“That sounds immensely sensible.” She bobbed her head good-naturedly before tilting it to study him. “You’ve great gobs of sense in that head of yours, don’t you, Whit? You must, to have turned your family’s fortunes around in so short a time.”
“It’s true,” he agreed with another twitch of his lips. “I am all that is good and wise. And my astounding intellect tells me now that it is past time for you to crawl into bed and sleep off the brandy—not that I don’t like you this way,” he added.
“And what way might that be?”
“Inebriated,” he supplied with a grin. “And pleasant.”
She made a face at him. She wasn’t sure what sort of face it was, exactly, as she was experiencing some numbness about the nose and lips, but she was relatively certain it was some form of scowl—possibly even a haughty glower. “I’m not pleasant…that is…I’m not inebriated. I’m only—”
“Tipsy, I know.” He stood and took her hand. “Up you go, then.”
She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
“Do you really think we can—” She broke off when she realized he wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t even looking at her.
Well, he was actually, and quite intently. But his gaze was clearly focused below her face. A breathlessness stole over her, and her skin seemed to prickle and warm as he did a slow sweep of her figure, his expression one of…
What did one call that? Irritated bemusement? Reluctant interest?
She found the irritated and reluctant aspects a touch insulting. She dropped his hand.
“Is something the matter?” she asked in what she hoped was a cool tone.
“The matter?” he echoed without raising his eyes.
“Yes, the matter,” she repeated. Tucking her chin for a better view of her gown, she trailed her fingers along the neckline.
“Have I a spot?” Oh dear, what if she’d dribbled brandy down the front of herself without realizing? “You might have mentioned earlier, you know,” she grumbled.
She looked up when he didn’t respond and found his gaze focused on where her hand rested against her chest. He looked just as intent as he had a moment ago—standing absolutely still, with his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. But he didn’t look half as reluctant. And she suddenly felt twice as breathless.
“Whit,” she snapped, a little amazed she’d found the necessary air.
His eyes snapped up to hers. “What? Yes. No. I beg your pardon?”
“Whatever is the matter with you?”
“Not a thing,” he offered, then blinked, waited a beat and added, “I’m checking for swaying.”
“For…oh.” The logical explanation made her feel silly. What else would he have been doing? “Right, well, I’m not. Swaying that is.” She quietly slid her right foot out a little.
“So I can see,” he said with enough lingering amusement that she was reminded of the question she’d meant to ask.
“Do you really think we can manage to behave civilly to each other for the whole of the week?”
“Of course. Nothing to it—for me, at any rate. You’ll need to employ your skills as an actress.” He gave that some thought. “Or perhaps we should just keep you in brandy.”
She merely lifted an eyebrow, which had him swearing, which, in turn, had both her eyebrows lifting.
“From insulting a lady, to swearing at her.” She tsked at him. “You’re beginning very badly, you know.”
“We’ll start tomorrow.”
She turned her head pointedly—if a little wobbly—toward a clock on the mantel. Its hands indicated that it was well past midnight.
“We’ll start,” he ground out, “at sunrise.”
“You see? Gobs and gobs of sense.”
Whit saw Mirabelle back to her room before heading toward his own. She’d probably been capable of finding her way on her own, he mused as he pushed open his door, but he had just as soon not have her stumbling about in the dark. He’d never seen her quite so tipsy before—or perhaps “fuddled” suited better, he thought with a private laugh.
Certainly, he’d never seen her smile at him for such an extended length of time. She had a rather nice smile, he decided, as he pulled off his cravat and tossed it over a chair. It made her nose wrinkle just a little, and the humor in her expression reached all the way up to her chocolate eyes.
He stopped in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. She didn’t have chocolate eyes, did she? Surely not. The imp’s eyes were brown. Just your everyday sort of brown. Where had he gotten the idea they were something else? And what the devil had he been thinking, looking the chit over as if she were a bit of muslin?
Damn blue satin, he mentally groused. That’s what he’d been thinking.
“Been working too hard,” he decided and resumed undressing.
“If I may be so bold, my lord—yes you have.”
Whit tossed a smile over his shoulder at his valet. Even half asleep the man looked a fashion plate in his dressing gown and quickly, but effectively, arranged hair. “Go back to bed, Stidham.”
“Of course, my lord. Let me help you with that—”