“Well, now that we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, give your apologies to Mira, Whit, and put that thing away. I’ll not have one of my guests breaking open his head.”
Mirabelle, feeling immensely pleased with Lady Thurston just then, poked her head around Whit’s shoulder.
“What if Miss Willory should care for a ride?” she inquired with an innocent expression.
Lady Thurston appeared to ponder that for a moment. “No, head wounds bleed profusely. And I’m quite fond of my carpets.”
Mirabelle laughed and watched Lady Thurston leave in a whirl of bronze skirts. “I’m waiting, Whittaker Vincent.”
Whit spun around to face her. “For what?” he snapped.
“My apology, of course.”
“Good. Keep waiting.”
She laughed and turned to leave, satisfied with the idea that he’d be glowering at her back until she was out of sight.
She jolted when his hand caught her arm and spun her back around again.
“Oh, we’re not quite finished here, imp.”
Walk away. Let it alone.
Whit knew he ought to, but even as the small voice of reason urged him to do what he knew was best, the louder, and infinitely more appealing, voice of pride insisted he seek revenge. As a soft and seductive afterthought, it suggested he might as well enjoy it.
Mirabelle wasn’t the only person at Haldon Hall laboring under a dark mood that afternoon.
Whit had spent the last three days at one of his smaller holdings, settling a dispute involving two tenant farmers, a patch of broken fence, a milk cow, an incompetent overseer and—unless he was much mistaken—a certain attractive barmaid who likely had more to do with the dispute than the fence, cow, or overseer.
He’d held his temper in check through the entire process, and again when he returned home very late last night to find his sister still up and moving about in her room, without an acceptable explanation for her nocturnal activities—again.
And he’d been remarkably restrained when he’d been awoken early by the sound of two upstairs maids arguing heatedly over a spilled tray. And when he’d gone to the stables to discover his favorite horse had come up lame. And when his second choice threw a shoe an hour into his ride, necessitating a very long walk back from the fields to the stables.
He’d been returning from that very spot, grumbling, swearing, disgusted with the knowledge that he’d missed the noon meal, and otherwise relinquishing any lingering pretense at finding the day a pleasant one, when he’d seen her in the distance.
His first reaction had been a familiar one—a pleasant quickening of the blood, the instinctive tensing of muscles, a slow and involuntary smile. A rousing argument was just what he needed.
Mirabelle was delightfully easy to bait—never able to let a comment pass and typically loathe to back down from any challenge. It was the chit’s best feature, really, and there was little he enjoyed quite so much as harassing her until her temper flared.
True, the consequences for him were sometimes unpleasant, occasionally even disastrous—witness the humiliating episode with his mother—but there was something exceedingly satisfying in watching her eyes narrow, her color heighten and then…and then the most astonishing things came out of the girl’s mouth. She never failed to amuse him, even if he was too angry—or even injured—at the time to appreciate it.
It was a bit like playing with fire, he supposed—distinctly unwise, but wholly irresistible.
He set down the dandy horse slowly. In part to give himself adequate time to consider his plan of attack, in part to settle his temper, and in part for the simple pleasure of seeing her squirm. And squirm she did, twisting her arm this way and that in a fruitless attempt to free herself from his grasp.
“Are we going to stand here all day, then?” she asked on a huff, finally giving up her struggles.
“It’s a possibility,” he informed her. “I haven’t decided.”
“You’ll be as bored as I in a moment.”
“Oh, I doubt it. I’ve all manner of interesting things to ponder.”
“Ah, he’s endeavoring to think.” She nodded in exaggerated understanding. “That would explain the delay.”
“Revenge is a weighty matter. It requires a certain deliberation.”
“It requires intelligence and a modicum of creativity.” She tapped her foot with impatience. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”
He smiled slowly and released her arm. “No need. I believe I’ve hit on just the thing.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically, but made no move to leave. “What’s it to be then? Will you pull my hair? Insult me in public? Put a reptile in my dress?”
“Your dress might well appreciate the improvement, but no, I’ve something else in mind.”
“Well, out with it. I’m all aflutter to hear your cunning scheme.”
“I don’t think so.” He gave her a menacing smile. “You’ll just have to wait.”
She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, I’ll have to wait?”