“So noted.”
On the other side of the lawn, Lady Thurston stood in the cool shade of a willow tree and watched the young couple with mounting frustration. Even from a distance, she could see their discomfort in the way they held themselves so rigidly. Whit with his polite tilt of the head and Mirabelle with her ramrod-straight back. She could just imagine the infuriatingly formal tone of their conversation.
Lovely weather we’re having. So unusual for this time of year.
Yes, very.
She scowled in their direction. Then scowled at the man standing next to her. “Well for heaven’s sake, this isn’t working at all. The next thing we know they’ll be addressing each other as Lord Thurston and Miss Browning.”
William studied the couple a moment longer before answering. “It does seem to be headed in that direction.”
“I thought you’d done this sort of thing before.”
He shifted at the quiet hint of accusation. “I have, and with some success, I’ll remind you.”
She nodded toward the pair. “And was this the way your earlier success proceeded?”
“The two cases are entirely different.” When she only stared at him, one eyebrow raised, he coughed nervously into his fist. “There were, I’ll admit, one or two…er, complications.”
“Complications,” she repeated with narrowed eyes.
“Well, they do happen,” he said in a defensive tone. “I’ve taken a lesson from them and tried to go a bit more simple this time ’round, but I’m not a fortune-teller, am I?”
She blew out a quick breath and reached to give his arm a gentle squeeze. “No, of course not. Please accept my apologies. I’m a bit concerned is all. Her uncle’s hunting party is at the end of the week and I had rather hoped she wouldn’t have to go.”
“If all goes well, it’ll be the last she need ever attend. Did the invitation arrive?”
“Same time every year,” she affirmed. “The man’s an idiot. A vile, drunken idiot.”
“I’ll not argue it,” he said softly. “But Mirabelle’s safe enough, my lady. As safe as any of us can make her at present.”
“I know.” She turned to give him a smile filled with gratitude. “I’ll never be able to repay you adequately for that kindness. It’s a priceless gift you’ve given me.”
“Well now.” He coughed into his hand a second time and shuffled his feet. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just a favor for an old friend.”
“You give it too little credit. I’m in your debt.”
“No, no—”
“But as for the other matter we discussed.” She turned to face him. “Whit may be a man fully grown, but he is still and always will be my son. If he comes to harm while under your command, I’ll use every resource at my disposal to see you suffer. And you may be sure my methods will be a good deal more…thorough than anything your clever but unimaginative men ever thought to devise.”
His only response was an audible swallow.
Satisfied she’d made herself perfectly clear, she smiled and gave him a soft pat on the arm before leaving. “Wipe your boots when you come inside, dear.”
Mirabelle scooted over to make room for Whit on the small bench. Having successfully concluded the monumental task of agreeing on names, they were now once again at a loss for what to discuss.
“Well,” he said pointlessly and looked about him, searching for inspiration.
“Well,” she returned, feeling several degrees beyond foolish.
She was generally rather good at making friendly chatter. She was a popular dance partner during the London Season for that very reason. Ye t here she was, quite unable to think of a single topic of conversation. Or perhaps more to the point, quite unable to think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t have one or the both of them up in arms within minutes.
Truth be known, the one thought that kept popping into her mind just now, was that she couldn’t recall a time before in which she’d ever sat so close to Whit.
Physical avoidance had been included in their feud. Probably less out of a conscious distaste for the contact than out of a concern for safety—Whit’s primarily. But their knees and shoulders were brushing this morning, and she could feel the heat of his form through her gown. There seemed to be an awful lot of it, she noted. An awful lot of him.
Why that should make her uncomfortable now, when they were sitting together in peaceful—if awkward—silence, was a question she’d just as soon not answer. She might recognize the little jolt her heart gave at the contact, but it didn’t stand that she had to acknowledge it.
She reached for something to say, something to take her mind off their closeness.
“Whit, I—”