“If I’d been interested in answering your questions, I would have done so in the study. Besides, you seem to have your own ideas of what I might be doing in the stable…with Christian.”
“I didn’t inquire after your friendship with Christian with the intent to insult you,” he said. “I asked with the hope that you would tell me he was someone you trusted. I should like to know you’ve had someone here you could rely on. It was nothing more than that, I promise.”
“Oh. Well.” She shifted her seat in the hay, unaccountably annoyed with his explanation. She wasn’t in the mood just now to argue with him, but she was certainly in the mood to be angry with him. And being angry with him now, allowed for the possibility of an argument later.
“I won’t ask for you to accept my apology as of yet,” Whit continued, “as I suspect I’ll just be asking for it again when we’re finished here. There are things I need to know, Mirabelle.”
“Whit—”
He reached out to grip her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Please. Haven’t we come far enough in the last week for you to talk to me?”
Her hand fisted under his, not in anger, but in a kind of fearful agitation. She knew what he wanted to ask. She’d rather let it alone, to pretend they were sitting in the hayloft of a stable somewhere else, for some other reason. She didn’t think the desire foolish, she thought it completely understandable…and unrealistic.
As much as she might wish otherwise—and she did, badly—avoidance and denial would no longer work. Better to answer his question—or questions as she rather thought would prove to be the case—than to have him draw his own conclusions. And better to have the chance to skew those answers when necessary.
She let go of his hand, pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Ask your question, then.”
He paused a moment before speaking. “I want to know why you never saw fit to mention the fact that your uncle is unkind to you.”
“My uncle is unkind to near everyone,” she evaded.
“He’s friendly enough with his guests.”
“They’re men,” she responded with what she hoped would pass for indifference. “Men who live for nothing more than their next kill and the next bottle of spirits. No one else can stand them, so they pack together, do as they please, and agree to keep it amongst themselves.”
“A sort of honor among thieves?”
“Among rats,” she decided. “And I lack a tail.”
That surprised a brief laugh out of him. “Are you always the only woman in attendance?”
“No. Some of the guests have been known to bring…other guests.”
“I see. And where is your chaperone?”
“This is my uncle’s home. A chaperone isn’t necessary to preserve my reputation.”
“Your reputation is the least of my concerns at the moment.”
“At every moment if the current situation is any indication.”
He ignored that statement. “Are they always as…difficult, as they were to night?”
“No.” Sometimes it was much worse. “You’re asking a great many questions, Whit.”
“I want a great many answers,” he replied. “But right now, what I want most is for you to return to Haldon.”
The words were like a soothing balm on a burn, and she closed her eyes as a rush of relief and longing swept through her.
She couldn’t return yet, not if she wanted her inheritance, but that Whit should offer after today…It was her greatest fear put to rest.
Almost.
He’d witnessed her uncle behaving as the obnoxious sot that he was, but Whit hadn’t yet seen the absolute swine her uncle could be. And what would happen when he did? She’d be right back where she’d started—terrified, ashamed, wondering.
“Mirabelle?”
She opened her eyes to find him watching her with quiet concern.
It wasn’t fair, she thought, to have kept her uncle’s behavior a secret from those who could suffer from it—those who had shown her so much kindness.
Better that he should know. Better that she get the whole of it over, once and for all.
She searched for the right words and realized there were none that would suit as well as the blunt truth.
“My uncle is horrible,” she admitted. When he failed to respond, she took a deep breath and pressed on. “I’m not speaking in hyperbole, Whit. At his worst, which you’ve not yet seen, he’s truly awful. Five minutes in any respectable drawing room in London and he’d ruin the family name forever.”
“I imagine he would.”
“The family name,” she reiterated. Honestly, how could he not catch on? “My name.”
“Are you concerned he might take a sudden interest in traveling to London?”
“What? No.” She rubbed the palms of her hands against her legs. “I’m trying to point out that he’s a liability, which makes me one as well. I should have told you sooner, I know, but—”