Fortunately for the group of people currently attending the house party, Whit and Mirabelle stood alone, each with a hand on the new wheeled contraption and, much like two children fighting over a toy, each equally determined to gain sole purchase.
As a sensible and—under most conditions—respectably reserved young woman, Mirabelle was perfectly aware of the ridiculousness and pettiness of the situation. As an honest young woman, she could admit that very little else would suit her current mood quite so well as the ridiculous and petty.
A rousing good argument was just what she needed. As always, Whit was more than willing to oblige.
“Let go, imp.”
As was his habit when truly annoyed, Whit clenched his jaw when he spoke. Mirabelle was fond of pointing out that the resulting muffled effect took something away from the impact. Just now, however, she was feeling a bit more mulish than witty.
“I see no reason I should,” she retorted, tipping her chin up.
“Likely because you couldn’t see reason if it were perched on the end of your nose.” He gave the horse a tug, which only succeeded in making her dig her heels into the soft ground. “You don’t even know how to use it.”
“I certainly do. One sits there between the two wheels, holds on to the bars, and pushes with the feet. I’ll show you—”
“No. You’re not riding it.”
A mere ten minutes ago, she hadn’t given a single thought to riding the blasted thing. She’d merely been curious about it. But while she’d been standing there in the warm sun, amusing herself by turning the machine this way and that to discover how it was all put together, Whit had come round the house and ordered her, ordered her, not to get on it.
She’d taken a good look at him, with his light brown hair tousled by the breeze, his cool blue eyes sparking, and his aristocratic features set in grim lines. Every inch of his tall, lanky frame spoke of power that took root in wealth, title, lands, and the sheer luck of having been born a man. The very same sort of power her uncle used to keep her under his thumb.
And she decided she wanted to ride the damn thing after all.
“You said it was for guests, cretin,” she pointed out.
“You’re not a guest at Haldon.”
She let go and stepped back, completely stunned by six words that meant more to her than he could possibly know. “I…that is the kindest—”
“You’re an affliction,” he clarified, hefting the horse up. “Like dry rot.”
She lunged and grabbed hold of the seat with both hands.
A brief tugging match ensued. Whit was stronger, of course, but he couldn’t very well pull the horse from her tight grasp without possibly doing her an injury. And while Mirabelle considered him a flawed man—a very, very flawed man—she knew he wouldn’t go so far as to risk causing a woman bodily harm. She took some satisfaction in knowing, at the moment, he was likely chafing at that particular code of honor.
Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to pull the horse away from him, she briefly considered simply tugging as hard as possible before letting go abruptly, with the hope he’d fall hard on his backside. But when a door behind Whit opened, and she caught a glimpse of bronze silk and gray hair, she decided on a different plan.
A mean, childish, and terribly unfair plan.
A perfect plan.
She let go, took a step back and put her hands up, palms out. “I couldn’t possibly, Whit. Please, I don’t think it’s safe.”
“What the devil are you—?”
“Whittaker Vincent! Are you encouraging Mira to ride that ghastly machine?”
At the sound of his mother’s voice employing that time-honored and dreaded phrase—the first and middle name—Whit paled, then flushed, then narrowed steely eyes at Mirabelle.
“You’ll pay dearly for this,” he hissed.
Probably so, she conceded. But it would be well worth it.
Whit turned and smiled at his mother. She was a small woman, with the blue eyes of her children and the rounded features she inherited from her father. Demurely dressed, rosy cheeked, and soft of voice, she often reminded people of a kindly aunt or younger version of their dear grand-mama. It was a misleading impression Lady Thurston had long ago learned to use to her full advantage.
Whit swallowed hard. “Of course not. I was—”
“Are you insinuating I am old?” Lady Thurston inquired.
“I…” Confused, wary, Whit fell back on charm. “You are the picture of youth, Mother.”
“Very prettily put. But are you certain? Nothing wrong with my hearing, then? My eyesight?”
There was a pause as he recognized the trap, and then another as he realized there was nothing he could do but walk into it. Mirabelle was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud.
“Not a thing, I’m sure,” he finally managed.
“What a relief to hear it. For a moment, I thought perhaps you were going to tell me I had misread the situation. That can happen, you know, as one ages and the senses begin to dull. Very confusing, I imagine.”
“I imagine,” Whit muttered.