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Authors: Alissa Johnson
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unforgivably selfish.
“Is she very angry with me?” she asked in a strangled whisper.
“She’s not—” Whit broke off with a curse and stepped forward to take her arm. “Sit down. You look half ready to faint.”
“I don’t faint,” she argued unconvincingly, but let herself be guided back to the settee. “What did she say to you, Whit?”
“Nothing that warrants this sort of reaction,” he replied, but his words were gentled by a soothing pat on her arm, and by the good-sized glass of brandy he poured and pushed into her hand. “Drink it down.”
She made a face at the amber liquid. She didn’t think spirits would settle well in her stomach at present. “I don’t want it. I want to know what your mother—”
“And I’ll tell you, after you have a drink.” He tapped the bottom of the glass to nudge it closer. “Go ahead.”
She scowled at him, but drank the contents of the glass in one quick swallow. She coughed, wheezed, and spluttered her way back. “Oh, ack!”
Chuckling softly, Whit took the glass from her and set it aside. “Brandy’s generally sipped.”
“Well, I’m not drinking a second,” she informed him after a hard breath. “So my way will have to do.”
“Fair enough.” He searched her face. “Feeling better?”
“No.” Which she really wasn’t. “There was nothing wrong with me to begin with.” Which there really was.
“Huh,” was his inarticulate and—she was forced toadmit—diplomatic reply. He straightened and looked down at her. “I forget sometimes how much you care for her.”
“Lady Thurston? I love her, with all my heart.”
“I know you do. But I forget.” He patted her arm again. “She’s not angry with you in the least. Nor with me. She…Are you looking for a husband?”
“Am I…?” She gaped at him, wondering if the inquiry had really come from nowhere, or if the brandy had begun working much faster than anticipated. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a simple enough question. Are you considering marriage?”
Because it was Whit asking, she stared at him long and hard without answering.
“Imp?”
She held up a finger. “A moment—I’m trying to ascertain if there’s an insult in the question.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, when I insult you, you’ll know it.”
“You do lack subtlety,” she agreed and ignored his sneer in favor of thinking aloud. “The question then, was a preamble to the insult. Are you going to offer up an unsuitable candidate for the position? Someone like…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Jim, for example? That’s cruel, you know. He has troubles enough without people poking fun at him.”
“I’ve no intention of…Who the devil is Jim?”
“Jim Bunt,” she supplied. “Short man with a missing leg? Spends his days outside of Maver’s Tavern, always with a bottle about him? Surely you’ve seen him.”
He blew out an aggrieved breath. “Yes, I’ve seen him, though I can’t begin to imagine how it is you’ve come to use his given name—”
“Oh, Kate and Evie and I often bring him food and—”
He cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. “Never mind. If you would just see your way to answering the question. Are you looking for a husband?”
“No,” she said clearly. “I most certainly am not. Does this have something to do with your mother’s request?”
He leaned forward a bit and searched her face, much as he’d done almost moments ago, but it wasn’t concern in his blue eyes now, it was the inexplicable heat of temper. Why ever would he still be irritated, she wondered. She’d answered the question, hadn’t she? Of course, Whit was irritated with her as a rule—her presence alone was sufficient to spark his ire. But there was something different this time. Unable to put her finger on just what, she watched him in return, fascinated as the fire was banked, if not entirely extinguished.
He straightened once more with a quick nod, as if coming
“Is she very angry with me?” she asked in a strangled whisper.
“She’s not—” Whit broke off with a curse and stepped forward to take her arm. “Sit down. You look half ready to faint.”
“I don’t faint,” she argued unconvincingly, but let herself be guided back to the settee. “What did she say to you, Whit?”
“Nothing that warrants this sort of reaction,” he replied, but his words were gentled by a soothing pat on her arm, and by the good-sized glass of brandy he poured and pushed into her hand. “Drink it down.”
She made a face at the amber liquid. She didn’t think spirits would settle well in her stomach at present. “I don’t want it. I want to know what your mother—”
“And I’ll tell you, after you have a drink.” He tapped the bottom of the glass to nudge it closer. “Go ahead.”
She scowled at him, but drank the contents of the glass in one quick swallow. She coughed, wheezed, and spluttered her way back. “Oh, ack!”
Chuckling softly, Whit took the glass from her and set it aside. “Brandy’s generally sipped.”
“Well, I’m not drinking a second,” she informed him after a hard breath. “So my way will have to do.”
“Fair enough.” He searched her face. “Feeling better?”
“No.” Which she really wasn’t. “There was nothing wrong with me to begin with.” Which there really was.
“Huh,” was his inarticulate and—she was forced toadmit—diplomatic reply. He straightened and looked down at her. “I forget sometimes how much you care for her.”
“Lady Thurston? I love her, with all my heart.”
“I know you do. But I forget.” He patted her arm again. “She’s not angry with you in the least. Nor with me. She…Are you looking for a husband?”
“Am I…?” She gaped at him, wondering if the inquiry had really come from nowhere, or if the brandy had begun working much faster than anticipated. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a simple enough question. Are you considering marriage?”
Because it was Whit asking, she stared at him long and hard without answering.
“Imp?”
She held up a finger. “A moment—I’m trying to ascertain if there’s an insult in the question.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, when I insult you, you’ll know it.”
“You do lack subtlety,” she agreed and ignored his sneer in favor of thinking aloud. “The question then, was a preamble to the insult. Are you going to offer up an unsuitable candidate for the position? Someone like…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Jim, for example? That’s cruel, you know. He has troubles enough without people poking fun at him.”
“I’ve no intention of…Who the devil is Jim?”
“Jim Bunt,” she supplied. “Short man with a missing leg? Spends his days outside of Maver’s Tavern, always with a bottle about him? Surely you’ve seen him.”
He blew out an aggrieved breath. “Yes, I’ve seen him, though I can’t begin to imagine how it is you’ve come to use his given name—”
“Oh, Kate and Evie and I often bring him food and—”
He cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. “Never mind. If you would just see your way to answering the question. Are you looking for a husband?”
“No,” she said clearly. “I most certainly am not. Does this have something to do with your mother’s request?”
He leaned forward a bit and searched her face, much as he’d done almost moments ago, but it wasn’t concern in his blue eyes now, it was the inexplicable heat of temper. Why ever would he still be irritated, she wondered. She’d answered the question, hadn’t she? Of course, Whit was irritated with her as a rule—her presence alone was sufficient to spark his ire. But there was something different this time. Unable to put her finger on just what, she watched him in return, fascinated as the fire was banked, if not entirely extinguished.
He straightened once more with a quick nod, as if coming
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