They were both deranged. It was as simple as that. She suspected seeing their way to not being deranged would be a much more complicated matter, but Lady Thurston wanted it done. In Mirabelle’s opinion, standing in opposition to the countess was not only the act of the deranged, but of the plainly stupid. She’d just as soon not be both in one day.
She heard the distant approach of footfalls on the gravel path leading to her bench. Her muscles tightened instinctively, so that she had to force herself to relax them again. Was it strange that she should know the sound of his walk, she wondered? Perhaps not—she knew Sophie’s quick and light steps, and Evie’s steady and uneven ones. Kate’s were slow and meandering. Lady Thurston’s were brisk and…
And this was silly, concentrating on the way her friends walked in an attempt to still her sudden nerves. She wasn’t a green girl to be ruffled by the idea of speaking with a man—a man upon whose head she’d once dumped an entire plate of eggs. Remembering that fine occasion, she relaxed, smiled, and waited.
She was still smiling when Whit stopped to stand in front of her.
“Good morning, Miss Browning,” he offered.
He looked almost adorable, she thought, with his hands clasped behind his back and his blue eyes brimming with such determined sincerity.
“Good morning,” she returned.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Er…very well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Fine, fine.”
Determination or not, what followed after that painfully stilted conversation was a long and awkward silence.
She scraped her toes against the gravel path.
He rocked on his heels.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” he tried again.
“Yes. Yes, very.”
Whit waited a moment more. Then lifted a brow and tilted his head forward and to the side. Unable to decipher what that could possibly mean, Mirabelle just stared at him until he gave up and blew out an exasperated breath.
“You have to say something I can respond to, imp. ‘Yes, very’ is hardly sufficient to keep a conversation going.”
“Oh, right! Right…Er…” She bit her lip and struggled to come up with something suitably benign to say. “Oh! Have you any plans for today?”
He nodded once, though whether it was in response to, or in approval of, her question, she couldn’t say. “I do, in fact. Several of the young ladies expressed an interest this morning in a tour of the grounds, and I’ve agreed to act as a guide.”
“That was kind of you, Whit. I wonder, which of the…Why are you glowering at me now?”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to call me Whit,” he told her.
“Whittaker then?” she asked with a sugary smile. “Or would you prefer Whittaker Vincent?”
“You’re edging perilously close to being insulting. You’ll address me as ‘my lord.’”
Mirabelle snorted, twice, at the mere thought. “I will not.”
“It’s only proper. I addressed you as Miss Browning, so—”
“Then don’t,” she suggested. “It doesn’t sound right coming from you, at any rate. Why don’t we refer to each other by our given names? Your mother has asked us to behave as friends, not new acquaintances. And I can’t very well start—”
“You’re arguing, imp.”
“No I’m not, I’m—” She heard the beginnings of temper in her voice and cut herself off. She took a very deep breath, held it, then let it out. When she spoke again, it was in careful, measured tones. “You’re absolutely right, I am. But in the interest of doing this thing well, I must tell you—in a calm and objective manner, of course—”
“Of course.”
“—that I am uncomfortable with, and therefore unlikely to, refer to you as ‘my lord.’ As we have known each other from earliest childhood, I believe it would seem odd and forced.”
“Very well, I’m willing to—”
“Also, it is improbable that I shall remember.”
“You’re making this exceedingly difficult—”
“Also, I think it best you refrain from calling me ‘imp.’”
“I swear to—” He started and broke off as her words filtered through frustration. “Have I called you ‘imp’? This morning, I mean?”
“More than once.”
“I…really?” He squinted as if trying to remember. “I hadn’t realized.”
Mirabelle shrugged. “I don’t mind, but your mother might take offense.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. Does it bother you when I call you ‘cretin’?”
He slanted her a look. “Yes.”
“Very well. I’ll not call you ‘my lord,’ but I’ll refrain from referring to you as ‘cretin.’”
“Among other insulting names.”
“Among other insulting names,” she agreed. “I’ll address you as ‘Whit’ or ‘Whittaker.’ You may address me as ‘Mira,’ ‘Mirabelle,’ or even ‘imp’ if you think your mother won’t mind.”
“I don’t think it will bother her overmuch.”
“Are we in agreement, then?” she asked, and wondered if two intelligent people had ever had a more ridiculous conversation.
“I’ll agree, but for the record, ‘Whittaker Vincent’ is out of the question.”