She caught a brief glimpse of light brown hair and blue eyes before Whit’s hand lashed out to grasp the vase a moment before it connected with his head.
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Whit.” She spoke in what she thought might have been a whisper, but it was a bit difficult to say, really, with her blood rushing in her ears.
Smiling grimly, he released the vase and turned to close the door. “Scared you a bit, did I?”
“I knew it was you,” she sniffed, setting down her impromptu weapon.
“Then why the vase?”
“As I said,” she drawled, “I knew it was you.”
“Arrogant little thing for one snooping about in the middle of the night.”
“No more than you. I thought you were drunk.”
He walked to the desk chair and settled himself comfortably, as if, she thought with annoyance, he was in the habit of breaking into other men’s studies and making himself at home.
“You thought wrong,” he informed her.
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Well if you must be here, make an attempt at being useful, for once, and search the desk drawers.”
“Already done.”
“I…you are drunk.”
“Not in the least. I’m just a good deal faster than you. I searched the room as soon as the others took themselves off to bed. That was well over an hour ago.” He leaned back in the chair and gave her a patronizing smile, one that made her fingers itch to pick the vase back up. “You’ll need to be a bit quicker, imp, if you want to participate in this little game.”
“This isn’t a game.” Suspicious, she narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you doing here, if you’ve already gone over the study?”
“Looking for you. I went to your room. You weren’t there.”
“How do I know you aren’t trying to trick me into leaving? Maybe this is no more than a ruse to—”
“Bottom drawer on the right holds a half bottle of port, two tattered handkerchiefs, a loaded dueling pistol, and a stack of dusty stationery.”
She scowled, hesitated, then stalked over to pull open the drawer. The contents were exactly as he described them.
“Now then,” he said, making a point to study his nails. “I believe you owe me an apology.”
The vase, she thought, might be out of reach, but the bottle of port was temptingly handy.
“That won’t be necessary, either,” he said and reached over to slide the drawer closed.
She scowled at him and rose. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me whether you found anything in your search.”
“You have my word I’ll inform you of anything of note that I find, but as it happens, there was nothing in here.”
“Of course there wasn’t. There isn’t going to be anything anywhere. Why don’t you give up on this—”
“I didn’t search you out to discuss, yet again, the probability of your uncle’s guilt.”
She opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but thought better of it. His voice had been clipped, and though his posture remained casual, she could see the tension in his muscles. And there was that telltale clenching of his jaw.
“You’re angry with me,” she said and resisted the urge to fiddle with the waist of her dress. “I wasn’t really aware that it was you when I swung the vase, Whit. And I wouldn’t have hit you with the bottle. I’m not a murderess, I’m just…occasionally tempted.”
“This has nothing to do with the vase or the bottle. But since you asked, yes, I am angry with you. I have, in fact, never been angrier with you in my life.”
She considered that, and him, for a moment before coming to a decision. “I don’t care.”
She headed for the door, but he was out of the chair and grasping her elbow before she could escape.
“You’ll answer one question—” he began.
She pulled at her arm. “I’m not one of your servants to be ordered about, nor a member of your family inclined to humor your arrogance. Let me go.”
“Not until we’ve settled this.” He leaned down in an obvious attempt to intimidate. “Sit down. Now.”
He’d taken that tact in the past, more than once, and Mirabelle could only assume it was an instinctual sort of behavior, because she couldn’t remember a single time it had worked for him. She couldn’t remember a single time it hadn’t backfired spectacularly, actually. And since she’d always had affection for tradition, she gave in to the urge to respond in the way she always had—with claws.
She smiled at him, a sweet, slow spread of her lips.