As it happened, no one asked outright how Whit came to escort Mirabelle into the parlor. There was quite a bit of conspicuous whispering among the most gossip-minded partygoers, but none of them were interested in the truth of the matter so much as discussing the possibilities.
The what-ifs and do-you-thinks lasted through dinner, but Mirabelle and Whit barely noticed. They were seated too far apart to have a discussion of their own, but from time to time (with rarely more than ten seconds between each time) they caught each other’s eyes across the table, and shared a smile.
Thirteen
Mirabelle woke the next morning to the discovery that her ankle had healed well enough to put away the cane. It was still swollen and tender, and protested loudly if she twisted it the wrong way, but with a little care, she was able to move about without so much as a discernible limp.
She celebrated the improvement with a morning walk in the gardens before going in for breakfast.
She loved the gardens best in the spring. They weren’t at their peak yet. Lady Thurston preferred the rich colors of fall blooms over the soft, bright shades of spring. But for Mirabelle, there was nothing so beautiful as the first signs of life. She could, and sometimes did, spend hours walking the paths, finding and delighting in those first green shoots and buds struggling through the soil or the remains of last year’s growth.
It was comforting in a way, to know the plants had been there all along, waiting out the cold, dark winter until the sun warmed the ground again, giving them the opportunity to grow and bloom.
She thought of her five-thousand-pound inheritance. Less than two years, and winter would be over for her, as well. A woman could do a great deal of growing and blooming with five thousand pounds at her disposal.
“Staring at the larkspur won’t make it grow any faster,” Whit said from behind her.
She turned to find him not five feet away. “I hadn’t realized you were standing there.”
“I’m not surprised, you seemed lost in your thoughts.”
“I was,” she admitted before gesturing at the plant she’d been staring at without realizing it. “You know their names, then?”
“Only so far as my mother used to chastise Alex and I for playing in them. The roses, mostly, as there’s something about thorny bushes that draws small boys like moths to flame. Nearly as irresistible as mud.”
“I wonder why that is?” She laughed.
“One of the great mysteries of life.” He tilted his head at her. “You look a picture, you know, standing in the garden with the sunlight in your hair.”
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks growing hot. Would he kiss her again, she wondered, and immediately wished she hadn’t, since it only served to make her cheeks grow hotter. “Um…thank you.”
Straightening, clearly enjoying himself, he gripped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Not accustomed to compliments in general, or just not from me?”
Not accustomed to wondering if I’ll be kissed, she thought, but what she said was, “Both, I suppose.”
He took a step closer to her. “An unforgivable oversight.”
Perhaps he would kiss her, and because she found it impossible to make room for any thought beyond that, she once again said, “Oh. Er…thank you?”
He chuckled softly and took another step. “You’re welcome. Won’t you take a step forward, imp? I wouldn’t mind kissing you, but I’d rather we kiss each other again.”
“Oh…er—”
“Don’t thank me.”
“What? No, of course not. Um…” She dragged her foot one miniscule inch forward, then brought the other up to match.
Whit glanced down at her feet and smiled. “It’s a start, I suppose. But I’ve taken two, you’ll recall.”
“Two. Right.” She begin to scoot her foot forward again, then stopped. “This is absurd.”
“I’ll say. If your sole doesn’t leave the ground this time, I’m not counting it.”
She choked back a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” she said suddenly.
His expression remained somewhere between bland and faintly amused. “Don’t you? I’d have thought it obvious. Didn’t I just mention kissing?”
“No. I mean, yes, you did.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “But why do you want to kiss me?”
“We’re going to kiss each other.”
“Yes, and I know why I want to—”
“Do tell.”
She ignored that. “But why do you? Up until a few days ago, you hated me.”
He recoiled a bit at the accusation. “That’s something of an overstatement, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “You sometimes looked physically ill when your mother made you dance with me.”
“That wasn’t hate,” he argued. “That was fear.”
“I’m in earnest.”
“So am I. You can be quite fierce, you know.”
She bit her lip, uncertain of what to say.
Whit studied her face. “I’ve never hated you, Mirabelle. There were times I’ve badly wanted to muzzle you, but I’ve never hated you.” He swallowed hard. “Did you hate me?”