“Sadly, I do lack that particular skill.”
“Well, you’ve the look of a woman who’ll bear strong sons, and that’s nothing to thumb your nose at. Nothing at all.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes. “Why aren’t you married yet? Must be nearing twenty by now.”
She was stunned into silence for a moment before breaking into laughter.
“Bless you, Uncle Cunningham.”
She left him to discover if a certain blonde maid wouldn’t mind a bit of harmless ogling.
As it happened, the maid in question was only too delighted at the chance to be ogled, and Mirabelle wondered if the pert young woman would be ending the evening a bauble or a few coins wealthier. Not her concern, she told herself, and hardly the most scandalous thing to have happened at a house party—particularly when said party was hosted by her uncle. She put it aside and focused on digging up a few maids and footmen to clean and air out a room for their last-minute guest, Lord Thurston.
They finished just in time. She was coming down the steps, her arms full of the old linens, and a grumbling maid trailing behind her, when a knock sounded at the front door. Since the maid didn’t offer to answer the summons, Mirabelle handed over her burden and instructions to see the linens laundered—which she rather doubted would happen—and saw to the door herself.
Though she’d spent the whole of the morning preparing for his arrival, seeing Whit standing on the steps of her uncle’s home made her heart jump painfully. Feeling near to panic, she envisioned slamming the door and locking it behind her. If she’d thought for a moment that such an act might induce him to leave, she would have done it without compunction. But he’d only find another way in. Pity Christian had already removed the dog. That might have at least slowed him down.
Steeling herself for what was to come, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.“Whittaker.”
He frowned at her. “Why are you opening the door?”
“Because I was here. Of course, if I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
She wanted to be angry. She was angry, but over and beyond that she was terribly, terribly afraid. Because nothing covers fear quite so well as anger, she focused on that.
She held the door open and stepped aside. “Are you coming in or not?”
He stayed where he was, his blue eyes searching. “Is that the way it’s to be, then?”
“If you insist of going through with your ridiculous mission.”
Say no. Please, please, please say you’ve changed your mind.
“Very well.” He stepped around her. “Then play the proper hostess, won’t you, darling, and have someone see to my bags?”
She closed the door behind him. “It’d be my pleasure. I know just the hole—very deep, very muddy.”
“Who is it, girl?” The baron’s booming voice echoed down the hall from his study.
She couldn’t help but wince at his appalling manners, but she absolutely refused to acknowledge Whit’s questioning expression. Denial was one of the last tactics available to her, and she’d every intention of putting it to good use.
“It’s Lord Thurston, Uncle!”
“You bring a fart catcher, Thurston?”
Whit’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“He means a valet,” she muttered and felt the heat of embarrassment flood her cheeks. It might be mortifying, she reminded herself, but it wasn’t catastrophic. Yet.
“Yes, I know what he means.” Whit turned toward Eppersly’s voice. “As it happens, I come unattended!”
“Good! No room!”
“I’m sure what ever arrangements can be made will be more than adequate.”
“Good!” There was a brief flash of thinning brown hair in the doorway. “Show him up, girl! What’s the matter with you?”
“Is he always so charming?” Whit inquired when her uncle’s head had once again disappeared into the study.
“You can hardly blame him, sneaking your way in as you have.” It needled, tremendously, to speak in defense of her uncle, but it was easier than apologizing for him.
“He could have said no,” Whit pointed out. “I sent an acceptance last night, and the estates aren’t more than five minutes’ ride from each other.”
She didn’t have a single believable rebuttal to that statement, so she ignored it instead and headed up the stairs. “You can carry your own luggage or you can wait for it. The staff is busy with other things at the moment.”
He hefted his bag and caught up with her in the middle of the staircase. “Is the house short of staff, then?”
“Ask my uncle,” she suggested, knowing full well he couldn’t do so without insulting the baron.