After a few minutes on that horse, Mirabelle was willing to reconsider Whit’s offer. She was uncomfortable riding. No matter how slowly and carefully Whit led the mare, her sore ankle bounced painfully. And though she may have liked the distraction of conversation, she was forced to give up all attempts at it in favor of gritting her teeth.
By the time they reached the house, she was too exhausted to object when Whit scooped her off the mare’s back and carried her inside. One of the dozen or so servants who—along with Lady Thurston—had been waiting for them could have managed the job, but it seemed a waste of energy to point it out.
“Which of the guest rooms are empty?” Whit asked the group at large.
“This way.” Lady Thurston led them down the hall, calmly giving instructions as she went. “We’ll need some of your special tea, Mrs. Hanson, and some extra wood for the fire, Lizzy. If you’d be so kind to see if my niece and daughter have returned from their ride, Hilcox? And I believe the Duke and Duchess of Rockeforte can be roused. The man can’t make her sleep forever.”
Mirabelle managed a half smile for Whit. “Aren’t you going to take me to my room?”
Her room, they both knew, was located in the family wing at the other end of the house—on the second floor.
“I’ll take you after the physician—”
“I really don’t need a doctor, Whit,” she cut in. “And I don’t need to be brought to my room. I was only jesting.”
“Needed or not, jesting or not, you’ll have both,” he informed her as they crossed the threshold into the guest room.
She didn’t argue with him. She wasn’t given the opportunity. No sooner had he laid her gently on the bed than he was being forcefully pushed out the door again by his mother, Mrs. Hanson, and several hovering maids.
“Thank you, my lord. I believe we can handle things quite well from here.”
“I’m certain you can, Mrs. Hanson, but—”
“Tisn’t proper for you to be about while we look at her injuries, your lordship.”
“I’ve already seen them, Lizzy. I want a physician—”
“It’s only a sprained ankle.”
“Nonetheless—”
“Out!” This last came from Lady Thurston, and she punctuated the command with a quick nudge that propelled him the last inch out the door.
Thusly banished, and none too happy about it, Whit stood in the hallway and scowled at the door for a moment before turning away.
He wasn’t going to pace outside the room, waiting for some scrap of news like a lovesick pup. He was going to his study, where he could pour himself a very large brandy.
Possibly two very large brandies.
Perhaps he’d omit the pouring altogether and drink straight from the bottle. What ever it took to erase the memory of Mirabelle bleeding at the bottom of a steep hill.
Remembering now, his heart contracted painfully in his chest, an echo of the panic he’d felt when he’d seen her disappear from the path. The relief upon finding her conscious and relatively whole at the bottom had been near staggering. As had the desire to gather her in and rock and pet and stroke until the lines of pain in her face were soothed away.
It was, he decided now, a completely natural reaction to the sight of a woman in danger and discomfort. And since he’d pushed the panic away and handled the situation satisfactorily, he saw no reason to dwell on the matter.
It wasn’t that he was embarrassed, exactly, he was simply a good deal more embarrassed by what had come after—when the intial fear for her well-being had passed and he’d picked her up. She’d been soft and warm and rumpled against his chest, and she’d had her arms twined around his neck. She’d smelled of earth and roses.
And for the third time in two days, he had found himself reacting to Mirabelle as a man reacts to a woman. Not a little girl, not an aggravating house guest, and not an opponent, but a woman.
Suddenly, he’d wanted to touch for reasons other than to comfort, to hear her moan and whimper in something other than distress. Or, perhaps more honestly, in a very different sort of distress.
He’d seen himself laying her back down on the soft earth, stripping away her torn gown, and letting his hands take over. He’d imagined tasting that intriguing beauty mark above her lip, then working his way over to her ear, down her neck and lower. Then lower still.
He’d wondered if he might find that blue satin somewhere.
When she’d twisted in his arms, his eyes had dropped to where his coat covered her, and the sight of it aroused a sense of possession in him…and a considerable amount of self-recrimination.
She was injured, for God’s sake. And he was having erotic fantasies of taking her in the dirt. He had more control than that.
He certainly had more finesse.
Suffering now from the unfortunate combination of worry and lust, he pushed through the study and headed directly to the sideboard.
“A bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”