“Don’t be a brat,” he chided. “Lift your skirts.”
She raised her makeshift club another inch. “Stay away from me. I thought we’d agreed not to insult each other.”
“So we have.”
“You just called me a brat.”
“No, I advised you against behaving like one. That’s entirely different,” he informed her.
“In that case, I advise you to stick your head in—”
“If you choose not to take my advice,” he continued in a casual tone. “I’ll simply assume your foul mood is a result of your injury and leave you to heal.”
If her arm wasn’t already tiring, she would have lifted the cane a bit higher. “I’m not—”
“If you do behave, however, I’ll take it as a sign you’re feeling better. Possibly even well enough to join us on our little picnic.”
She dropped the cane with a clatter. “Do you mean it?”
“Are you going to let me inspect your ankle?”
Without so much as a hint of hesitation or embarrassment, she pulled up the hem of her skirts and stuck out her leg. “Inspect away.”
Whit stood where he was and frowned. “I’m uncertain as to whether I’m pleased or unnerved by how quickly you just did that.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t take offense. “It’s not as if I’d let just any man see my ankles, Whit.”
“That’s reassuring.” He stepped forward to kneel at her feet and press his fingers against the tender skin. It hurt, just as it had when she moved so quickly to extend it to him, but she was determined not to let on.
“But as we very nearly grew up together,” she continued after forcing her teeth to unclench, “and you’ve seen them a dozen times or more in the past—including only yesterday, I’d like to point out—I think it’s only sensible to let you take a look if need be.”
“I see.”
“And the physician, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“And Alex, if it were absolutely necessary.”
His gaze shot up to hers. “Alex doesn’t need to be looking at your bare ankles.”
“Not at the moment, of course not, but if the situation arose in which—”
“Ever,” Whit qualified and pulled down her skirts.
“Have I passed your inspection? May I go?”
“Grab your cane,” was his somewhat gruff reply.
He had a curricle ready. The spot chosen for the picnic wasn’t far, just on the other side of the lake, and the others would be making the short trip on foot. With her ankle injured, however, it would have been an arduous journey for Mirabelle. She’d have managed it, she was certain, but the curricle made everything so much simpler.
“It’ll take some time,” Whit informed her as he helped her up. “As the road veers away from the water before it cuts back again.”
“It’s perfect weather for a drive,” Mirabelle replied.
It was perfect weather to be doing anything outside.
The fresh air and sunshine did more for her than all the other medicine and rest combined. Once they were both settled and the curricle moving, she let out a long heartfelt sigh.
“This is lovely. Absolutely lovely. Thank you, Whit.”
He tossed a quick smile at her and adjusted his grip on the reins. “My pleasure.”
She very much doubted it, as her behavior so far had been decidedly less than pleasant. She didn’t mind a show of temper as a rule—hers or others—but an explanation and an apology were in order if one didn’t have a good reason for the outburst. Two days ago, she wouldn’t have troubled to offer them to Whit—she’d always felt he was reason enough for a good show of temper—but things, she was all too aware, had changed.
Still, she waited until they were a considerable distance from the house before working up the courage to turn her face in his general direction and speak.
“I should like…” She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze over his shoulder. “I should like to…to…” She cleared her throat again and had Whit frowning at her.
“Are you coming down with a cold, imp?”
“Am I…?” She blinked at him. “Oh. Oh, no. I just…” She managed, barely, to keep from clearing her throat again. “It’s only that I…”
“Because you sound as if you are.”
“No, no—”
“Have Cook fix you a pot of her special tea—the one for head colds—when we return. It does wonders with a sore throat.”
“I’m perfectly well, Whit, honestly.”