She glanced around furtively to see if anyone had witnessed the accident. Assured of her still untarnished reputation, she quickly made a mental apology for every foul word that had crossed her mind. Then she tied the lid back on with a very secure triple knot, picked up the box with both hands, and headed for the carriage. Where she would wait for the others. She was quite done with shopping.
Whit couldn’t recall the return trip from Benton to Haldon ever taking quite so long. It wasn’t that the horses were moving slower than usual, or that they’d lost a wheel, or met with some other misfortune.
It was just that he was so damnably uncomfortable.
He turned his eyes to the carriage for what he estimated was the dozenth time in the last quarter hour. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He couldn’t seem to do anything but recall the way the lid of Mirabelle’s box had lifted to reveal a glimpse of something blue, glossy, and quite obviously flimsy.
He’d been appalled.
He’d been fascinated.
He’d pretended not to have seen. In retrospect, that might not have been the best choice of reactions—how could he ask, let alone tease, her about something he hadn’t seen? But for the first few seconds after the lid had opened, he’d been stunned into speechlessness. And since then, he’d been repeatedly stunned by per sis tent, and entirely unwelcome, images of the imp wearing flimsy blue undergarments.
Undergarments that looked to be satin, now that he thought on it.
Not that he was going to continue thinking on it. Absolutely not. He certainly wasn’t going to dwell on how it would feel…like the skin it would so scarcely cover, he imagined—soft, and cool to the touch, until it warmed under his palms. He’d bunch it up slowly, inch by tantalizing inch, to discover the smooth flesh underneath. He’d use just his hands at first, teasing them both as his mouth found that delightful beauty mark just above her lip. When she was near to begging, when she was writhing beneath him, he’d…he’d…
Holy hell.
He shifted in his saddle, now uncomfortable on several levels.
It had to stop. He would stop. He wasn’t a boy of fifteen, to be panting at the mere glimpse of a woman’s unmentionables. Even if they were blue, and soft, and flimsy.
Blast.
He eyed the carriage again, wondering what Mirabelle was after, purchasing something like that.
And he wondered why he couldn’t stop wondering.
Five
Dinners at Haldon Hall might have carried the reputation of being unusually informal, with lively conversation and children as young as eight allowed to attend, but there was no mistaking the gathering for a simple meal with friends and family. Dinner was an event—a six-course feast that often stretched for hours and offered everything from the delicacies of lobsters and calf brains to the comforting favorites of roasted fowl and bread pudding. The food was prepared by an efficient kitchen, cooked and seasoned to perfection by the inestimable Mrs. Lowell, and swiftly transferred upstairs to be presented and served by a veritable fleet of footmen.
In her customary seat at the foot of the table, Lady Thurston surveyed her staff with approval, her guests with amusement, and her children with love and—in the cases of Whit and Mirabelle—no small amount of annoyance.
What ever had she been thinking, she wondered, to have seated them within shouting distance of each other? Not that they were actually shouting, mind you—they knew better than to engage in a yelling match at her table. But even from the other end of the table, she could see that Whit’s face was tight as he spoke, and Mirabelle, she couldn’t help but notice, was grasping a salad fork in a manner that made the countess just a little bit anxious.
Something, she decided, must be done.
“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” she murmured.
“Beg pardon?” William Fletcher, noticeably aged (particularly about the hairline) since his days as the bearer of sad tidings regarding the late Duke of Rockeforte, reluctantly turned his attention from the truly superb trout on his plate to follow his hostess’s gaze. “Ah. At it again, are they?”
“Ever and always.” She watched the pair for a moment more. “I have decided, William, to take advantage of your gracious offer. If it is still available?”
“Yes. Yes, of course it is,” he replied carefully. He scratched at his bulbous nose. “But if you’re not comfortable with the idea, we could give them a bit more time—”
“They’ve been given time enough. I should have agreed to something like this years ago, when you first suggested the idea.” She sighed deeply. “Only, I had rather thought they would have progressed beyond this by now. I had envisioned things coming to their natural conclusion…well, naturally.”
“And so they would, eventually.”
“Eventually,” she decreed, “is taking entirely too long. I’ll speak with Whittaker to night.”