“Then you’ll have to wait,” Mirabelle said with a shrug and returned to her seat.
“Mira.” Fulton spread his arms out wide. “You will tell me or I’ll—”
Anna shook her head. “Fulton, don’t you dare threaten.”
“Men are afraid of me, you know?” he groused as he walked further into the room and then tossed himself onto a settee, one leg dangling off, arm draped across the back. “You two ought to be as well.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mirabelle chided. “Anna, do you remember when he was eight and refused to wear pants? Ran around with his fanny hanging out and his—”
“Mira.” He sat up, scrubbing his face. “Why must you bring that up?”
She shook her head. Fulton was four and twenty, and he’d always been the wildest of the lot of Smiths, but the secret was that he was also often the most sensitive. “Now tell me… Is Lord Boxby coming to tea today?”
Fulton’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve tricked me.”
“I have not. Answer the question.”
“Answer mine first,” he demanded.
“Ace thinks that it would seem odd if Anna and I did not have a season. And since I am already two and twenty, I shall have mine this year before it’s too late.” She wouldn’t mind an extra year to prepare but that wasn’t going to happen. “Lord Boxby has been gracious enough to help me prepare.”
Fulton looked as though he’d swallowed sour milk. “Does Ace know that?”
He did not precisely know her plans and Mirabelle didn’t plan to tell him, either. He had enough responsibility and besides, they would never understand the hurt women could inflict. They’d think her silly. “Of course he knows. Boxby is his brother-in-law. Now answer my question.”
“He’s coming today. He’s washing up and putting on a fresh shirt now.”
Mirabelle rose. “Why didn’t you say that earlier? Now I shall be late.” And she started for the kitchen. There was no time to change.
“Don’t rush. We already fed him. He looked positively green.”
Mirabelle heard Anna giggle, but she didn’t look back as she raced toward the kitchen. She tried to pretend that her excitement was because of Ken’s aid and not his company.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Ken arrivedin the sitting room of the Smith residence just as the clock chimed for the second time. He’d made it at exactly two, which was a minor miracle considering that as he’d washed his head and shoulders, Fulton had attempted to drown him in what the other man said was a jest.
He stepped into the room to find Mirabelle standing next to the settee, her hands pressed together.
Off to one side was Anna, dutifully working on her embroidery. And next to her was…Gris.
Anna smiled as she rose, tapping her brother’s shoulder.
Gris rose too but gave him a long and definite grimace as he did.
“Lord Boxby,” Mirabelle said as she swept toward him, looking every bit the elegant lady as her skirts swished about her.
“My lady,” he replied with a short bow.
“Thank you for coming.” She stopped in front of him.
He nearly said that it had been hardly trouble at all since he’d slept here. But one look at Gris and he refrained. Instead, he gave the tiniest wink. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Is this how most lords speak?” Gris made a choking noise, as though he were gagging on something, and Mirabelle rolled her eyes.
“You can see why I so desperately needed your help.” She held out her hand, pointing toward the settee.
“Hey,” Gris called as they took their seats. “I resent whatever accusation you are making.”