“Would you care to join the tour this morning?” he asked suddenly.
She snapped her mouth shut, what ever she was about to say instantly forgotten. Until that moment, Mirabelle would have been unable—even upon pain of death—to recall a single instance before in which Whit had extended her an invitation without his mother’s immediate prompting. Unless, of course, she’d been allowed to count the times he’d invited her to go to the devil, in which case she’d have had ample examples—
“Mirabelle?”
“Oh, sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“I guessed as much. Merino or just your everyday sort of wool?”
“Merino,” she decided with a smile. “And I think I’d like to go for that walk this morning. Where will we be going?”
“The lake path, if it suits the ladies.”
“Really?” Mirabelle asked, genuinely pleased. “That’s my favorite.”
“Is it?” He studied her face. “Honestly, or are we still being polite?”
“Both, I suppose. We’re behaving remarkably well, in my opinion. And it truly is my favorite walk. I particularly enjoy the curve on the far eastern side, where that enormous old oak stands and the reeds grow high as my waist. Did you know, last spring, there was a nest of ducklings right on the other side of that tree?”
“I did, though I hadn’t realized anyone else knew it was there.” His face lit up with a knowing smile. “Fattest chicks I’ve ever seen.”
Mirabelle found herself smiling in return. “They were enormous…I fed them regularly.”
“Yes, me too.”
Delighted with the picture of a grown man sneaking behind an old tree to feed baby ducks, Mirabelle laughed out loud.
Feeling comfortable, Whit stretched his legs out before him. She had a nice laugh, he thought. Soft and low, like a warm wind over water. He’d heard it before, countless times. But never had he heard it directed at him. No, that wasn’t right. She’d laughed at him more times than he cared to remember. Never before had she laughed for him. It was a completely different experience, and one he was finding surprisingly pleasant.
A whole world more pleasant than the experience of hearing the tittering giggles of Miss Willory and her followers, which, unfortunately, was the very sound currently emerging from the back door. He felt Mirabelle tense as the group spotted them and began to head in their direction. He could hardly fault her for the reaction.
Miss Willory may not have been the most pretentious and mean-spirited young woman of his acquaintance, but she was a contender. And it didn’t help matters that she was so often surrounded by Miss Fanny Stills and Miss Charlotte Sullivan, her greatest admirers and mimics. And Miss Rebecca Heins…well, Miss Heins seemed a sweet creature, actually, but the group as a whole was a disquieting sight to behold.
“These are the ladies you spoke of?” Mirabelle asked, still watching the group.
“They are.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “You didn’t think of this outing, did you?”
“Oh, I’ve had a great many thoughts regarding this outing,” he assured her. “None of which I should voice in mixed company.”
There was a pause before she said, “Your mother made you do this.”
“Yes.” He made himself smile as the giggling group drew closer. “Yes, she did.”
Mirabelle rose from the bench and cast a longing glance at the house. “Do you know, I think I may have forgotten to—”
“If you leave now,” Whit whispered quickly as he stood beside her, “they’ll think they ran you off, and crow over the accomplishment for days.”
“I…Damn.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and managed a strained expression he assumed was meant to be a kind of smile.
It took considerable restraint for Whit to hold in his sigh of relief. Mirabelle would be staying. He’d rather thought she would…at least, he’d certainly hoped. Very well, he had prayed to every god known to man that she wouldn’t leave him alone to face this group on his own.
Unmarried women of the ton made him distinctly uneasy. Title-hungry and blatantly conniving young women with ambitious mamas flatly terrified him. And if Miss Willory didn’t qualify as such as creature, he rather thought no one would.
She ought to be beautiful, he thought as Miss Willory and her band stopped before them. She had all the hallmarks of beauty—the pale hair and eyes, the ivory skin, the delicate features. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her fashionable figure perfectly turned out.
But he didn’t find her beautiful. He didn’t even find her pretty. He just found her irritating.
“Here we are, Lord Thurston,” she chirped gaily. “I do hope we didn’t keep you waiting, but poor Miss Heins, we just couldn’t seem to set her bonnet straight. We quite gave up on the matter.”