Bloody hell.
He glanced down at his empty glass, wondered if he could have another drink so early in the evening without thinking less of himself, then glanced up again to see a young man leaning over Mirabelle’s hand.
He handed the glass to Kate without looking, who took it with a smug smile he was too preoccupied to see. He’d made several strides across the floor before a hand reached out to grip his arm.
“Do you intend to dance alone?” Alex inquired.
Whit stopped and reluctantly turned his gaze from Mirabelle. “What are you talking about?”
Alex dropped his arm and jerked his head at the dance floor. “The dancers are lining up. It’d look a bit strange for you to be up there by yourself. What were you planning to do?”
Temper had him answering before reason could get a thought in edgewise. “She doesn’t need to be dancing with the likes of him.”
“Who?” Alex asked. “And who?”
“Mirabelle and…” He actually had to look to remind himself who he’d seen kissing her hand. “Mr. Kittlesby.”
“Why not? Kittlesby’s a good sort.”
He was, actually, but that wasn’t the point. The point was…the point was…“She shouldn’t be up there…wearing that sort of gown.”
Alex glanced over. “Seems a perfectly normal sort of gown to me. I think she looks rather nice.”
“Well stop thinking on it. You’re a married man.”
“Didn’t say I was thinking of taking the dress off her. But now that you mention it—” When Whit turned on him, blood in his eyes, Alex laughed and held up a hand in peace. “I’m only having a bit of fun with you. I
am
a married man
and very much in love with my wife. Besides that, I see no great difference in her to night other than a pretty dress.”
“Then you’re a blind man.”
“Or perhaps I’ve seen all along what you have not.”
Because he was beginning to suspect there was some truth to that, and didn’t care in the least for admitting to it, Whit offered only a grunt in response.
“It’s not as if every man in the room is suddenly vying for her attention, Whit,” Alex pointed out, and then added in a mutter, “and believe me, that can happen.”
“One is enough.”
“I suppose it is,” Alex agreed and gave him a bolstering pat on the back. “I’ve left my wife alone long enough. Try not to do anything rash while I’m away.”
Whit barely noticed his friend’s departure. While the dance continued, he worked on clearing his head. What
had
he planned on doing, whisking Mirabelle away in front of everyone? That was the action of an impulsive man, and by God, he was not an impulsive man. He was a reasonable, sensible, respected peer of the realm. He would not make a spectacle of himself.
She’d danced with others before, he reminded himself. She was smart and witty and friendly, and during the London Season, when men were pressed by their mothers into dancing with one of the less fashionable girls, she was often their first choice. It had never bothered him in the past.
But then, she hadn’t been
his
in the past.
And she bloody well was now.
He wasn’t certain what that meant yet, but he was damn certain he wasn’t going to let someone else fawn over her while he sorted it out.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, and waited for the dance to end. The moment it did, he was at Mirabelle’s side. “Won’t you take a stroll about the room with me, Miss Browning?”
She looked at him, baffled, which was no wonder as he hadn’t waited for Mr. Kittlesby to return her to her chair.
“Oh, ah.” Her eyes darted to Mr. Kittlesby and back again. “Er…yes. That is, it’d be my pleasure. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Mr. Kittlesby?”
“Of course,” the young man answered in a tight voice.
He needn’t have bothered, as Whit had already pulled Mirabelle off into the crowd. Keeping a firm grip on her elbow, he maneuvered her through the press of people and out onto the terrace. It wasn’t nearly as packed as the ballroom, but it was a near thing.
“Blast.”
“Is something wrong, Whit?”
“I want a moment of your time,” he responded, sweeping his gaze from one end of the terrace to the other.
“Well, you’ve taken it. Rudely, I might add.”
He ignored her censure and led her to the far end where the light was dimmer.
“You’ve made a habit recently of grabbing my arm,” she commented.
“Perhaps I simply like touching you.”
“I…There’s no way for me to respond to that without embarrassing myself.”
“No response required.” He pulled her into a recessed portion of the terrace. “Here we are.”
“I don’t know that this is proper.”
“Answer a question for me, and I’ll let you go.”
She scowled at him. “I hadn’t realized I was being held captive.”
Likely better that she didn’t, he decided, and opted out of replying. “Where did you get that dress?”
She blinked at him and glanced down at her gown. “Why, is something the matter with it?”
He very nearly told her
exactly
what was the matter with it—it was beautiful. She was beautiful in it. Every man in
the house could see she was a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown. He had just enough common sense left, however, to know those words, spoken as an accusation, would accomplish nothing—nothing good, anyway. And now that he’d removed her from the ballroom, the worst of his temper was settling to a manageable burn. He took a deep breath. “There is nothing at all the matter with it.” And because he worried his behavior may have caused her to think otherwise, he added, “You look lovely.”
And to that he added a silent, and heartfelt
Damn it.
“Oh. Thank you. I’m glad you like it. I…” She dropped her gaze, and fiddled with the material at her waist. “I should probably tell you…the cost of it will come to you. I didn’t do that on purpose. Kate bought the dress, but it didn’t fit her properly, and she gave it to me. If you like I can—”
“Why should I care where the bill was sent?” he asked, honestly baffled. “Have I ever complained before?”
“Before?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Your other gowns,” he clarified. “The other bills—” He cut himself off when she continued to shake her head. “The bills haven’t been sent to me?”
“Of course not.”
He scowled in thought. He never paid attention to the details of the bills from the modiste, he simply paid them. “Your uncle, then?”
“No,” she replied and tilted her chin up a fraction. “I pay for my own gowns…usually, anyway. And if it bothers you—”
“It bloody well doesn’t bother me,” he snapped.
“It rather sounds like it bothers you,” she pointed out.
He drew a frustrated hand down his face. “Why would you pay for your own gowns when you knew perfectly well I’d see to the expense for you?”
“Well, I didn’t know perfectly well, did I?”
He sent her a dubious look. “Do you mean to tell me that my mother never offered?”
“Of course she did, but—”
“But you refused,” he finished for her. “Why?”
“A woman has a right to her pride as much as any man,” she answered. “I take enough from your mother—from your family.”
“You’ve taken nothing that wasn’t freely offered.”
“All the same—”
“It’s only a gown, for God’s sake,” he continued with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Exactly. I fail to see why you’re so upset.” She shook her head when he opened his mouth to argue. “This isn’t the place to discuss this.”
“You’re right.” He stepped back to a window and slid it open. “Climb through.”
She stared at him, then the window, then him again.
“What?”
“Climb through,” he repeated gesturing with his hand. “It’s the study.”
“Of course it’s your study,” she replied sarcastically. “Where else would you play fast and loose with my reputation?”
“I’m not playing with anything. No one can see, Mirabelle, and I want a private conversation with you. Climb through.”
“No.”
“Climb through,” he ground out, “or I’ll toss you through.”
Mirabelle glowered at him, caught somewhere between dumbfounded and furious. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something along the lines of
you wouldn’t dare.
But by the set look on his face, he
would
dare.
She stepped up to the window.
“You’re not following the rules of our agreement,” she grumbled as she sat down and swung her legs over the sill and into the adjoining room.
“You can take me to court for breach of contract tomorrow. Now hop down.”
She did, and turned to watch as he climbed through the window, closing it and the drapes behind him.
“This is entirely unnecessary,” she announced as he lit two candles on the desk. “I’m not going to apologize for paying for my own clothing.”
“I don’t want your apology,” he informed her. “I want you to listen to mine.”
Baffled, she watched him finish with the candles and cross the room. “I…you haven’t anything to apologize for.”
“You’ve been uncomfortable at Haldon,” he replied. “Uncomfortable with asking for or taking what you needed. That’s my fault.”
“There is no fault,” she retorted. “I haven’t been uncomfortable—”
“Don’t lie to me, imp.”
“Very well, I haven’t been any more uncomfortable taking your charity than I would be taking anyone else’s.”
He swore softly. “It’s not charity.”
“Of course it is. Freely given as you said, but charity all the same. How would you feel in my position?”
“It isn’t the same thing.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because I’m a man.”
“And you’re allowed a pride I am not?” she asked hotly.
“No. I am allowed to work,” he corrected. “It is my responsibility to see to the care of those who are not.”
“I could be a governess, or a paid companion—”
His expression turned hard. “You bloody well won’t.”
“I’ll bloody well do what ever—” She cut herself off, held up a hand when he opened his mouth to fill the silence. “We aren’t going to agree on this, Whit. Couldn’t we agree to disagree?”
“No.”
“If we’re to keep the peace between us—as we promised your mother,” she reminded him, “we’ll have to find a compromise.”
It was a moment before he spoke. “What sort of compromise?”
“I’ll admit that my pride has made me, perhaps, a little stubborn.” She ignored his snort of derision and continued. “And I shall endeavor to be more receptive to your mother’s offers of assistance in the future. But you must agree not to push at the matter. My pride is part of who I am. I won’t trade it for a pretty wardrobe.”
“You’re such a reasonable sort,” he said after a moment. “How did we manage to never get along in the past?”
“I wasn’t at all reasonable when it came to you. Does the compromise suit you?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “No, but I’ll agree to it, for now.”
He looked so handsome when he was annoyed, she thought, with his dark gold hair tousled from the outside breeze, his strong jaw clenched, and his blue eyes dark and brooding. The muscles in his arms and across his chest tensed and moved under his shirt and coat. She wondered again how she had never before noticed the strength in him, or how it made her skin heat, and her breath catch…
“A penny for your thoughts, imp.”
She started at his voice and lifted her gaze to find his eyes no longer brooding, but laughing.
“Oh, they’re worth ten pounds at least. I certainly couldn’t let them go for anything less than five, and at that a bargain.” Her voice came out a little breathy, but she was so flustered, she was grateful it came out at all. Really, how embarrassing.
“Done. Five pounds.”
Mirabelle blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Five pounds for your thoughts just now. The ones that
made you blush. I can pay up front if you doubt my sincerity.” He reached behind him and pulled a five-pound bank note from his desk.
“I…er…”
“Come now, you made the bargain. Surely you don’t mean to renege.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly, I assure you.” To prove his point, he held the money out to her. Mirabelle just stared at it in bewilderment.
Five pounds would be a welcome addition to her emergency funds, particularly as she had recently dipped into them twice.
She had as much pride as the next person, but there was a time and place for everything, she decided. And now was the time and place for a little pragmatism. Beyond that, she was just a little bit curious as to how he might react.
“Very well,” she said, snatching the note out of his hand. “I was thinking that your…ah…” She motioned in the general direction of his chest. “Your shoulders…” She swept her hand back and forth. “They’re…ah…they’re a bit broader than I remembered,” she blurted. Good Lord, that had been awkward.
Whit’s smile went from merely mischievous to decidedly wicked. His eyes, amused a moment ago, darkened with something she felt she might be better off not attempting to name. She was blushing quite enough, already.
“Well, good-bye, Whit.”
He caught her arm on a soft laugh. “Not quite yet, imp. Y o u can’t go about making statements like that to a man and expect—”
“I don’t. I’ve never said anything like that before…to anyone but you.”
He pulled her toward him slowly. “Nor statements like that one.”
She tugged lightly on his arm. “We’ve been gone too long. People will talk.”
“We’ve time yet.” He brought her that last foot forward to stand before him, and then brought his lips to hers.
Whit intended the kiss to be in tune with the moment—sweet and light. A simple matter of a few stolen moments at a ball. Keeping a loose hold, he ran a hand up her back to coax her closer, brushed his mouth across hers to tempt and tease, nipped gently with his teeth in an invitation to play.
The taste and feel of her seeped into him, adding another layer to the need that had been steadily growing for days.
He allowed himself the dangerous luxury of letting it build.
He could enjoy the feel of her small fingers gripping his shouders and feathering across the back of his neck. He could savor the way she fit against him, her face turned up to his, her breasts pressed against his chest. He could relish the lines of her, and mold his hands along the subtle hips and long waist. He could take his fill of her warm mouth, her fragile skin, her soft sighs.