Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

“I imagine he is well-spoken and handsome,” Mrs. Entwhistle said as she refilled Mirabel’s teacup.

“Exceedingly,” Mirabel said grimly. “Tall and broad-shouldered, and you would think, since he is so point-perfect in his dress, that he would be stiff, but he is not. He has even accommodated his injury, and contrives to make a limp both manly and graceful and somehow…gallant.”

“Gallant,” Mrs. Entwhistle repeated.

“It is dreadful.” Mirabel scowled at her teacup. “He makes me want to cry. In the next moment I want to throw something at him. Besides which, he is impossibly idealistic—or else he is a magnificent actor. I hardly had the heart to tell him no one cares about his noble intentions.”

“Dark or fair?” Mrs. Entwhistle asked.

“His hair is thick and brown, but when the light catches it, golden glints appear,” Mirabel said. “His eyes are a changeable light brown. They are sleepy-looking,” she added. “I could not always be sure he was listening. Or perhaps he was merely bored. Or perhaps my hair offended him so much that he opened his eyes as little as possible.”

“Why on earth do you imagine your hair offended him?” Mrs. Entwhistle said. “It is beautiful.”

Mirabel shrugged. “Red hair isn’t fashionable, especially this odd color, and he must have everything up to the mark. Anyway, my coiffure is never elegant, even at the best of times.”

“Because you will not sit still for your maid to do it properly.” A lacy cap did not fully conceal Mrs. Entwhistle’s own neatly arranged brunette tresses.

“Yes, well, I gave Lucy almost no time this morning, and it came down, as you’d expect.”

Mrs. Entwhistle studied Mirabel’s hair. “It seems to be in good order now.”

“He fixed it,” Mirabel said. “It is pinned so tight, you would want a pitchfork to dislodge it. I should like to know who taught him to pin up hair. I should have asked—”

“Really, Mirabel.”

“—but I was too startled to think of it.” Startled wasn’t the half of what she’d felt. He’d stood so close, she could smell the starch in his neckcloth. And the elusive scent she might have only imagined. But she had not imagined the sudden thumping of her heart and the confusing mix of sensations, of which surprise was the mildest.

She had an idea what those sensations were. She was an old maid now, but she’d been young once, and attractive men had vied to stir her interest. They had not all been unsuccessful. It would have been easier for her, perhaps, if one had not succeeded.

But that was long ago, and she’d had a decade to recover. She could remember the wonderful season in London, and William, without pain. That didn’t mean she wished to relive the experience. She knew that any attachment must end the same way, and she was not a glutton for punishment.

Not that she was in the least danger at present. Mr. Carsington wanted only one thing from the unfashionable and disheveled Mirabel Oldridge. It wasn’t her money and most certainly wasn’t her person. He only wanted a piece of information, which he could easily obtain without her help.

Mrs. Entwhistle broke into these meditations. “You said Mr. Carsington was point-perfect in his dress.”

“He would put Beau Brummell to shame.” Mirabel proceeded to relate the “nothing to wear” conversation in the ice storm.

“That explains a great deal,” said Mrs. Entwhistle.

“You know how dandies are,” Mirabel said. “Every detail must be precisely so. You would not believe the degree to which my hair upset him. His displeasure set the very air athrob. Finally he told me outright: My hair coming down was distracting.”

“Then you are better equipped than you thought,” Mrs. Entwhistle said. “You have discovered a weakness in your adversary.”

Mirabel stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I suggest a diversionary movement,” said her former governess. “Distract him.”

Four

“A dinner party,” Alistair repeated expressionlessly.

“Friday. Only three days hence. Deuced short notice, I know.” Sir Roger Tolbert spoke between mouthfuls of the heavy meal Wilkerson’s cook had provided.

The two men sat in the dining parlor Miss Oldridge had vacated a short time before.

“Nothing so grand as you’re used to, daresay,” the baronet went on. “Told my lady so. Told her you’d have more pressing engagements. But you know how women are. Get their minds fixed on something.”

Alistair nodded sympathetically, while Miss Oldridge’s prediction played in his mind: Sir Roger Tolbert and Captain Hughes…will likely call on you and invite you to dine with them.

At the time, she had upset him, but after she’d gone, Alistair decided the scenario she painted was most unlikely, given the chilly reception with which Gordy’s agent had met. Alistair had for this reason written in advance only to Mr. Oldridge, and citing the agent’s experience, asked the gentleman not to mention the visit to anybody.

Once Alistair was here, the news was bound to spread quickly, he knew. But he’d braced himself for a cool reception, if not outright hostility; he was not prepared for a welcoming committee. Even after Miss Oldridge had told him how important he was in the locals’ eyes, he’d wanted to believe she’d exaggerated.

He’d expected difficulty and had come prepared to deal with it. He’d seen himself winning over the landowners by dealing fairly with them, listening with an open mind to their objections, and working with them to devise acceptable solutions and compromises. His intentions were good and his heart honest. He was cultivated, tactful, and his manners were faultless—except toward Miss Oldridge. He’d trusted these assets to see him through a difficult battle.

He was not prepared for the entire opposition to surrender the instant he arrived.

Sir Roger had called about half an hour after Miss Oldridge left Wilkerson’s, and greeted Alistair like a long-lost son.

The baronet, a man near his father’s age, was plump about the middle and bald about the head. At the moment he was laying waste to the spread he’d ordered to sustain him until dinner: mutton, potatoes, a

loaf of bread, about a pound each of cheese and butter, and a tankard of ale.

Alistair had a glass of wine. Even if he’d been hungry—unlikely at this hour—he would have lost his appetite as soon as he realized Miss Oldridge had not exaggerated. No one would wait for him to prove his worth or the value of his project. He was Lord Hargate’s son, the papers had made a hero of him, and that was enough.

“It is most kind of Lady Tolbert to think of me,” Alistair said. “However, as you may have heard, I am here on business.”

“Important, daresay.”

“Yes, rather.” After a pause, while the baronet chewed his mutton, Alistair added, “Lord Gordmor’s canal.”

Sir Roger’s eyebrows went up, but he finished chewing and swallowing calmly enough. “Indeed.”

“In fact, I should like to talk to you about it. At a mutually convenient time, that is.”

Sir Roger nodded. “Business. Pleasure. Keep separate. Understand.”

“Or I could talk to your bailiff, if you prefer,” Alistair said.

“Bailiff? Certainly not.” The man went on eating.

“But you see, Sir Roger, I should consider it the greatest favor if you—if everyone—would regard me simply as Lord Gordmor’s representative. As one in his employ.”

The baronet mulled this over while he speared the last of the potatoes onto his plate. “See your point,” he said. “Scruples. Do you credit.”

“I must make it clear that my father is in no way involved with this project.”

“Understand,” said Sir Roger. “But my lady won’t. All she understands is, your father’s Lord Hargate, and you’re the famous Waterloo hero. Told her you weren’t the lion in the menagerie. Not here to entertain her and the other females.” He scowled. “Tears. Buckets of ’em. Women.”

Alistair need only recall Judith Gilford’s teary temper tantrums to understand how miserable an unhappy woman could make a man. Alistair at least had not been shackled to her and hadn’t had to endure it the livelong day and night. A married man must live with it or let himself be driven from his own home.