Tempting Fate (12 page)
It was, he decided now, a completely natural reaction to the sight of a woman in danger and discomfort. And since he’d pushed the panic away and handled the situation satisfactorily, he saw no reason to dwell on the matter.
It wasn’t that he was embarrassed,
exactly,
he was simply a good deal
more
embarrassed by what had come after—when the intial fear for her well-being had passed and he’d picked her up. She’d been soft and warm and rumpled against his chest, and she’d had her arms twined around his neck. She’d smelled of earth and roses.
And for the third time in two days, he had found himself reacting to Mirabelle as a man reacts to a woman. Not a little girl, not an aggravating house guest, and not an opponent, but a woman.
Suddenly, he’d wanted to touch for reasons other than to comfort, to hear her moan and whimper in something other
than distress. Or, perhaps more honestly, in a very different sort of distress.
He’d seen himself laying her back down on the soft earth, stripping away her torn gown, and letting his hands take over. He’d imagined tasting that intriguing beauty mark above her lip, then working his way over to her ear, down her neck and lower. Then lower still.
He’d wondered if he might find that blue satin somewhere.
When she’d twisted in his arms, his eyes had dropped to where his coat covered her, and the sight of it aroused a sense of possession in him…and a considerable amount of self-recrimination.
She was injured, for God’s sake. And he was having erotic fantasies of taking her in the dirt. He had more control than that.
He certainly had more finesse.
Suffering now from the unfortunate combination of worry and lust, he pushed through the study and headed directly to the sideboard.
“A bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
Whit didn’t bother to turn at the sound of Alex’s voice. His oldest friend didn’t need an invitation to come in and make himself comfortable in his favorite seat by the fire, would have laughed at the formality, in fact. Whit concentrated on pouring a full glass instead.
“The length of some days can be measured by how much time one
feels
has passed, rather than what the clock reads. And by my calculations, it is now”—Whit blew out a long breath—“tomorrow.”
He picked up the drink, but before he could take a sip, an image of his father, smelling of spirits before noon, sprang to mind. He put the glass back down. “Hell.”
“Why don’t you ring for something else?” Alex asked, taking a seat.
“Because I don’t want anything else.” He shot his friend an annoyed glance. “Aren’t you interested in Mirabelle’s condition?”
“I am, which is why I spoke to one of the maids. A sprained ankle, isn’t it?” Alex sent him a patronizing smile. “Overreacting a bit, don’t you think?”
Whit raised a brow at the mocking tone. “And how is Sophie this morning?”
A corner of Alex’s mouth’s twitched. “Touché. But Sophie is my wife. Mirabelle’s been little more to you than a nuisance.”
“And it follows I should enjoy the sight of her in pain?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Alex assured him easily. “But I’d have expected you to see a touch of humor in the situation.”
“You find her injury amusing?” Whit asked coolly.
“No, but I find the image of you carrying the imp up the side of a hill and halfway back to the house
immensely
entertaining. I can’t imagine a more reluctant knight in shining armor.”
Whit remembered just how unreluctant he’d been, and to his everlasting horror, he felt the heat of embarrassment spread in his chest and crawl up his neck.
Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Holy hell, are you…blushing, Whit?”
“I bloody well am not.” Please, God, make it true.
“You bloody well are,” Alex countered and threw his head back to roar with laughter. “I haven’t seen you redden like that since we were children.”
“I am not blushing,” Whit ground out. Men, by God, did not blush.
“I beg your pardon,” Alex offered with an exaggerated—and unconvincing as he was still chuckling—courtesy. “I haven’t seen you flushed, then, since childhood. Or would you prefer, ‘I haven’t seen your color up since—’?”
“I haven’t planted you a facer since childhood either. Would you care for a reminder of what that was like?”
Alex held a hand up in peace. “Tempting as it may be, your mother would have both our heads if we indulged in fisticuffs.”
“She’d have mine. There wouldn’t be enough left of yours to be of use to her.”
Competitive as only a brother could be, Alex sneered gamely. “A round at Jack’s, next time we’re in London,” he challenged. “A hundred pounds.”
“One-fifty.”
“Done.”
They shook on it, both of them grinning, as pleased with themselves as they were sure of their victory.
Feeling considerably better, Whit took a seat across from Alex and watched in some amusement as his friend made a guilty glance at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention this little wager to Sophie.”
“Any particular reason?”
“You know how women can be about these sorts of things,” Alex replied, turning back. “And she has enough to occupy her mind at present. Which reminds me—she’s asked that Kate, Evie, and Mirabelle be present at the…er…event.”
“Present?” he asked, taken aback. “In the room, do you mean?”
“I don’t,” Alex assured him, “but it’s entirely possible that she does. She acquired some very strange ideas on her travels. Will you bring the girls?”
“Me? I—” He was going to offer to have his mother bring them, but stopped himself just in time. A man didn’t abandon a friend in need, and Alex, for all his jesting, was clearly anxious. And rightly so—birthing was a dangerous, and terrifyingly female, event. He had some clear memories of his sister’s birth—memories he contrived very hard not to dwell on.
“We’ll all be there. How long until…” He waved his hand about.
“A little under three months.”
“So soon?” It seemed as if it ought to be further away. Years and years away. “Only three months and then…”
“Yes, and then,” Alex responded grimly.
“I see.” Whit tapped a nervous finger on the chair.
Without being aware of it, Alex mimicked the movement. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Hmm.”
Alex shot a considering glance at the brandy.
“It’s not
that
early, really.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Whit agreed, and made a hasty trip to the sideboard.
W
hile Whit and Alex consoled themselves in the study, Mirabelle was poked, prodded, and then—when it was ultimately decided she would survive—fussed over extensively. A footman came to carry her to her own room, which she only demurred against a little. She
was
more comfortable in her own space than in the guest quarters, and she was
much
more comfortable with the idea of someone other than Whit carrying her there.
Loyal friends that they were, Kate, Sophie, and Evie joined her to make all the requisite sympathetic noises. They also made quite a few nonrequisite ones in the form of teasing jokes, but Mirabelle had expected no less.
“You’ll not live to hear the end of it, you know,” Evie said. “Not if you live to be a hundred. It’s much too entertaining
to the rest of us—Whit, forced to carry the imp up a jagged cliff—”
“It was a hill,” Mirabelle corrected.
“Not in a hundred years, it won’t be,” Evie assured her. “It’ll have grown to biblical proportions.”
“Someone will write an opera based on the tale,” Kate predicted. “A comedy.”
“Composed by Lady Kate, like as not.”
“I think it’s romantic,” Sophie interjected. When that statement was greeted with stunned silence, she merely shrugged. “Well, he didn’t have to haul you up, did he?”
“Of course he did,” Mirabelle countered. “It was too steep for a horse—”
“You see? Jagged cliff.”
“—and he was the only one there,” Mirabelle finished, poking Evie in the ribs for the interruption.
“All right now, ladies,” Mrs. Hanson broke in. “It’s past time Miss Browning got the rest she needs. Off with you.”
“But I don’t want to rest,” Mirabelle argued as the house-keeper made shooing noises at the girls. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted, did I? Said it was what you needed. Off you go, girls. You too, Your Grace. Lady Kate, you should be seeing to your guests, and you, Miss Cole, I believe you promised a tea party with young Isabelle Waters.”
Sophie grinned at Mrs. Hanson as she was pushed to the door. “You really must conquer this unfortunate propensity to cower in the presence of rank, Mrs. Hanson.”
Mrs. Hanson gave a good-humored snort and another push. “I may not have changed your nappies, Your Grace, but I had occasion to change the duke’s a time or two.”
Sophie laughed as she left, then stuck her head back in before Mrs. Hanson could close the door.
“Whit could have waited for help, you know,” she told Mirabelle. “No one would have faulted him for it.”
That final comment left Mirabelle gaping. First at the door Mrs. Hanson promptly shut after Sophie’s head had disappeared, and then at Mrs. Hanson as she and Lizzy put the room to rights. When it finally occurred to Mirabelle that she really didn’t have a reason to be gaping at the house keeper, she closed her mouth and picked up her tea.
Sophie was right. Whit needn’t have carried her up the hill. It hadn’t been required of him. It hadn’t even been expected of him. He must have known he’d be teased for it later, and while he might have a greater appreciation of the absurd than most peers of the realm, no man she knew actively enjoyed being poked fun at.
So, why hadn’t he waited?
He’d been worried at first—that much had been clear—but not once he’d seen she wasn’t seriously injured. Had he? He had seemed perfectly calm. He could have hidden it, she supposed, but that explanation only opened up a whole other set of questions. Why would he have continued to worry? Why would he bother hiding it? Why carry a person up a hill when one can worry just as well with their arms unencumbered?
“Are you after seeing your future, Miss Browning?”
“I…” She blinked herself out of her musings to find Mrs. Hanson smiling at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you were after reading the tea leaves. But as I can see you haven’t gotten around to drinking the tea, I’ll assume you’re not.”
“Oh,” Mirabelle frowned into her cup. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Hanson, but it tastes a trifle off. I think whoever prepared it was overenthusiastic with the sugar.”
“That’s just my special brew, dear. Now you drink it down.”
“But—”
“Or I’ll fetch Lady Thurston, and you may be sure she’ll see it done.”
“I’ll drink it,” Mirabelle promised on a grumble.
“That’s a dear. I need to see to the dinner preparations, but Lizzy here will wait for the cup so it won’t be left sitting about when you’re through.”
“And so you’ll know I drank it,” Mirabelle added.
“That as well,” Mrs. Hanson admitted without even a hint of shame. “Get some rest.”
Mirabelle waited for the sound of the house keeper’s footsteps to disappear down the hall before turning to Lizzy. “I’ll give you two pounds if you’ll toss this out the window and tell her I drank it.”
Lizzy laughed but shook her head. “Not worth my position, miss.”
“Two pounds, half.”
“Nor my head, which is what I’d lose if Mrs. Hanson caught wind.”
“You’re a very selfish girl, Lizzy,” Mirabelle admonished. “Kate has a novel in which the heroine’s abigail sacrifices her very life for her mistress. It was most touching.”
“I believe I read it, miss.” Lizzy casually folded a blanket at the end of the bed. “I recall thinking at the time that it was very kind of the lady to employ the infirm and that it was probably best the poor girl went at the end. Can’t have that sort of thing being passed down, can we?”
Mirabelle laughed until Lizzy pointed a finger at the cup. “Hold your nose and gulp it down quick. It’s the only way to take that sort of medicine.”
“You’re right,” Mirabelle agreed on a sigh, and followed the instructions. “Ugh, that’s dreadful.”
A light knocking and the appearance of Whit’s head at the door kept Lizzy from responding.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked before his eyes fell on
the head of the bed and Mirabelle. “Ah. And how are you feeling?”
“Sore, but otherwise well.” She watched him enter the room fully, his hands hidden behind his back.
“I’ll just see to the cup,” Lizzy began.
“If you’d be so kind as to stay,” Whit said. “I’d like a few words with Miss Browning.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Take a book,” Mirabelle suggested, knowing the girl wouldn’t do so without invitation while Whit was in the room. “I believe you’ll find several of Kate’s recommendations on the vanity.”
“Thank you, miss.” Lizzy selected one before settling herself in a chair at the far corner of the room.
“Won’t you sit down, Whit?” Mirabelle asked, while wondering how she might go about asking him why he’d chosen to carry her up the hill.
“In a moment. I’ve brought something for you.”
She sat up straighter in the bed. She adored presents. Not charity, which smarted the pride, but presents for an occasion—and she rather thought being injured was an occasion—were always welcome. “Have you? Are you holding it behind your back? What is it?”
He grinned and pulled his hands out to show her.
“A cane,” she laughed.
“It’s something of a relic, I’m afraid,” he said, handing it to her. “The last member of the house to require assistance walking was my great-great-grandmother. It seems the Cole women are a sturdy lot.”
“Very sturdy,” she commented, hefting the cane experimentally. It felt stout enough to hold up a lame horse.
“If you’d prefer something more fashionable, I’m sure I could find something in Benton for you.”
“This will do beautifully,” she said, still inspecting the cane. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Whit moved to sit in a chair by the bed. “Mirabelle?”
