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But it was Rush who stepped forward. The second oldest, he also seemed more controlled than the other three. “What are your intentions toward my sister?”
“Intentions?” He blinked. He might have some but he’d only just realized the depth of his feelings and he wasn’t exactly in a state that invited planning. “Besides helping her?”
“Helping her what?” Gris asked, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
Ken noted that any camaraderie between them from last night was gone now. Didn’t they know? They were her brothers. “She…” He took another gulp of his coffee. “Would like to participate in the next season.”
“Season?” Tris growled out, his lip curling around the word. “What the fuck for?”
“Girls,” Gris roared, tossing his hands into the air. “All they care about is pretty dresses and fancy parties.”
“If it’s dresses she wants,” Fulton barked out, “I’ll buy her some and be done with it, but I’m not going to some fucking ball.”
Ken lowered his cup as he met Rush’s gaze. “I now better understand why she asked for my aid.”
That garnered him a rare smile from Rush. “I’ve a shirt you can use. Follow me. There’s a tub of water over there if you want to dunk your head. It’ll help.”
He gave a quick nod as he followed the other man. It was only after they were out of earshot of the others, moving up the dark steps, that Rush stopped and turned to Ken. “If you touch her, you’ll marry her at the end of my pistol. Make no mistake.”
And then Rush started up the stairs again before Ken could even answer.
Ken blinked twice, remembering the way he’d kissed Mirabelle last night. If her brothers ever found out…
He shook his head. If he didn’t have plans, he’d better start making them. Quick.
* * *
Mirabelle satwith Anna as they each worked on their own needlework. Which was perfect. It allowed her thoughts all the room they needed to wander.
Which meant she was mostly thinking about Ken.
The way he’d felt last night as they were pressed together. How he’d listened to her without yelling or even judging.
A pang of regret reverberated through her, knowing that the purpose of their time together was to prepare her to charm other people.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his company, did it?
She’d slipped a note under his door that morning.
She gave a brief glance at the clock on the mantel. It was one. When would she know if he’d accepted her offer to postpone?
Her nose wrinkled. She ought to have asked him to reply. Told him where her door was. Or she might have—
The door flew open, interrupting her thoughts, as Fulton filled the entrance to the sitting room.
“What the fu—”
“Don’t you dare,” she said, then stood, her needlework all but forgotten as she pointed a needle in his direction.
“I dare? You’ve employed a baron to prepare you for a fu—”
The needle jabbed in his direction. “Ace will have you working double shifts if you use that word in our company. There are plenty of others to choose from.”
“But that one is my favorite,” he returned crossly, his brow drawing down into a low slash across his face. “And you’re distracting me from the point. When did you decide you were participating in a season?”
She huffed a breath. “Talk with Ace. I’m not explaining to you.”
“I can’t,” Fulton yelled. “He’s on his fu—” He stopped voluntarily this time. “He’s made it clear we are not to knock on his door for a week at least.”
