It would be lemons and mint. He bit back a groan at that recurring thought. Now that she was back at Haldon with her own things, she would once again smell and taste of lemons and mint.
The idea of it was driving him mad. He’d woken up every damn night since returning, certain he could smell that intoxicating combination. And every damn time he had lain awake afterward wondering about her, worrying over her, missing her.
Was she safe? Was she happy? Did she miss him? Or had William and the others introduced her to some arrogant, pinched-faced dandy who played chess nightly and read poetry with an affected lisp?
“To hell with that.” He stormed over to the front door, yanked his overcoat off a hook on the wall, and strode outside. “To bloody hell with that.”
He could play chess, damn it. Maybe not as well as Mr. Hunter, but he could play. He could read poetry too, if that’s what she needed. He could…well, no, he wasn’t going to fake a lisp. But he could damn well do everything else.
Anything else, if it meant she’d come back to him…even find the words to admit he’d been wrong. That he’d acted out of fear. That he wanted her as his wife for every reason but the one he’d hurled at her. That he’d been a coward.
The ride to Haldon took no more than ten minutes, but that was long enough for McAlistair to lash down his temper and come up with a plan.
He would do things right this time. Nothing would be left to chance. Evie would have no reason to turn him away again…unless she no longer loved him.
Refusing to dwell on that fear, he left Rose in the stable and, desiring privacy for the first part of his plan, once again let himself in a side door of Haldon without being seen.
He wasn’t surprised to find Whit in his study, the door open, and his head bent over a stack of papers. When it came to running his estates, the man was as predictable as clockwork.
“I want to talk to you.”
Whit started in his chair. “Devil take it, man. Can’t you learn to knock?”
“Yes.”
Whit snorted and set down his pen. He gestured toward a chair in front of the desk. “You might as well have a seat. Care for a drink?”
“Yes. No.” Damn it, he’d never had trouble making up his mind before. “Yes.”
Whit eyed him speculatively—as well he might—but said nothing as he retrieved two glasses of brandy. He handed McAlistair one and resumed his seat. “Right then, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve come to ask after Evie.” He’d come to ask for Evie, but he figured a man was allowed a bit of nerves in a moment such as this.
“Evie?” Whit set his drink down, a furrow appearing in his brow. “Chit’s been moping about the house for days.”
Pleasure warred with worry and guilt. “She happen to tell you why?”
“The girl won’t tell me anything other than that, as a member of the male species, I deserve to be slowly roasted on a thick spit over an open flame. I’d say that safely rules out any lingering distress from her trip to the coast. In fact, I’d venture to assume there’s a gentleman involved except, well, Evie’s never had a particularly high opinion of men. And she’s been with the lot of you for the last week.”
McAlistair steeled himself for the worst and met Whit’s eyes. “Yes. She has.”
Whit was too astute to miss what was not being said. His expression went from baffled to black in the space of a heartbeat. “Do I need to call you out?”
“Your choice. I want to take her as my wife.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” Whit rose from his chair. “Did you touch her?”
“Evie is a woman grown.”
“She is my cousin, unmarried, and under my care,” Whit snapped.
“And what was Mirabelle?”
Whit’s lips compressed into a thin line. McAlistair could practically hear the internal debate between defending his wife’s honor and retaining his own by telling the truth. It had to be hell on a man like Whit.
Apparently deciding that discretion really was the better part of valor, Whit sat back down, but his expression remained hard. “The fact that I may or may not be guilty of a similar transgression does not absolve you of—”
“I’m in love with her.”
It was a moment before Whit responded, and when he did, it was with a much softer and much more worried expression. “I see.”
“I’ve been in love with her for years.”
“You hardly knew her until just recently.”
“I know,” McAlistair replied with just a hint of wryness. “But I loved her.”
“I see,” Whit repeated. “And has she made her feelings known to you?”
“Yes. No.” Damn it. “In part.”
“That sounds something less than promising.”
“She said she loved me.”
Whit’s expression brightened. “Well, then—”
“Then referred to me as an arrogant, heartless arse.”
“Ah.” Whit’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Does create something of a problem. Any particular reason she’s put out with you?”
“I spoke of marriage.”
“Again, less than promising.”
“When I say ‘spoke,’ I mean ‘demanded.’”
“You demanded marriage?”