Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

Now, as they halted to view the uncultivated slopes of Longledge Hill, Mirabel knew he wouldn’t drink in its beauty as she did, or take any more note of it than he’d done any other sight she’d indicated. He’d give it a careless glance, paste a politely indifferent expression on his face, and wait for her to finish talking.

He didn’t even remark on how clean and fresh the air was. Why should he? Inhaling the coal smoke–laden air of London for most of his life had killed his sense of smell. Living there had deadened his other senses as well. He was deaf, dumb, and blind to rural life’s beauties and joys.

She’d wasted her time. She’d been a fool to hope he’d understand what she was trying to protect.

A low rumble of a voice cut through the haze of frustration and resentment thickening in her head.

“If your bailiff is incompetent, Miss Oldridge, why do you not find another? Do you keep him out of sentiment? It cannot be for his skill, if he wants so much managing.”

Her gaze swiveled sharply to him.

Her astonishment must have shown, because he smiled and added, “Did you think I wasn’t attending?”

It was a small, crooked smile, and it made her heart go a little crooked, too, and beat erratically.

As though sensing Mirabel’s agitation, her mare Sophy edged away from Mr. Carsington’s gelding.

“I thought you had gone to sleep,” Mirabel said.

“I was thinking,” he said.

“Remarkable,” she said. “That never occurred to me.”

“I admit it is unusual,” he said. “Those who know me will say I’m inclined to act first and think later. But I’m trying to mend my ways.”

“I was unaware you had ways in want of mending,” she said. “I’d thought all the Carsingtons were paragons.”

“The paragons are my two older brothers.”

“But you are the famous hero.”

His mouth twisted. “I merely contrived not to disgrace myself during the short time in which I fought.”

“You are far too modest. You risked your own life several times, to save others.”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s what men who don’t think do. We plunge in without considering the consequences. It hardly seems right to call sheer recklessness ‘heroic.’ However, considering my complete lack of experience; I will take credit for not getting in anybody’s way or killing any of my compatriots by accident.”

Mirabel wondered why he was so deeply uncomfortable about any mention of his wartime experience. Though he kept his voice light, she’d caught the bitter undertone. She studied his face, but he was on guard now, and his strongly sculpted features told her nothing.

“You’re impulsive, you mean,” she said. “That is the fault you are trying to mend.”

“If only that were the sum total of my faults,” he said. “I fear I’m not one of the Carsington paragons, and not likely to become one.”

“I hope you do not,” she said. “You are trouble enough as it is, even in your desperately flawed state.”

He was a greater trouble than Mirabel was prepared for.

This day’s journey was futile. He’d never see what she’d achieved or have any inkling of what she’d sacrificed to achieve it. He wouldn’t understand why she’d bothered. She didn’t know how to explain about her bailiff, why she supervised him so closely. She was not about to delve into ancient history or explain an anxiety even she wasn’t sure was completely rational. Those were private matters, and he was a stranger, a London-bred stranger.

He was incapable of seeing the value of a place like Longledge Hill, and so could never comprehend the harm his canal would do.

But this wasn’t the worst of her troubles.

While he’d looked and seen nothing, Mirabel had caught a glimpse of the man behind the flawlessly groomed exterior.

The glimpse made her want to know more.

She knew this was a bad sign, and ordered herself not to probe further.

“Have you seen enough of Longledge Hill?” she said. “We can turn back any time you like.”

“I doubt I’ve seen enough,” he said.

“Very well.” Mirabel gave Sophy leave to walk on. The gelding and his rider promptly followed suit, and her groom Jock trailed behind at a discreet distance.

ALISTAIR meanwhile was regretting his recent impulse. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t challenged Miss Oldridge to take him on this tour. She was muddling him horribly, and this time it wasn’t completely the fault of her clothes, though they were maddening enough.

Her slate blue riding dress was five years out of date, her round cork hat was losing its trimming—which didn’t match the dress—and her green boots clashed with everything.

The ridiculous rig was all the more vexing because she was a skilled and elegant horsewoman. Though he knew any number of women who rode well, he greatly doubted any of them—except perhaps his mother—would attempt this ancient packhorse trail, which was growing narrower, steeper, more rutted and obstacle-fraught by the minute. Miss Oldridge, on a high-strung mare named Sophy, rode with fluid ease.

Alistair’s own mount was a powerful gelding of far less volatile temperament.

Normally, he would have preferred an animal not quite so tame. At present, however, he had strong reason to doubt his judgment.

It was true he was impulsive and reckless—but only with his own life and limb. He was never so cavalier with others’ lives, including those of dumb animals.

The other night, when he’d ridden back to the hotel in the icy rain, was a glaring exception. He hadn’t yet forgiven himself for the chance he’d taken with Mr. Wilkerson’s horse. If she’d been a fraction less sturdy and surefooted, she could have been seriously injured. Alistair had rather not contemplate the suffering the animal might have endured or the only way to end it.

With this folly in mind, he’d taken Miss Oldridge’s advice and borrowed for the tour one of her horses, because they were more accustomed to the local terrain.

“It is not much farther now,” she called back to him as they entered a wooded part of the hill. “We come to an outlook a short way ahead. We can pause there for a while, then begin the journey back.”

“We’re not going to the top?”

She halted, and he did likewise, careful to keep a distance from her skittish mare.

“We’re nearing the end of the old packhorse trail,” she said. “Farther up, the way becomes too steep and rocky for the horses to manage safely.”

“You’ve never been up there, then?”

“On foot,” she said.

“We can dismount,” Alistair said. “Your groom can look after the horses.”

She glanced at his bad leg.

He set his jaw and waited.

“The ground will be slippery after so much rain,” she said.

His mind flashed an image: shadowy figures scrambling for footing on ground slippery with blood.

He wasn’t sure whether it was real or his mind playing tricks. Either way, he couldn’t speak of it. One did not speak of such things, especially to women.

“You’ve made the climb wearing layers of skirts and petticoats,” he said. “My leg will not hinder me a fraction as much.”

“That does not mean you ought to punish it,” she said. “Pray recollect, you are unfamiliar with the terrain, you are not a countryman—”

“No, I’m a soft, decadent Londoner, is that it?”

“I’m not blind,” she said. “I can see you are not soft. Except perhaps for your vanity. Yours is amazingly sensitive, I note.”

“I’ve been trampled by cavalry and survived,” he said. “I believe I can climb a hill and live.”

“Mr. Carsington, even Captain Hughes, who can still climb a mast and run along those whatever they are—yards, I believe he calls them—even he would think twice before undertaking the upper slope at this time of year.”

“If I were as old as Captain Hughes, I should keep away altogether

.”

“It is a pity you are not old enough to have some sense,” she said.