“I work, on occasion,” he told her softly, “as an agent for the War Department, of which William is the head.”
“Oh. Is he really?” She frowned in thought. “All this time, I thought he was simply a friend of the family.”
“He is a friend of the family. He just also happens to command a small army of spies.”
“Is that what you are? A spy?”
“Not exactly,” he responded, and with enough coolness that she knew he wasn’t going to elaborate any further on that topic. So she tried another.
“Is it often dangerous?”
“Not often, no. Certainly not more so than fighting a war.”
“Why do you do it? You’ve so much responsibility already.”
“I wish to give my family something they can be proud of.”
“They are proud of you,” she pointed out. “They’re immensely proud of you. You’re very nearly the perfect son, brother, and lord of the manner. Bit annoying, actually.”
“Why thank you,” he replied easily. “This is different. It’s…bigger. It’s something I can pass down to my sons—should I be blessed with them. It’s a legacy that can overcome several centuries of shame.”
“You’re ashamed of your heritage?” she asked with some surprise.
“I believe you met my father on several occasions,” he said dryly. “Though he was rarely home.”
She frowned at him. “He seemed a jovial enough man. I know he wasn’t the most responsible of men, but—”
“The rumors you’ve heard scarcely touched on his sins. He was a useless combination of dandy and rakehell with no care for anyone but himself. He wasn’t killed in a fall from his horse as is commonly believed. He died in a duel over an opera singer.”
“Oh.” Good Lord, she’d no idea. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah, well. He’s gone now and few people know the truth. Fewer still whose stories would be given more weight than my own accounting of events. Your uncle knows.”
“He does?”
“Yes, as do some of his guests. They ran in some of the same circles, you see, but as I said, no one cares to gainsay the Earl of Thurston these days. Not loud enough to cause concern, at any rate.”
But there were rumors of the truth, she knew. She remembered the whispers in the ballrooms and parlors right after the earl’s death, but like everyone else, she’d brushed them aside as petty gossip. Whit hadn’t had that luxury, she realized now. He never would.
“I am sorry, Whit.”
“As I said,” he replied taking hold of her elbow and the glass. “It’s over and done.”
He pulled her arm gently and her hand slid free of the jar.
“Oh.” She flexed her fingers experimentally.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, rubbing her wrist with the pad of his thumb.
“No.” It felt the very opposite. His touch sent her nerves to humming. “It feels…fine.”
“Just fine?” he asked and bent his head to press his lips against the tender skin on the inside of her arm just below her elbow.
“Er…nice. It feels very nice.”
“Only nice?”
“Well, it is just my arm.”
“I see.”
He rose to his knees, slid his hand around to the nape of her neck, and brought his lips to hers.
There was the softness again, the gentleness, and the need. She scooted to the edge of the trunk and after a moment’s hesitation, let her hands slide up to his shoulders. It was all still so new to her. The kissing, the touching, the way both made her feel wanton and unsure at the same time. She wasn’t at all certain what she should do, or shouldn’t do. But she was sure she wanted to continue doing it as long as humanly possible.
“You’ve the sweetest mouth,” he murmured against her lips, and she felt her heart skip an extra beat in her chest. “I told myself once it would taste bitter.”
She pulled back. “Bitter?”
He smiled at her. “It shouldn’t come as a shock that I was angry with you at the time.”
“Angry with…you’d thought of kissing me before? Before all this?”
“Once, when I was a younger man.” His grin broadened as he remembered. “We were yelling at each other over something or other, and I had the sudden notion of shutting you up with a kiss. I kept from doing so by convincing myself that you’d taste bitter.”
“You’d thought of kissing me,” she repeated with a slightly dreamy smile.
“I wasn’t yet twenty. I thought of kissing near to everyone in a skirt who wasn’t a blood relation…. Thought about it quite a lot, if memory serves.”
She brought her foot forward to press down on his own until he winced around the smile. He tugged gently on her hair.
“Jealous, are you, darling?”
She rolled her eyes at him, which wasn’t a particularly convincing denial, but worked well enough to have him standing up with a laugh and opening the paper she’d gone through so much trouble to retrieve from the jar.
“What is it, then?” she asked, prepared to be told she’d made a fool of herself over an old gambling chit or invitation to dinner. But when his face tightened, she stood and edged forward, impatient and nervous. Had she actually found something?