Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

“What is your name?” she repeated.

He gave an uneasy laugh. “Don’t you know me, Miss Oldridge? Am I so changed?” He hadn’t changed. He was the same man as before. Only a little deformed.

“I am supposed to ask you at intervals what your name is,” she said, so crisp and businesslike. “I am to ask other simple questions as well. To determine whether your brain has been injured.”

Her brisk tone swept away his anxiety and made him want to tug her down and kiss her until she had not a sensible thought left in her head. But he mustn’t because…Ah, yes. She was a gently bred maiden, and there were certain lines a gentleman didn’t cross. Having sorted out that matter, his mind produced another rational thought: She shouldn’t be here, so late at night, alone with him.

Reluctantly, he released the soft hand, pushed himself up on the pillows, and looked about the dimly lit room.

“Where is your father?” he said.

“I sent him to bed an hour ago. I couldn’t sleep, and he is not the most reliable person to keep watch over a sickbed.”

“I’m not sick,” Alistair said. “I have a sprained ankle and possibly a concussion, that is all. It cannot be a severe concussion, as I have no trouble recollecting the fact that my name is Alistair Carsington, that Weston makes my coats, Hoby my boots—By the way, the pair you hacked to pieces came from Hoby only a fortnight ago. And Locke makes my hats. My waistcoats—”

“That will do,” she said. “I am not greatly interested in the numerous parties involved in assembling you. I daresay it’s as complicated as fitting out a ship, and of the same crucial importance to you as proper nautical accoutrements are to Captain Hughes. But it does not matter to me in the least.”

“Does it not?” he said. “Perhaps my brain is more grievously injured than we thought, for I distinctly recollect your mentioning, more than once, my being elegantly turned out.”

She straightened and took a step back from the bed. “It was an observation,” she said curtly. “Nothing more.”

What Alistair observed was that she must have pinned up her own hair, because it not only made no pretense at style but was falling in her face. A tangled clump of light copper curls dangled at her shoulder.

As to her clothes, either she’d slept in them or had thrown them on with more than her usual careless haste.

Her frock was the one she’d worn earlier, but she was not wearing a corset. He could tell by the way the garment hung, especially by the way it outlined her bosom.

He wished she’d put on the corset. He wished he could be sure all her buttons were buttoned and all her tapes tied. But he knew she must be half undone, and he could not stop his mind from undoing the rest. He told himself not to think about her underthings and the naked body underneath, but he was a man, and it was too late. Minus the corset’s artificial upthrust, the true shape and size of her breasts was easy to picture. He couldn’t help estimating how few layers of underthings the wrinkled dress concealed: a chemise, perhaps, and very likely, nothing else.

He remembered how small her waist was and the sweet curve of her bottom and the bewitching sway of her hips.

He bore all this manfully.

But then he recalled the way her hand, soft and warm, fit under his, and a longing seized him, so fierce and wrenching that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

“You had better go back to bed,” he said, his voice harsh. “You ought not have come here, especially in the middle of the night. It is shockingly improper.”

“Indeed, it is,” she said. “You have dropped hints leading me to suspect you are a rake—”

“A rake?” Alistair came up from the pillows, and the movement outraged his leg and ankle, both of which went into spasms. He winced, and hastily smoothed the bedclothes to make her think their rumpled state was what caused him pain. “I’m nothing of the kind,” he muttered.

“But you spoke so casually to me of your expensive ballet dancer.”

“One ballet dancer doesn’t make a man a rake. If I were…” He trailed off. If he were a rake, he’d think nothing of coaxing her into bed with him. She had no idea what it cost a fellow to behave like a gentleman in these circumstances. He wished his father could see him now.

No, on second thought, it was better his lordship remained one hundred fifty miles away.

His oblivious seductress, meanwhile, was looking elsewhere, her brow creased. “Now I remember,” she said. “My Aunt Clothilde writes me all the London gossip, and I am sure you figured in at least one of her epistles—before the battle in which you behaved so gallantly, I mean. Aunt tells me all the scandal about everybody, but it is hard to keep track of the names of people one’s never met. Yet I’m certain yours came up. Now what was it?”

She settled into the chair beside the bed and appeared to cudgel her brains.

Alistair sighed. “Pray don’t tax your memory,” he said. “The scandals attached to my name are numerous.”

Her gaze returned to his face, and she tipped her head to one side to study him.

He was not used to women, to anyone, studying him so openly. He was not used, he realized, to anyone’s taking the trouble. No one else looked deeper, past the elegant appearance and charm. He wondered uneasily if anything of value existed beneath the polished surface.

“Do all the scandals involve women?” she said.

“Yes, of course. However—”

“Exactly how many scandals? Or are they too numerous to count in your present delicate state? Recollect you are not to tax your brain.”

He recalled his father’s list. “Seven—no, eight, technically.”

“Technically.” Her expression was unreadable.

“One scandal involved two women. But it was my last,” he added. “And it was nearly three years ago.”

“Then you are a reformed rake.”

“To reform, I must first be a rake, which I never was. Not that it matters,” he added irritably. “The difference between me and a libertine will seem a mere technicality to you. You will believe I am splitting hairs very fine, indeed. Not that you ought to be thinking about such subjects, or that I had any business speaking of my mistresses to a lady. I cannot imagine what possessed me to mention the ballet dancer. I must have been addled. Perhaps it is this infernally clean country air. I think it makes me giddy.”

“Good heavens, I did not intend to make you so agitated,” she said.

“I am not agitated,” he lied. He was horny and frustrated. He was the next thing to naked, confined to bed, with a half-dressed woman within arm’s reach—all this while the rest of the household was sound a

sleep. He would defy a saint to remain serene in such circumstances.

“Dr. Woodfrey believes you suffer from a fatigue of the nerves,” she said.

“Nerves?” Alistair repeated indignantly. “I have no nerves to speak of. Ask anybody. I am the least excitable person you will ever meet.” After a pause, he added, “I admit I find you somewhat provoking. But I think you do it on purpose—oh, not altogether. I suppose you can’t help that.” He made an impatient gesture indicating her hair and attire. “It is an affliction, like tone deafness.” He waved her off. “Now please go away.”

She smiled.

Oh, no.

The smile curled about his heart and squeezed it and threatened to strangle the remnants of his reason. “You’re amused,” he said accusingly. She didn’t recognize the danger. She was in no way on guard. He would have to guard them both—and really, it was too much to ask, after such a day and night.

“I find you amusing,” she said. “You are the most amusing man I have met in a very long time.”

A soft bed…a warm woman, laughing in his arms. His pulse was racing.

His gaze swept the room and fell upon the botany book her father had left behind.

The soporific book.

“Well, if you can’t tear yourself away, Miss Oldridge,” he said, “perhaps you would be so good as to read to me.”

Eight

CAPTAIN Hughes arrived at Mrs. Entwhistle’s domicile late Sunday morning.

When the maid ushered him into the cozy parlor, the lady of the house evidenced no great delight at seeing him.

She appeared less pleased when he told her his errand.

“You cannot be proposing that I appear, uninvited, on the Sabbath, with my baggage, upon Mirabel’s doorstep,” the former governess said in tones that had seldom failed to quell rambunctious pupils.

The intimidating tone did not match the lady’s appearance. She was not tall and gaunt and dressed in severe black, but a plump, attractive woman of middle height and middle age, prettily garbed in a ruffled white morning dress and lacy cap.