“Didn’t she?” Kate agreed.
Whit finished his drink. Just a dress? Just a dress! The garment in question was a concoction of pale blue silk that flattered Mirabelle to perfection. The cut hugged her subtle curves faultlessly—and the color made her skin look like fresh cream and her dark eyes shine brighter than he had ever seen them.
And when a man begins thinking a woman’s dark eyes could shine brightly, he was well and truly sunk.
Bloody hell.
He glanced down at his empty glass, wondered if he could have another drink so early in the evening without thinking less of himself, then glanced up again to see a young man leaning over Mirabelle’s hand.
He handed the glass to Kate without looking, who took it with a smug smile he was too preoccupied to see. He’d made several strides across the floor before a hand reached out to grip his arm.
“Do you intend to dance alone?” Alex inquired.
Whit stopped and reluctantly turned his gaze from Mirabelle. “What are you talking about?”
Alex dropped his arm and jerked his head at the dance floor. “The dancers are lining up. It’d look a bit strange for you to be up there by yourself. What were you planning to do?”
Temper had him answering before reason could get a thought in edgewise. “She doesn’t need to be dancing with the likes of him.”
“Who?” Alex asked. “And who?”
“Mirabelle and…” He actually had to look to remind himself who he’d seen kissing her hand. “Mr. Kittlesby.”
“Why not? Kittlesby’s a good sort.”
He was, actually, but that wasn’t the point. The point was…the point was…“She shouldn’t be up there…wearing that sort of gown.”
Alex glanced over. “Seems a perfectly normal sort of gown to me. I think she looks rather nice.”
“Well stop thinking on it. You’re a married man.”
“Didn’t say I was thinking of taking the dress off her. But now that you mention it—” When Whit turned on him, blood in his eyes, Alex laughed and held up a hand in peace. “I’m only having a bit of fun with you. I am a married man and very much in love with my wife. Besides that, I see no great difference in her to night other than a pretty dress.”
“Then you’re a blind man.”
“Or perhaps I’ve seen all along what you have not.”
Because he was beginning to suspect there was some truth to that, and didn’t care in the least for admitting to it, Whit offered only a grunt in response.
“It’s not as if every man in the room is suddenly vying for her attention, Whit,” Alex pointed out, and then added in a mutter, “and believe me, that can happen.”
“One is enough.”
“I suppose it is,” Alex agreed and gave him a bolstering pat on the back. “I’ve left my wife alone long enough. Try not to do anything rash while I’m away.”
Whit barely noticed his friend’s departure. While the dance continued, he worked on clearing his head. What had he planned on doing, whisking Mirabelle away in front of everyone? That was the action of an impulsive man, and by God, he was not an impulsive man. He was a reasonable, sensible, respected peer of the realm. He would not make a spectacle of himself.
She’d danced with others before, he reminded himself. She was smart and witty and friendly, and during the London Season, when men were pressed by their mothers into dancing with one of the less fashionable girls, she was often their first choice. It had never bothered him in the past.
But then, she hadn’t been his in the past.
And she bloody well was now.
He wasn’t certain what that meant yet, but he was damn certain he wasn’t going to let someone else fawn over her while he sorted it out.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, and waited for the dance to end. The moment it did, he was at Mirabelle’s side. “Won’t you take a stroll about the room with me, Miss Browning?”
She looked at him, baffled, which was no wonder as he hadn’t waited for Mr. Kittlesby to return her to her chair.
“Oh, ah.” Her eyes darted to Mr. Kittlesby and back again. “Er…yes. That is, it’d be my pleasure. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Mr. Kittlesby?”
“Of course,” the young man answered in a tight voice.
He needn’t have bothered, as Whit had already pulled Mirabelle off into the crowd. Keeping a firm grip on her elbow, he maneuvered her through the press of people and out onto the terrace. It wasn’t nearly as packed as the ballroom, but it was a near thing.
“Blast.”
“Is something wrong, Whit?”
“I want a moment of your time,” he responded, sweeping his gaze from one end of the terrace to the other.
“Well, you’ve taken it. Rudely, I might add.”
He ignored her censure and led her to the far end where the light was dimmer.
“You’ve made a habit recently of grabbing my arm,” she commented.
“Perhaps I simply like touching you.”