“A moment.” He held his hand up, his brow furrowed. “You consider yourself a liability.”
“Of a sort, yes. You’ve worked so hard to secure your family’s place in society and an association with me could conceivably damage the progress you’ve made. I know I should have said something before this, but I was…afraid…”
“Afraid you would no longer be welcome at Haldon,” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“I see. I must have told you—” He grimaced and swore. “Hell, dozens of times that I didn’t care for your presence at Haldon. Why would this be any different?”
“You said I was unwelcome, not that I wasn’t allowed. You poked fun, but never said I wasn’t to come.”
“And you would have respected my decision in that regard?”
“I’d have adhered to it,” she equivocated. “It’s your house, your family. I know I should have said something sooner, but—”
“Yes, you should have.”
Her stomach, already in knots, fell to her toes. “I know. I’m very sorry. It wasn’t right to keep it from you. It’s only that I love your family and Haldon, and—”
She broke off when took her chin in his fingers. “You should have, Mirabelle, because I could have long ago put your fears to rest on the matter. Look at me.” He gently tugged her chin up until she met his eyes. “You’re not responsible for his sins.”
Hope bloomed cautiously. “Others would disagree.”
And wasn’t that the point? What others thought?
“Others would be wrong.” He let his fingers spread to cup her cheek. “I value, and cultivate, my family’s good standing in the ton. But not to the detriment of those I care for. Haldon will never be closed to you because of your uncle. I give you my word.”
She closed her eyes again—this time to hold back the tears she felt gathering.
Whit never broke his word.
The weight of the fear she’d been carrying for so long dropped away and she suddenly felt light, almost weightless. And exceedingly tired.
She opened her eyes when his hand withdrew from her cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She noticed his jaw tense at her words, but was in too much of a happy stupor to think on his odd reaction. “I suppose you should be getting back to the house,” she whispered.
“In a while. Why don’t you lie down for a bit?”
“I’m not tired just yet,” she lied. She was more than ready to fall asleep sitting up, but she wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of sleeping while he just sat there. Heavens, who would be? She was even less comfortable with the idea of him leaving. The stable loft seemed so much more pleasant, warmer, safer for having him in it.
“You needn’t sleep,” Whit said. “Just lie down.”
“While you sit there and stare at me?”
“Would it help if I were to lie down beside you and stare?”
“Is the staring really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so. You’re irresistibly sweet to look at when you’re sleepy.”
“I’m not sleepy,” she objected but maneuvered herself to lie down on the blankets. It felt wonderful, absolutely sublime to lay her head down, but she wasn’t ready yet to fall asleep.
“Whit?”
“Hmm?”
“I can’t go back to Haldon right now. It would compromise your mission if your family were to play a role in defying my uncle’s wishes. The baron wants me here—or needs me here, anyway.”
“Your parents’ will,” Whit murmured. “Did they know the sort of man he was when they had it drawn up?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve very little memory of them. They preferred adult company.”
“I see.”
“I recall my nanny very well, though,” she said with a fond smile and a yawn. “Miss McClelland. She was very kind to me. She had the most beautiful bright red hair, and I could never understand why she was always about hiding it under a cap.” She snuggled deeper into the hay. “I used to make excuses—transparent ones if memory serves—to go to her room in the evenings so I could watch her brush it out. She’d tell me stories while I sat on her bed.”
“I’m glad you have that memory.” He brushed a hand down her own hair. “Do you know what happened to her?”
“I searched her out once I was old enough to do so. She took a position with a nice family in Scotland, then retired when the children grew into adults. I considered attempting to begin a correspondence with her but…”
“But what?” he prompted.
“Well, it was near to twenty years ago and who knows how many children she had reared before me. She wouldn’t remember who I am, like as not.”
“I doubt that. A woman isn’t likely to forget a child she cared enough about to tell bedtime stories.”
“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes for moment. Just for a moment, she told herself. “I wonder if she ever—”
“Mirabelle?”
“Yes.”
“Go to sleep.”
She pried open blurry eyes. “Aren’t you going back inside?”