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Chapter 9
Mac resisted the urge to close his eyes and sink into the floor. Why had he spoken such foolishness? Mabel was anything but the same. She had altered considerably since Mac had left Graton. Her face had lost the roundness of youth, defining her cheekbones and the gentle curve of her jaw. She appeared to be a woman with confidence, very much in control.
And she was beautiful. Had he been wrong to push her away all those years before?
No. Mac shook his head. He was not worthy of Mabel Sheffield.
“I would like to think six years has allowed me to age somewhat,” she finally said, her voice dry.
Surely the woman did not think he was referencing their last meeting before he left for the navy. “Of course,” he said hurriedly. “You are much changed.”
“But you only just said that—”
“Don’t listen to me.” Mac rubbed a hand down his face.
The door opened behind Mabel and Pippa appeared in the open space, a tiny scowl marring her lovely face. “We are right in the middle of a very important part, and you have distracted us to no end.”
“Forgive us,” Mac said at once, dipping at the waist. “I hadn’t realized we were speaking loud enough to disrupt—er, what is it we are so rudely interrupting?”
Pippa studied him before her gaze flicked to Mabel. Drawing her tiny shoulders back, Pippa tilted her head and spoke in a regal tone. “We have decided to become actresses. We are in the midst of a very important scene where the pirate has come to demand his treasure, and I cannot faint for the life of me with all of this distraction.”
“Perhaps you ought not to faint,” Mabel said kindly, though the authority in her tone was unmistakable.
Pippa shook her head. “But I must. It is not in earnest, you see. I am merely feigning so I might distract the pirate long enough for Katie to hide the treasure.”
“Unfortunately, you shall have to perfect your faint another day. It is time to take the Traynors home.”
“Already?” Pippa asked, anguished.
Nodding, Mabel stepped past her sister into the schoolroom. She looked to the young guests. “You are both welcome here any time, but we must get you home now.”
Mac stood in the corridor, watching Mabel gather the girls and motion them toward the stairs. She directed a brief glance his way before ushering her young charges out of sight. He leaned back against the wall and listened to footsteps retreating down the stairs. He liked Pippa. She had spunk—much like her sister.
Turning toward his bedchamber located on the other side of the schoolroom, Mac went to dress for dinner. There was no way he was going to be able to let that conversation be the final word on the matter. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get Mabel alone so he might explain himself. She had not asked why he had failed to reveal himself right away, though she had also failed to explain why she had pretended not to know who he was.
It was all quite silly, and Mac very much wished to make a clean breast of it. But more than that, he wanted to discuss the things he had said to her before he left for the navy. He needed to explain away his insolence, beg forgiveness for his rudeness.
The trouble was, he could not tell her why he had been so mean to her. There was no excuse for his foolish behavior.
* * *
The drawing room was set up with a card table following dinner, and the Misses Pemberton, their brother, and Charles sat in the midst of a game of speculation. Mac stood beside the cold fireplace, his hands clasped behind him, as he pretended to survey the watercolor painting of the Sheffield estate on the mantel. Mabel sat behind him on the sofa beside the Pembertons’ hired companion, Mrs. Boucher, deep in a tiresome conversation about the best age to begin teaching the languages, and how early dancing ought to be introduced to young ladies.
He’d overheard Mabel telling Charles that she thought she should spend dinner with Pippa that evening, but Charles must have convinced her otherwise. Not that Mac was complaining about Mabel’s presence—he enjoyed simply being in the same room as her.
And he watched her far more often than he ought, hoping to see her gaze flick his way. She knew who he was, yet she appeared entirely in control of her faculties. He’d expected anger, hatred. He deserved it. But instead, the woman remained seated comfortably, her pleasant gaze fixed steadfastly on the Pemberton ladies’ aging companion.
“Your cousin is awfully good at cards, Miss Sheffield,” Miss Sophy called from the card table.
Mabel lifted her head, glancing toward the group at the table. “He has been known to win more games than not, I’ll admit.”
What had happened to Mabel in the last six years to change her from the spirited, witty girl he knew into this refined, careful mistress of the house? Mac missed her impish smile and sparkling eyes, the ones that had clearly told him she was up to no good. Was that playful thread sitting idly somewhere deep inside Mabel, or had she put it off completely in pursuit of this older, more mature woman?
Introspection drew his gaze over her now, noting the elegant sweep of her neck as she turned to glance at the card table and its occupants. Had he seen that very hint of mischief he so desired in her expression when she had spoken to her younger sister? Or had Mac merely wished he’d seen it?
“If I cannot claim skill as a fisherman,” Charles said, holding his cards but grinning at Miss Pemberton, “then I ought to be able to claim skill in some other department. Cards will do, I suppose.”
Miss Pemberton dipped her head coyly, a soft smile touching her lips. She was every bit as smitten with Charles as he was with her. But that was good. Better this brainless miss than Charles holding out for a widow who would never have him.
