Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

Even if they’d been their usual rocklike selves, he couldn’t stay. He’d worn the same clothes all day—through dinner, no less—which made him a little ill, and no doubt contributed to his prickly mood. To don these same articles of clothing on the morrow was out of the question.

Alistair had borne such privations on the battlefield because he had no choice. Oldridge Hall was not a battlefield—not yet, at any rate.

A short while later, therefore, having also declined his host’s offer of a carriage, Alistair set out on horseback, under steadily falling sleet, for Matlock Bath.

MR. Carsington was already on his way before Mirabel learned of his departure.

Her father relayed the news in a state of bewilderment. “He was in a great hurry to go, and it was quite impossible to dissuade him.”

Mirabel hurried to the window and looked out. She could see only as far as the light of the library reached, but that was enough to show her the state of things.

“It’s sleeting,” she said. “I cannot believe you let Lord Hargate’s son depart, on horseback, to travel in an ice storm all the way to Matlock.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps I should have summoned some of the largest footmen to subdue him and tie him to…something.” He looked about as though in search of a suitable something. “But I cannot think how otherwise he was to be prevented.”

“Why did you not send for me?”

Her parent frowned. “I cannot say why, but it did not occur to me. I am sorry it did not. The trouble was, he put me in mind of a cactus, and I found myself contemplating the spiny tufts, which might serve a reproductive purpose, though it is generally explained—Why, child, where are you going?”

Mirabel was hurrying out to the hall. “I am going after him, of course. Otherwise, he will break his neck or his horse’s leg—or most likely, both—and we shall never hear the end of it. Good God! An earl’s son. The Earl of Hargate’s son! The famous Waterloo hero, no less—and wounded in the line of duty. Oh, it does not bear thinking of. Really, Papa, you will drive me to distraction one of these days. The man hurls himself to certain death while you are contemplating cactus spines.”

“But my dear, it is quite important—”

Mirabel didn’t hear him. She was running down the hall.

MOMENTS later, mounted on an unhandsome but surefooted and imperturbable gelding, Mirabel rode out into the night. She caught up with her quarry a short distance past the park gates. The thick sleet had thinned to icy rain, but it could easily thicken and thin again a score of times in the course of the night.

“Mr. Carsington!” she shouted into the downpour. He was only a dark, man-shaped form on a dark, horse-shaped form, but the form was tall enough and sat straight enough, despite the rain pouring from his hat brim down his neck—and anyway who else could it be?

He halted. “Miss Oldridge?” He turned his head her way. It was too dark to see his face. “What are you doing here? Are you mad?”

“You must return to the house at once,” she said.

“You must be insane,” he said.

“You are no longer in London,” she said. “The next house is a mile away. In this weather, it will take you two hours at the very least to reach Matlock Bath—and that is only barring accident.”

“It is of vital importance that I return to my hotel,” he said. “I beg you to return to your house. They ought not have let you leave. You will catch your death.”

“I am but a few minutes from a good blaze,” she said. “You are the one who’ll catch his death. Then what are we to tell your father?”

“Miss Oldridge, no one tells my father anything,” he said.

“Or you, either, I collect.”

“Miss Oldridge, while we remain here disputing, the animals grow chilled. I am sure they will be better off moving, yours in the opposite direction of mine. I thank you for your hospitality, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but it is quite impossible for me to remain.”

“Mr. Carsington, whatever engagements you have for tomorrow—”

“Miss Oldridge, you do not understand: I have nothing to wear.”

“You’re funning me,” she said.

“I never joke about such things,” he said.

“Nothing to wear.”

“Exactly.”

“I see,” she said.

She had seen long before now but had failed to come to the logical conclusion. Logic had taken second place to reactions lower on the intellectual plane.

She had observed him closely enough, had been unable to keep from observing.

She had an all too vivid recollection of the way the expensively tailored coat hugged broad shoulders and the powerful torso that tapered to a narrow waist. She had a clear image in her mind’s eye of the exquisite embroidery of his silk waistcoat with its one upper button undone…and of the snugly fitting breeches outlining muscular thighs…and such long legs. Merely recalling sent heat washing through her, though she sat in darkness upon a horse in a cold, driving rain.

She could not help the heat. It was natural enough, she told herself. He was a hero and looked the part: tall, strong, and handsome. Few women could gaze on him unmoved.

All the same, she retained intellect enough to comprehend his irrational determination to travel at night in this filthy weather.

She had not spent two seasons in London without learning something about dandies, and this was a dandy if ever she had met one…though she’d never met one quite so imposingly built.

“Well, that’s different, then,” she said. “Good night, Mr. Carsington.”

She turned and rode back to the house.

To her surprise, Mirabel foun

d her father pacing the vestibule when she returned. Usually, he drank his tea in the library while perusing botanical tomes, then proceeded to the conservatory to say good night to the divers vegetable matter therein.

“Oh, dear. You could not persuade him,” Papa said as she gave her dripping bonnet and cloak to the footman.

“He has nothing to wear,” she said.

Her father blinked at her.

“He is a dandy, Papa,” she said. “Deprived of what he deems proper dress, he is like a plant deprived of vital nutrients. He wilts and dies, and one can scarcely imagine the agonies he suffers in the process.” She started toward the stairs.

Her father followed her. “I knew something was wrong. It is like the cactus spines.”

“Papa, I am wet and somewhat out of sorts, and I should like—”

“But he limps,” her father persisted.

“I observed that,” Mirabel said. How she wished for a less heartbreakingly gallant manner of limping! It made her feel things she didn’t want to and couldn’t afford to. And anyway, it was ridiculous at her age, after her experience….

She proceeded up the stairs. “I understand he was quite seriously injured at Waterloo.”

Her father trailed after her. “Yes, Benton told me about it. Yet I strongly suspect Mr. Carsington also suffered a head injury without realizing. I have heard of such cases. That would explain, you see.”

“Explain what?”

“The cactus spines.”

“Papa, I haven’t the least idea what you mean.”

“No, no, I daresay.” She heard his footsteps pause behind her. “Perhaps he will not understand about the tulips, after all. Yes, perhaps you are right. Well, good night, dear.”

“Good night, Papa.” Mirabel climbed the stairs and went to her room. Though she was tired, she blamed it on overstrained nerves. She had not been prepared. Had she been forewarned of Mr. Carsington’s arrival…but she hadn’t been, had not even imagined this turn of events.

She had made an incorrect assumption about Lord Gordmor that could prove to be disastrous. She’d never dreamt he would be so persistent.

She’d erred, and it was too late to undo the error. All she could do was take a lesson from it. She’d based her calculations on insufficient information. She would not make that mistake twice.