It was difficult to argue with the truth, so she made an attempt to argue around it. “I am also your elder and a guest—”
“An ape leader, is what you are,” Victor returned with a tight smile and a jeering voice. “My mother says you’re too plain and poor to ever catch a husband.”
And with that, her patience was gone. She leaned down until they were nose to nose and gifted him with her most intimidating glare—an expression she had usually reserved for the occasions when she met with pompous adults, and for Whit in general.
“I need neither beauty nor coin to turn you over my knee. Some pleasures can be had for free.”
His face turned a shade of red that, had she cared one wit for his health at the moment, might have been alarming. “You wouldn’t.”
“Care to place a wager? I could use the funds, you know.”
“I’m thirteen! You can’t—”
“Can and will.” She sized him up. “Or I’ll fetch someone else to see to the job. That would be a trifle embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it?”
He pressed his lips together and said nothing.
She straightened. “Right. Shall I send the Duke of Rockeforte here, then?” she asked calmly, and watched his eyes widen at the reminder that she wasn’t wholly unconnected.
“Or shall I send him to your mother’s room?”
“I’m sorry,” he snapped at Isabelle.
“And?” Mirabelle prompted.
“I’m sorry,” he ground out in her general direction.
“Apology accepted. Now—”
“But not nearly as sorry as you’ll be,” he hissed, and bolted down the hall.
Mirabelle watched him disappear around a corner. “Atrocious little monster,” she grumbled. “Spendthrift father should pay for a few manners.”
“What’s this?” a new voice asked. “And whose father is a spendthrift?”
She turned to find Whit striding toward her from the opposite end of the hall. Her heart made an extra beat, just at the sight of him.
“To hear the young men tell it, whose father isn’t?” she laughed when he reached her, hoping to cover her sudden nerves with humor.
“He called her names,” a soft voice said. “He’s very naughty.”
Mirabelle turned her head to discover Isabelle still standing in the corner. She’d forgotten the child was there.
“Who called her—?” Whit began.
“Isabelle,” Mirabelle interrupted. “Why don’t you take Caro to the nursery for a nap?”
The girl’s face turned mulish in an instant. “I don’t need a nap.”
“Certainly not,” Mirabelle was quick to agree. “But your Caro looks to be a very young infant, and they tire easily, particularly after a great deal of fuss.”
“They do?”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, all right then.”
Mirabelle watched the little girl scamper down the hall cradling and murmuring to her doll. “If only they were all like her,” she sighed.
“Well behaved?” Whit asked.
“Female.”
“Ah.” He cocked his head at her. “Are you going to answer my questions?”
“It was nothing,” she assured him. “Just a minor disagreement with a young tyrant—a child,” she hastened to add when his face darkened.
“I could ask Isabelle.”
“I know,” she replied with a nod. “But I’m asking you to let me deal with this as I see fit.”
“I’ll allow it,” he decided after a moment. “For now. But you’ll inform me if it becomes anything more substantial than a minor disagreement.”
It was a testament to how tired she was and how far they’d come in their truce that she didn’t take offense at his high-handedness. At least, not so much that she couldn’t see past it to the underlying concern, and what it cost him to make the concession.
“I’ll inform you,” she agreed.
“Good. Do you need help getting to…where were you headed?”
“To dinner, but…” She blew out a breath and swallowed her pride. “Would it be a bother to have something brought to my room, instead? I’ll admit, I feel a trifle worn.”
He reached over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, the light brush of fingertips leaving a trail of warmth against her cheek. “I’ll see to it.”
She watched him as he turned and left the way he’d come.
Wherever was this truce with Whit headed, she wondered, and turning her own steps back toward her room, decided she would figure it out tomorrow.
For most young women, the sight of a large man crawling through one’s bedroom window in the dead of night might constitute a serious cause for alarm. For the occupant of this particular bedroom, however, the intrusion was not only expected, but welcome.
“What happened?” she demanded as the man slipped agilely from the sill. “You were gone for ages.”
“Slight change of plans. I had to hide the package in the bedroom rather than the study.”
“What ever for?” she asked, rising from a chair.