She loved Whit.
Of course she loved Whit. She wouldn’t have even considered doing…allowing…enjoying…Well, she just wouldn’t have considered it, that’s all. Except that she loved him.
Shouldn’t she have realized before now? Shouldn’t there have been thunder and lightning and a great deal of music in her head at the very moment she fell in love? Kate’s books always seemed to indicate that was how it happened.
She scowled at nothing in particular and tried to remember if she’d recently overlooked an internal storm and symphony. None came to mind.
She didn’t feel any different toward him now than she had the day before, which was exactly how she had felt the week before, which was exactly how…how she had always felt.
Because she had always loved him.
That realization didn’t arrive with music either, but it did feel as if it came weighted. She rubbed absently at the sudden tightness in her chest. All this time she’d loved him. While they’d fought and snarled and otherwise made themselves generally unpleasant to one another, she’d loved him.
Had he known? She wondered in a sudden panic. Should she tell him? Did he love her in return?
No, no, and—she wasn’t certain, but all signs indicated—maybe.
He couldn’t possibly have known, as she hadn’t even been aware of it herself. She couldn’t possibly tell him, as she had no idea how he felt. And she couldn’t possibly know how he felt, as he’d never told her more than that he found her beautiful.
Remembering, she blushed, and decided that much would have to do for now. She’d keep her newfound love to herself. Perhaps, in time, he’d give her some hint, some reason to hope for more. But for today, she’d accept their mutual care and desire and be grateful for it.
Resolute, she finished dressing and left her room with the intention of going to the kitchen.
She’d prepare breakfast this morning. It wasn’t an effort to charm Whit, she assured herself as she reached the bottom landing of the stairs. He’d cooked for her yesterday and it was only fair that she take a turn at the stove. Even if she was a little unclear on how it worked. How difficult could it be, really? A little wood, a small fire, close the door—
“Good morning, my dear.”
Mirabelle jolted at the greeting and at the hard grip that closed around her forearm. She had to repress a shudder as Mr. Hartsinger turned her to face him. He’d always made her uncomfortable. In part, she was certain, because he was the only one of her uncle’s friends she wasn’t entirely certain she could outrun.
He was tall and rail thin with greasy black hair that fell past his ears in messy clumps so that he reminded her of a very old mop. He was an odd addition to her uncle’s gathering, and a relatively recent one, this being only the third time he’d come. He didn’t claim to be a great sportsman like the others, and while he partook of the wine and spirits with as much enthusiasm as the rest of the group, he often remained quiet and slightly apart during the festivities.
She might have liked him a bit more for it, but there was something about him that made her extremely uneasy. His bony fingers gripped too hard and his small dark eyes seemed to be always laughing with a dark and bitter humor.
“Mr. Hartsinger.” She gave a mental sigh of relief when his hand released from her arm. “You’re up rather early.”
“I’ve a few things to see to before I leave this evening. I must cut my stay short, I’m afraid. My responsibilities at St. Brigit’s beckon.”
“Oh, well…” Thank heavens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not to worry, my dear. We’ll see each other again.”
“Yes, of course, my uncle is loyal in his invitations. We’ll meet again in the fall, I’m sure.” She wasn’t entirely sure it was possible for someone to actually be loyal in invitations, but the diplomatic, if possibly nonsensical, reply came easier than another lie.
He certainly didn’t seem to mind it. He laughed, a high-pitched kind of whinny that made her skin crawl. “Perhaps not then, my dear, as work keeps me occupied, but soon enough, soon enough.”
“Er…yes.” She couldn’t think of a single way to respond to that, as any future meeting with him would be more than soon enough for her.
“You’ve a lovely way about you,” he murmured and to her absolute disgust, reached out to trail a bony finger down her cheek.
She jerked back. “Mr. Hartsinger, you forget yourself.”
“I do indeed, my dear,” he replied with that same eerie giggle and dropped his hand. “I do, indeed. I’d hate for us to start off badly. You’ll accept my apologies, won’t you?”