing him in the deep bowl. “Scared half to death, I wager. Not to worry, I’ll set you free.”

  “Who the devil are you talking to?”

  Mirabelle started at the sound of the masculine voice and glanced over to see a very confused looking Whit standing in the open doorway.

  “You startled me. I didn’t hear you knock,” she said as she draped the towel over the basin.

  “Likely because I didn’t. Your door was open.” Whit made a quick search for witnesses in the hallway before entering the room and closing the door behind him. “What have you got there?”

  “A very frightened lizard I found hiding in my bed. A gift from young Victor Jarles, I suspect.”

  Whit crouched to peek under the towel.

  “Huh.” he murmured, obviously unimpressed. “That’s a bit disappointing, isn’t it? I’d have expected more from the likes of him.”

  “I’m terribly sorry he failed to live up to your expectations,” Mirabelle drawled. “Perhaps you could take him aside and give him a few pointers.”

  “The idea has merit,” he said, returning to a stand. “If one is going to be a troublesome little boy, after all, one ought to make the effort to do it properly.”

  “He’s not little,” she grumbled. “And he’d not troublesome. He’s just trouble.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Trouble enough to call a lady names?”

  “Would that elevate him to the status of a properly troublesome little boy in your estimation?”

  “Mirabelle.”

  She brushed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes and stood. “Let it alone, Whit. And for heaven’s sake, get out of my room before someone comes along and makes a fuss.”

  “Door’s closed. Who’s to know?”

  “My eight o’clock assignation. He’s the jealous sort, and generally quite prompt.”

  “He’d be generally quite dead if he were real,” Whit only half jested. He ignored her dramatic eye roll in favor of holding out his arm. “May I escort you to dinner?”

  It would be nice, she thought, to be seen on Whit’s arm. But it wasn’t appropriate. “You can’t, I’m not the highest ranking woman in the house.”

  “I can do what I like, but if it makes you uneasy—may I at least escort you to the parlor?”

  “I’d like that,” she replied with a broad smile. “But check the hallway first, won’t you? And if anyone should ask, we ran into each other on the back stairs.”

  As it happened, no one asked outright how Whit came to escort Mirabelle into the parlor. There was quite a bit of conspicuous whispering among the most gossip-minded partygoers, but none of them were interested in the truth of the matter so much as discussing the possibilities.

  The what-ifs and do-you-thinks lasted through dinner, but Mirabelle and Whit barely noticed. They were seated too far apart to have a discussion of their own, but from time to time (with rarely more than ten seconds between each time) they caught each other’s eyes across the table, and shared a smile.

  Thirteen

  Mirabelle woke the next morning to the discovery that her ankle had healed well enough to put away the cane. It was still swollen and tender, and protested loudly if she twisted it the wrong way, but with a little care, she was able to move about without so much as a discernible limp.

  She celebrated the improvement with a morning walk in the gardens before going in for breakfast.

  She loved the gardens best in the spring. They weren’t at their peak yet. Lady Thurston preferred the rich colors of fall blooms over the soft, bright shades of spring. But for Mirabelle, there was nothing so beautiful as the first signs of life. She could, and sometimes did, spend hours walking the paths, finding and delighting in those first green shoots and buds struggling through the soil or the remains of last year’s growth.

  It was comforting in a way, to know the plants had been there all along, waiting out the cold, dark winter until the sun warmed the ground again, giving them the opportunity to grow and bloom.

  She thought of her five-thousand-pound inheritance. Less than two years, and winter would be over for her, as well. A woman could do a great deal of growing and blooming with five thousand pounds at her disposal.

  “Staring at the larkspur won’t make it grow any faster,” Whit said from behind her.

  She turned to find him not five feet away. “I hadn’t realized you were standing there.”

  “I’m not surprised, you seemed lost in your thoughts.”

  “I was,” she admitted before gesturing at the plant she’d been staring at without realizing it. “You know their names, then?”

  “Only so far as my mother used to chastise Alex and I for playing in them. The roses, mostly, as there’s something about thorny bushes that draws small boys like moths to flame. Nearly as irresistible as mud.”

  “I wonder why that is?” She laughed.

  “One of the great mysteries of life.” He tilted his head at her. “You look a picture, you know, standing in the garden with the sunlight in your hair.”

  “Oh.” She felt her cheeks growing hot. Would he kiss her again, she wondered, and immediately wished she hadn’t, since it only served to make her cheeks grow hotter. “Um…thank you.”

  Straightening, clearly enjoying himself, he gripped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Not accustomed to compliments in general, or just not from me?”

  Not accustomed to wondering if I’ll be kissed, she thought, but what she said was, “Both, I suppose.”

  He took a step closer to her. “An unforgivable oversight.”

  Perhaps he would kiss her, and because she found it impossible to make room for any thought beyond that, she once again said, “Oh. Er…thank you?”

  He chuckled softly and took another step. “You’re welcome. Won’t you take a step forward, imp? I wouldn’t mind kissing you, but I’d rather
we kiss each other again.”

  “Oh…er—”

  “Don’t thank me.”

  “What? No, of course not. Um…” She dragged her foot one miniscule inch forward, then brought the other up to match.

  Whit glanced down at her feet and smiled. “It’s a start, I suppose. But I’ve taken two, you’ll recall.”

  “Two. Right.” She begin to scoot her foot forward again, then stopped. “This is absurd.”

  “I’ll say. If your sole doesn’t leave the ground this time, I’m not counting it.”

  She choked back a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” she said suddenly.

  His expression remained somewhere between bland and faintly amused. “Don’t you? I’d have thought it obvious. Didn’t I just mention kissing?”

  “No. I mean, yes, you did.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “But why do you want to kiss me?”

  “We’re going to kiss each other.”

  “Yes, and I know why I want to—”

  “Do tell.”

  She ignored that. “But why do you? Up until a few days ago, you hated me.”

  He recoiled a bit at the accusation. “That’s something of an overstatement, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “You sometimes looked physically ill when your mother made you dance with me.”

  “That wasn’t hate,” he argued. “That was fear.”

  “I’m in earnest.”

  “So am I. You can be quite fierce, you know.”

  She bit her lip, uncertain of what to say.

  Whit studied her face. “I’ve never hated you, Mirabelle. There were times I’ve badly wanted to muzzle you, but I’ve never hated you.” He swallowed hard. “Did you hate me?”

  She opened her mouth, not to speak, but in surprise, then turned her head and nodded thoughtfully.

  “Dear God,” he whispered, appalled, “you did.”

  “What?” She started and blinked. “Oh! Oh, no…I was thinking of something else.”