Tempting Fate (19 page)

He had control.

He did.

Until his fingers skimmed along the low back of her dress and, dipping between her gown and shoulder blade, discovered satin.

Smooth, and warmed by the heat of her flesh, the feel of it was unmistakable.

“Whit?”

Mirabelle’s breathless voice, sounding uncertain, made him realize he’d gone absolutely still.

“You’re wearing it,” he whispered.

She blinked at him blurriedly. “Wearing…wearing what?”

By way of answer, he trailed his finger along the neckline of her gown, over her uninjured shoulder and down her
collarbone to rest on the swell of her breast. Slowly, as if unwrapping a rare present, he peeled the gown away to expose the soft blue beneath.

“The blue satin.”

Had he been watching her face, he’d have noticed her eyes clear.

“You saw,” she breathed, and took a step back.

Oh, he’d seen. But not enough. He took a step forward.

“Not nearly enough.”

Her eyes went from clear to wide, and she retreated another two steps.

He advanced. Then advanced again, beginning a leisurely stalk of her across the room.

She stumbled back against a chair. Gentleman that he was, he simply leaned around her to pull it out of the way.

“I believe you were running?”

“I’m not running,” she retorted. And made a quick dart to the left.

Grinning wolfishly, he snagged her around the waist and dragged her against him, then marched her backwards until he had her trapped against the wall. He leaned in, pinning her with his weight.

“What is it, Mirabelle? A chemise?” He traced the material at her breast with the pad of his thumb. The hand he’d braced against the wall fisted when she shivered. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I—” She broke off with a ragged breath as he drew his hand down, brushing the side of her breast, outlining her waist.

An entire garment of flowing blue satin, he thought. And underneath it all was the imp. His hand tightened reflexively on her hip.

His
imp.

He caught her eyes now. He made certain of it.

“Mine.”

Mirabelle had only a chance to wonder at that statement before Whit’s mouth was once again on hers. But this time, the kiss wasn’t light and sweet. It was dark, and heady, and dangerous.

And she reveled in it—in the rough caress of his hands, the possessive sweep of his tongue.

She ought to push him away, she thought dimly. Or at least stop pulling him closer. She certainly shouldn’t be letting him unbutton her gown. But as quickly as those thoughts would occur to her, they would be lost again, washed away in the heat.

It felt so wonderful, so wonderfully right, to have his hands against her skin, his mouth trailing hot kisses down her neck. Sliding a palm up her calf, he caught the back of her knee and hiked her higher against the wall. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed forcefully at the juncture of her legs, and suddenly it no longer felt merely right to touch and be touched, it felt absolutely necessary.

She lost herself in the frantic desire of the moment. As if from a distance, she heard her own gasps and moans.

And Whit’s own ragged cursing.

“Enough,” he rasped, easing back and letting her slowly slide to the floor. “Enough. I have control.”

Control? What the devil was he talking about? She struggled to get closer, to bring him back. She wanted…she wanted…she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted. But she was damn well certain it wasn’t his control.

“Easy.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let things go so far.”

He held her close, petting and stroking in a manner that soothed rather than aroused.

“Better?” he asked after a time.

No, she thought, a little sourly. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

No need to add desperation to the list of her sins.

He nodded once, brushed the back of his fingers across
her cheek, and stepped away. “We’ve been in here too long. Go to the ballroom. I’ll follow after—” He broke off and took a thorough study of her appearance. “On second thought, go to your room first. You’re a bit…mussed.”

She raised an unsteady hand to her hair, found it almost completely undone

“Here, turn around,” he suggested.

“What?”

“Your buttons,” he explained, and took her shoulders to turn her about. He did up the back of her gown with the rapid efficiency of a man determined not to think too hard on where his hands were.

“There.” He turned her about again. “I can’t do much about the rest, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. That’s all right.” She stared at him blankly for a moment.

“You should go, Mirabelle.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Right.” It took her a moment to regain the use of her legs to the extent that she could walk towards the door without stumbling.

“Mirabelle?”

She spun around with an eagerness that would embarrass her later. “Yes?”

“Dance with me?”

“What…
now?
”

He grinned suddenly, the s elf-satisfied smile of a man who’d befuddled a woman. “I wouldn’t say no, if you’ve a mind to. But we might find it an easier prospect in the ballroom, with music.”

“Oh,” she said, finally understanding. And then said, “Oh,” again in pleasure. Whit had danced with her before, but only out of a sense of obligation…and because his mother nagged. Now he was asking for himself. Her feet, already light from the kiss, nearly floated off the floor.

She smiled at him. “I could probably see my way to clearing a space on my dance card for a reel.”

“A waltz,” he countered. “I want a waltz.”

She gave a brief thought to saying something sophisticated and witty, something to offset the delight she was certain her face betrayed. But she had neither the skill nor the inclination to play the flirt.

“A waltz, then.”

Although Mirabelle saw Whit the next day, it was only from afar or in passing. The gentlemen engaged in separate activities, preferring cards and a trip to Maver’s Tavern over the more staid pursuits of charades in the parlor and walks about the grounds.

Mirabelle made a sincere attempt to not be distracted by thoughts of Whit, but every time she began to attain some success in that endeavor—and by success she meant a solid five to ten minutes of time in which she thought of him only once or twice—she would catch sight of him across the lawn, or hear his voice from the far end of the dinner table, and her heart would beat wildly and her thoughts would scatter, rearrange themselves, and return focused solely on him.

She thought of the way he’d held her close as they’d waltzed a slow circle about the room the night before—how the music drifted over them, his hand solid and warm on the small of her back. From that memory, it was a very small leap to recalling where his hand had been earlier in the study.

It was maddening. It left her feeling tense and anxious. It left her feeling aggravatingly needy. And the fact that he’d appeared perfectly composed the few times she had seen him, only succeeded in making her more agitated.

Shouldn’t he be as worked up as she? she wondered as she
let herself into her room after dinner. It didn’t seem at all fair that she should be the only one feeling excited and miserable at the same time.

Of course, if she was the only one feeling that way, it had very little to do with what was fair, and with what simply
was.
A few secret kisses likely weren’t so very large a thing to someone like Whit. They weren’t, after all,
his
first kisses.

Swearing under her breath, she yanked off her gloves and tossed them on the foot of the bed.

The counterpane shifted.

It was only the slightest of movements, but she’d caught it, and sighed.

“Again? Honestly, couldn’t the boy come up with something—?”

She broke off, speechless, as she pulled back the covers.

Spiders. Everywhere. A mass of legs and fangs spread out over her bed like a gruesome blanket. A blanket she watched undulate, then tear as the exposed spiders scurried to find refuge.

She didn’t scream, not even when one of the little monsters crawled over her hand, and though her pride would be grateful for that later, it wasn’t pride that kept her from screeching at the top of her lungs at present. It was the fact she hadn’t the breath to manage more than a strangled, “Nyah.”

She tossed the counterpane down again and took two steps back.

“Nnn,” or something very close to it, emerged around clenched teeth as she shook her hands wildly. She slapped at her skirts, patted at her hair and took another step back, just to be safe.

“Something the matter, imp?”

She whirled to find Whit standing in the doorway, a quizzical smile on his face.

“Are they on me?” she whispered in a strangled voice. “Are they? Get them off. Get them—”

“Is what on you?”

“Spiders!”

“Hold still then, let me have a look.” He made what appeared to her to be a cursory glance of her hair and clothes. “Not a thing on you. I wouldn’t have thought you’d make such a fuss over one little spider.”

“Spiders.” She swatted at a tickle on the back of her neck before jabbing a finger at the bed. “Plural. There.”

“In your bed, you mean?”

The amusement in his voice had her temper rising, conveniently pushing aside the worst of her jitters. “No, in the imaginary jar sitting atop the bed,” she snapped. “Don’t you see it? Of course in my bed.”

“No need to get testy,” he muttered and walked over to grab the counterpane.

He dropped it with a jolt before he’d pulled back more than a corner.

“Well…ahem.” He reached his hand out again, hesitated, then gripped the material and lifted it a second time. “Well.”

“Well?” That was the best the man could do?
Well?

“Well, it certainly is impressive.” He let the material fall and took a step back. “How did someone acquire so many of them, do you suppose?”

His bland tone might have annoyed her if she hadn’t seen him shaking his hand off as he turned around again.

“Hellborn babes rarely suffer from a lack of minions,” she grumbled. “I suspect he just told them to hop in.”

“Victor, again?” he guessed.

“I can’t imagine why anyone else would want to do such a thing.”

He nodded grimly. “It’s time I had a talk with the boy.”

She shook her head. “He’ll deny any part in this, and his mother will make an ugly fuss over the accusation.”

“Mrs. Jarles’s ugly fussing doesn’t concern me.”

“It concerns me, Whit. It would be unpleasant for your mother. I don’t want that.”

“Nor do I, but there doesn’t seem to be a way around it.” He glanced again at the counterpane “The boy needs to be punished.”

“There’s nothing a bully likes less than being ignored.” Or having one of his victims get back a little of their own, she decided, but thought it better not to mention as much to Whit. “Let’s let it alone for now.”

“If that’s what you want,” he replied, reluctance evident in every syllable.

“It is.” She winced at the bed. “What am I suppose to do with this?”

“If you’re determined not to have Victor see to his own messes, I’ll have the staff take care of it.”

“That’s hardly fair to them.”

“Do
you
want to take care of it?”

She watched one of the spiders crawl off the bed and make a dash across the wall. “Oh, Lord,” she gulped. “We can board the room up. Never speak of it again. I won’t be able to sleep in here again, at any rate.”

And, oh but that made her furious. She adored that room. It had been hers and hers alone since her first visit to Hal-don. It was her sanctuary.

Victor Jarles had gone too far this time. In truth, he had gone too far when he’d addressed her as Mirabelle, but while that insult had stung, this prank cut deeper.

She bit her lip when two more spiders made their way out from under the blanket. “Blast.”

Whit stepped to her and took her hand. “Go to Kate or Evie’s room for to night. I’ll take care of this.”

“But—”

He cut her off with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a soft kiss on her forehead. “Go on. We can’t clean up in here together, and I won’t leave you alone to do it.”

“I could—”

“Go on,” he repeated and nudged her toward the door.

“Knight-errant again.”

“It is becoming something of a habit. Good night, imp.”

She was standing alone in the hall before she could answer.

“Well,” she said to herself. “Good night.”

Fifteen

O
ne of the great benefits of centering a social gathering around a meal is that one can always use the excuse of a full mouth to avoid conversation. Whit had been taking advantage of this boon for the last hour. He chewed each bite of dinner slowly and extensively, and he made certain to have the next forkful ready before swallowing.

It was probably rude, no doubt childish, and his jaw was beginning to cramp from the exercise, but it was well worth it to be able to point at his mouth and shake his head apologetically every time Mrs. Jarles leaned over to speak to him. At least his mother had shown him the mercy of balancing the nuisance of Mrs. Jarles sitting to his left, by seating William Fletcher on his right.

Whit would have preferred to have had Mirabelle seated next to him, or at least within shouting distance. He’d barely seen her today and hadn’t spoken to her once. When he’d searched her out this morning, the staff had reported that the women had gone “for a stroll.”

When they were
still
strolling after midday, Whit quietly sent a pair of footmen out to check on them. They were safe and sound at the edge of the lake, he’d been informed, and a trifle annoyed for having their ladies’ outing interrupted.

Whit had been a trifle annoyed in return. It was the last day of the party. Hadn’t they spent the whole of yesterday separated into ladies’ this and gentlemen’s that? Was she seeking ways to avoid him? Perhaps he’d pushed things too far or too quickly. It was damnably hard to say, as he hadn’t figured out for himself how far he cared to take things, nor how quickly he wanted to get there.