Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

Making Sir Roger’s wife unhappy was not the way to win his respect.

“I had rather be stabbed, slashed, shot at, and trampled by the entire Polish cavalry,” Alistair said, “than cause your lady a moment’s distress. Please be so good as to tell Lady Tolbert that I shall be honored to wait upon her on Friday.”

Friday 20 February

THE dinner party was essentially what Miss Oldridge had predicted.

You’ll be…invited to admire pets, livestock, and children, especially their daughters.

Sir Roger had talked about Alistair being a lion in the menagerie. As it turned out, it was not Lord Hargate’s hero son who was on display but a bevy of maidens, all eager to entertain and entice him.

This was a new experience.

When Alistair had first entered Society, he hadn’t worried about anyone’s setting marriage traps. He was a younger son, dependent on a father who, while well-to-do, was far from the wealthiest member of the peerage. Lord Hargate, moreover, had four other sons to support.

In other words, Alistair Carsington was no great catch.

His lack of income, however, didn’t matter to Judith Gilford. She had enough money for the two of them, with plenty to spare. She might easily have supported a harem, in fact—and it was most unfortunate that the law frowned on polyandry, because it would want at least half a dozen husbands to give Judith all the attention and slavish devotion she craved.

But that was the London social scene, and this was a remote corner of the provinces, where eligible men were about as plentiful as coconut trees.

In eligible young women, on the other hand, the place abounded.

Lady Tolbert’s “intimate, quite informal” dinner party comprised more than two dozen guests. Ten of these were misses, all got up in their finest gowns and most flattering coiffures, and all exerting themselves to charm the Earl of Hargate’s third son.

Miss Oldridge would have made eleven, but she was hardly a young lady, being on the wrong side of thirty, and she made no effort to charm anybody.

All the other misses wore delicate confections of white or pastel muslin. These gowns, in defiance of the polar winds rattling the windows, displayed considerable acreage in the way of bosom.

Miss Oldridge wore a grey silk gown designed, apparently, by a strict Presbyterian minister for his grandmother.

She was, determined, it seemed, to drive Alistair insane.

In spite of all his resolutions, she was succeeding.

He’d resolved, since she’d refused to cooperate, to do without her.

He would view her as a piece of furniture standing in his way. He would not bump into or trip over her—figuratively speaking—this night, as he’d done during their previous encounters. This night he would make his way smoothly around her and deal with her neighbors instead. If he won them over, her objections wouldn’t matter.

So had he reasoned.

But how was a man to reason, faced with the apparition sitting directly across from him?

No candelabra or other large table decoration obstructed the view. The young ladies clustered nearby were easily entertained. In any event, it was impossible to look away from the horror Miss Oldridge had perpetrated.

The square neckline offered no more than a miserly glimpse of the hollow of her throat. The sleeves ended at her wrists. If not for the high waist underlining her bosom and the slim skirt skimming her hips, a man would hardly know she had any figure at all.

The gown was a shocking waste of exquisite silk and fine workmanship.

Then there was her hair, which was, in a nutshell, unspeakable.

Her maid had driven a rigid—and crooked—part through the middle of the glorious red-gold crown of ringlets, flattened it—with a hot iron, it seemed—yanked the lot back, and braided and twisted it into a stiff coil behind. A coronet of braided silver—dented on one side—adorned this outrage.

Only as the meal neared its end did Alistair find a way to regain a degree of tranquillity. He was mentally redesigning the neckline of the grey gown and cutting the sleeves back to dainty puffs at the shoulders. Much to his annoyance, he had to stop this promising work when Lady Tolbert asked if he had been to Chatsworth.

Alistair focused on his hostess—who, despite having a married daughter Miss Oldridge’s age, contrived to appear younger and nearly à la mode—and admitted he had not yet visited the Duke of Devonshire’s place, which lay ten miles or so north of Matlock Bath.

“You will wish to visit the Cascade, I am sure,” said Lady Tolbert. “A long set of shallow stone stairs runs down a hill. Over these water cascades from reservoirs on the top of the hill above the wood. It is most prettily done, and its effect on the nerves is wonderfully soothing.”

Lady Tolbert’s nerves, Alistair’s valet had informed him, were famous, and the bane of her husband’s existence.

Miss Curry, on Alistair’s right, said the Cascade sounded ever so romantic, and darted him a demure glance.

“It is most agreeable to contemplate,” Lady Tolbert said. “Since you are interested in artificial waterways, Mr. Carsington, you might wish to study it.”

Captain Hughes, who sat between Lady Tolbert and Miss Oldridge, observed that the present design dated from the time of Queen Anne.

The naval officer was a dark, dashing fellow in his forties, whom peacetime had marooned on land. Unlike other half-pay captains, he was comfortably settled upon a fair-sized property bordering the Oldridge estate. He might entertain ideas of occupying larger territory, for Alistair thought his manner to Miss Oldridge something more than neighborly.

“I visited the place in my boyhood,” the captain said. “It was a hot day, and I, even then, couldn’t resist water. I sat down and took off my shoes and stockings to go wading. I’d scarcely begun to splash about when the adults discovered what I was up to and snatched me out. It seems cruel to build such a thing, which little boys can’t possibly resist, then forbid them to play there.”

“It is good training for adulthood,” Alistair said, “when we encounter so much that is irresistible.” He let his gaze drift over the range of feminine pulchritude displayed in his vicinity.

His hostess, who was slender and well-preserved, preened a little, and the nearby maidens all blushed.

Except for Miss Oldridge.

Engaged in dissecting a tart, she spoke without looking up from her work. “I understand grown men cannot resist swimming in the canals in full view of canal boat passengers, not to mention the people on shore.”

Alistair wasn’t at all shocked by Miss Oldridge’s referring to naked men in a mixed gathering. He’d already discovered that her speech could be stunningly direct. As well, she was one and thirty, no ingenuous miss like the pretty pea brains surrounding him. Furthermore, country folk tended to be less delicate in their speech than their London counterparts, probably because of all the animals about them, endlessly breeding and birthing.

The Tolberts, certainly, were unpretentious. They served dinner in the traditional way, with all the dishes for each course set out at once. Likewise, male and female guests were not in orderly, even numbers, and sat wherever they liked—though all understood that the places at the head of the table near the hostess were meant for the more important guests.

Some quiet maneuvering had ended in a great many maidens occupying the chairs closest to the guest of honor at the upper half of the table.

Miss Oldridge had not maneuvered. She and Captain Hughes had sat near their hostess at Lady Tolbert’s urging.

The captain was regarding Miss Oldridge with amusement. “I take it the fellows were not using bathing machines.”

Miss Curry turned scarlet. Miss Earnshaw, beside her, tittered. But they were ridiculously young, barely out of the schoolroom.

“It is most inconsiderate behavior,” said Lady Tolbert. “Only think of the shock to a maiden’s sensibilities, should she come upon the men unexpectedly. She might be taken seriously ill as a consequence. I wi

ll not dispute that bathing is a healthful exercise—but in the proper time and place. Bathing in a canal.” She shook her head. “What next? Roman orgies, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of orgiastic swimming in canals,” Alistair said.

“A gentleman wrote an angry letter to the Times about the swimmers not long ago,” said Miss Oldridge. “He said nothing about orgies. But he did mention moral decay.”

“The fellows must have been drunk,” said the captain.

“Or perhaps it was a very hot day,” said Miss Oldridge. “The writer blamed it on the bargemen. He said they were a corrupting influence. I understand they swear shockingly.”