“Why on earth would he do that? He couldn’t possibly know.”
He cocked his head at her and smiled. “Have a look in your mirror, darling.”
“My mirror?”
She scrambled to her knees and found her reflection in her vanity. Good Lord, was the woman staring back really
her? Her chemise was rumpled beyond recognition, her hair tousled and snarled beyond repair. Her lips were swollen, her lids were heavy, and her skin practically glowed. No wonder Whit didn’t want Christian to see her. She looked wanton and ravished.
And decidedly pleased with both.
Almost
as pleased as Whit, she thought, catching sight of his reflection. He’d leaned back against the pillows, his hands behind his head, the counterpane comfortably around his waist, and a very satisfied smile on his face. He hadn’t put his shirt back on, and her eyes traced the smooth muscles of his chest and arms. She’d touched there, she remembered, a little awed. She’d run her hands and fingers there, gripped and…her eyes narrowed on a spot on his shoulder.
Were those scratches? She spun around for a closer look. They
were
scratches—a whole row of them across his shoulder.
Whit flicked his gaze over, then back to grin at her.
“You’re quiet,” he reiterated. “But you’re lively.”
“I did that?” She took in his satisfied expression. “And you don’t mind?”
“Not in the least,” he assured her, and with enough conviction that she took him at his word. He shifted and held a hand out to her. “Come back to bed, imp. If someone was interested in knocking on the door, they would have done so by now.”
“I—” That was true, she admitted, a little embarrassed now that she’d overreacted at the thought of being discovered. Her only excuse was that she’d been a bit…well, disoriented was the only word that came to mind.
“But what of the search?”
“Your uncle’s in his room, and I suspect we’d be wasting our time going through the attic again.” He turned his palm up. “Come back to bed.”
She
suspected he was avoiding a search of the house with
her at night, but she took his hand anyway and let him pull her down. What ever was waiting to be discovered, could wait until tomorrow. She was, sadly, not going anywhere.
She snuggled next to him, with her head in the crook of his arm, and the reassuring beat of his heart under her hand.
And for the first time since being orphaned, Mirabelle fell asleep under her uncle’s roof with a smile on her face.
She woke alone in the morning, feeling stiff, sore, nervous, and irrepressibly happy. She and Whit had…Well, she and Whit
had.
And that said quite enough.
She washed in the cold water left in the basin from the day before and changed into one of the light brown dresses she’d brought from Haldon. She wished she had thought to bring the lavender dress. She wanted so much to feel pretty today, and it was exceedingly difficult to feel pretty in brown. A woman should feel pretty after spending the night in the arms of the man she loved, shouldn’t she?
She stopped in the act of straining to reach the back buttons of her gown.
In the arms of the man she loved? Had she just thought that? She let her own arms fall to her sides.
She
had
thought that. And she still did.
She loved Whit.
Of course she loved Whit. She wouldn’t have even considered doing…allowing…enjoying…Well, she just wouldn’t have considered it, that’s all. Except that she loved him.
Shouldn’t she have realized before now? Shouldn’t there have been thunder and lightning and a great deal of music in her head at the very moment she fell in love? Kate’s books always seemed to indicate that was how it happened.
She scowled at nothing in particular and tried to remember if she’d recently overlooked an internal storm and symphony. None came to mind.
She didn’t feel any different toward him now than she had the day before, which was exactly how she had felt the week before, which was exactly how…how she had always felt.
Because she had always loved him.
That realization didn’t arrive with music either, but it did feel as if it came weighted. She rubbed absently at the sudden tightness in her chest. All this time she’d loved him. While they’d fought and snarled and otherwise made themselves generally unpleasant to one another, she’d loved him.
Had he known? She wondered in a sudden panic. Should she tell him? Did he love her in return?
No, no, and—she wasn’t certain, but all signs indicated—maybe.
He couldn’t possibly have known, as she hadn’t even been aware of it herself. She couldn’t possibly tell him, as she had no idea how he felt. And she couldn’t possibly know how he felt, as he’d never told her more than that he found her beautiful.
Remembering, she blushed, and decided that much would have to do for now. She’d keep her newfound love to herself. Perhaps, in time, he’d give her some hint, some reason to hope for more. But for today, she’d accept their mutual care and desire and be grateful for it.
Resolute, she finished dressing and left her room with the intention of going to the kitchen.
She’d prepare breakfast this morning. It wasn’t an effort to charm Whit, she assured herself as she reached the bottom landing of the stairs. He’d cooked for her yesterday and it was only fair that she take a turn at the stove. Even if she was a little unclear on how it worked. How difficult could it be, really? A little wood, a small fire, close the door—
“Good morning, my dear.”
Mirabelle jolted at the greeting and at the hard grip that closed around her forearm. She had to repress a shudder as Mr. Hartsinger turned her to face him. He’d always made
her uncomfortable. In part, she was certain, because he was the only one of her uncle’s friends she wasn’t entirely certain she could outrun.
He was tall and rail thin with greasy black hair that fell past his ears in messy clumps so that he reminded her of a very old mop. He was an odd addition to her uncle’s gathering, and a relatively recent one, this being only the third time he’d come. He didn’t claim to be a great sportsman like the others, and while he partook of the wine and spirits with as much enthusiasm as the rest of the group, he often remained quiet and slightly apart during the festivities.
She might have liked him a bit more for it, but there was something about him that made her extremely uneasy. His bony fingers gripped too hard and his small dark eyes seemed to be always laughing with a dark and bitter humor.
“Mr. Hartsinger.” She gave a mental sigh of relief when his hand released from her arm. “You’re up rather early.”
“I’ve a few things to see to before I leave this evening. I must cut my stay short, I’m afraid. My responsibilities at St. Brigit’s beckon.”
“Oh, well…” Thank heavens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not to worry, my dear. We’ll see each other again.”
“Yes, of course, my uncle is loyal in his invitations. We’ll meet again in the fall, I’m sure.” She wasn’t entirely sure it was possible for someone to actually be loyal in invitations, but the diplomatic, if possibly nonsensical, reply came easier than another lie.
He certainly didn’t seem to mind it. He laughed, a high-pitched kind of whinny that made her skin crawl. “Perhaps not then, my dear, as work keeps me occupied, but soon enough, soon enough.”
“Er…yes.” She couldn’t think of a single way to respond to that, as any future meeting with him would be more than soon enough for her.
“You’ve a lovely way about you,” he murmured and to her absolute disgust, reached out to trail a bony finger down her cheek.
She jerked back. “Mr. Hartsinger, you forget yourself.”
“I do indeed, my dear,” he replied with that same eerie giggle and dropped his hand. “I do, indeed. I’d hate for us to start off badly. You’ll accept my apologies, won’t you?”
No.
“I’m certain you’re eager to be going,” she muttered and retreated back toward the staircase.
She didn’t run up the stairs, but it was a very near thing. Like she had with the animal trophies in her uncle’s study, she could feel his dark eyes chasing her up every step. Whit could cook his own breakfast after all, she decided as she reached the landing and hurried toward her room.
Unable to stop herself, she glanced back over her shoulder to be certain he wasn’t following her.
And ran head first into a solid wall of shirt and muscle.
She yelped and threw her arms out, even as she was steadied by two strong hands.
“Mirabelle,” Whit said over her head. “Easy. What is it?”
She pressed a hand to her heart, willing it to return to a natural rhythm. “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s ridiculous.”
Whit’s grip tightened on her arms. “Tell me.”
She shook her head and laughed nervous l y. She’d overreacted terribly. The man hadn’t done anything worse than take a small and essentially harmless liberty. “I’m being foolish. Mr. Hartsinger frightened me, that’s all. There’s something so sinister about the man’s appearance. I met him in the foyer—”
He used his grip to push her behind him. “Go to your room. Lock the door.”
“But—”
“Now.”
She grabbed him before he could leave. “He didn’t hurt me, Whit. He didn’t even try. Honestly,” she insisted and
pulled him around to face her. “He frightens me just by
being.
And you can’t very well demand satisfaction for that.”
He gave her a hard searching look before nodding. “Stay in your room, anyway. I’ll have breakfast brought up.”
She waited until she saw the violence fade from his eyes before releasing him and stepping up to give him a soft kiss. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming to my defense.”
A line formed across his brow as he lifted a hand to trail his finger down her cheek, much as Mr. Hartsinger had. But her skin didn’t crawl as it had in the foyer, it lit up as it had in her room.
She pressed closer to him. “Perhaps you could bring me breakfast.”
The line of worry cleared as he smiled. “Perhaps I could.”
Whit brought her breakfast, as promised, but he didn’t stay as she had hoped. His participation was required for the second day of the hunt. He couldn’t avoid joining the others for two days running. It made her exceedingly nervous, the idea of him being in close proximity to a pack of armed idiots, but when she mentioned as much, he merely grinned, gave her an annoyingly chaste peck on the cheek and promised to return to her in one piece.
He was just smug enough, and therefore irritating enough, that she was a little bit happy to see the back of him as he walked down the hall.
She spent the early hours of the afternoon, after the others had left, once again ensconced in the attic. She dug and sifted through decades worth of odds and ends, and it occurred to her that her uncle must not have been the first master of that house with an aversion to tossing anything out.
Heavens, why would anyone want to keep a fifty-year-old
wig and accompanying box of wig powder? She pulled the overly elaborate coif out of a trunk and marveled at the sheer size and weight of it. It must have been tremendously uncomfortable to wear.
“I remember my mother owning something similar to that.”
Though she immediately recognized the voice behind her as Whit’s, she couldn’t stop herself from starting and dropping the wig.
“For pity’s sake, Whit,” she admonished with a hand against her thrumming heart. “What the devil are you doing back here?”
“Delighted to see you too, darling,” he returned and leaned down to press a quick kiss to her lips. “Even though you’re not in your room.”
Her blood warmed at the contact. “I never promised to stay in my room for the whole day, and you’re supposed to be hunting with the others.”
“As far as they know, I still am. I wandered off.”
“You wandered off,” she echoed.
“I informed the group that, like the good baron, I prefer to hunt alone.”
“Oh,” she smiled at him. “That was rather clever of you.”
“Wasn’t it just?” His eyes scanned the mess she’d made unpacking the trunks. “Have you found anything?”
She brushed off her gown and rose. “No.”
“Let’s try your uncle’s room, then.”
“But Mr. Cunningham—” she began.
“Is fast asleep, snoring like a tremendous lion. I knocked on his door just to see if it would disturb him. It didn’t.” He took her hand, leading her out of the room. “I want this done and you safely back at Haldon.”
“What if he should wake?” she asked as they made their way downstairs.
“Then we hide, or we run. It’s not more than a twenty-foot drop out the window.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you trying to frighten me into not going?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it won’t work.” Probably. What if her uncle should take it in his head to return early? Or what if they couldn’t hear Mr. Cunningham’s snores through the walls of the room and he woke without them realizing it? Or what if—?
She stopped and frowned outside Mr. Cunningham’s door. Whit was right, the snoring coming from the other side was prodigious. Worse than the noise her uncle made, something she had, until this moment, believed impossible.
“That doesn’t sound healthy,” she whispered as Whit opened the baron’s door.
“It doesn’t even sound natural.”
He ushered her inside and closed the door behind them. “At least we’ll have warning if he wakes. Start at that end.” He motioned to the bureau. “I’ll take the desk and armoire.”
While Mr. Cunningham gurgled and rasped on the other side of the wall, Mirabelle picked through her uncle’s personal effects. And came to the conclusion that she had been much too hasty in insisting that she participate in this part of the search. She hadn’t realized it would entail going through her uncle’s undergarments.
Grimacing, she used the handkerchief Whit had given her that first day in the attic to gingerly push aside the contents of the drawers. It took her only moments to find the large wooden box hidden under a pile of stockings. She hesitated briefly before reluctantly lifting the lid—the possibilities of what a man like the baron might hide under his stockings were varied, and distinctly unpleasant.