Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

When all was arranged to his satisfaction, the valet drew up a chair for her. She sat, wishing she felt as much in command of herself as her guest seemed to be.

Crewe discreetly withdrew to a far corner of the large room.

“You look like an Eastern potentate,” she told Mr. Carsington.

“I am not partial to these trousers,” he said. “They are rather faddish, and I can’t recollect what possessed me to buy them. But Crewe would not let me wear breeches or pantaloons because they are made to fit snugly. He feared my ankle would be jostled when I put them on.”

She remembered, too vividly, the long, muscled legs thrust out from under bedclothes. Her mouth went dry. She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Crewe is most sensible,” she said.

“Regrettably, I am not allowed stockings, either, for the same reason, and I am sure it isn’t proper for you to see my bare ankles, Miss Oldridge.”

She’d seen a great deal too much for her peace of mind: the way his shirt had fallen open during his momentary delirium, and the hard, muscled chest glinting gold.

She said lightly, “What a fuss everyone makes about proprieties. But put your mind at rest. My former governess has arrived to protect my reputation, and so you needn’t fear that the sight of a bit of your bare skin will corrupt my morals.”

“I envy your mastery of your feelings,” he said softly. “I doubt I could gaze unmoved at your naked ankles.”

Heat spilled outward from somewhere in the center of herself and washed over every inch of her skin.

A cough came from the other end of the room. Mr. Carsington looked impatiently at his valet. “What is it now, Crewe?”

“I merely wished to observe, sir, that the cook went to great trouble to tempt your appetite, and certain delicacies do not improve with the passage of time.”

By the time her guest’s attention reverted to her, Mirabel had her mind back in working order. He was teasing, she told herself. For Society beaux, such gallantries were a habit. Flirtation and innuendo were merely a part of conversation. They even whispered naughty remarks in the ears of elderly ladies.

It was absurd to imagine that a pair of thirty-one-yearold ankles, bare or otherwise, could stir any strong emotion in him.

“Will you not join me?” he said. “Your cook seems to have provided enough for a regiment.”

“She’s accustomed to Papa’s appetite, which is prodigious,” Mirabel said. “Still, this is not an excessive meal for a man of your size, and I am not at all hungry. But perhaps you would prefer to dine in private.”

She had better leave. She had come only to look in on him. She would gain nothing by lingering. She had softened toward him too much already. If she did not have a care, she would become infatuated—absurd at her age, and dangerous to more than her virtue.

She rose.

“I vastly prefer your company,” he said.

Mirabel sat down again.

TO Alistair’s annoyance, as soon as he’d finished eating, Miss Oldridge once more rose to depart.

“Mrs. Entwhistle will wonder what’s become of me,” she said. “I told her I would look in on you briefly.”

“To admire my quiet fortitude?” he said.

“Yes, and to make sure you didn’t feel abandoned,” she said. “I hope you don’t think that is the case. You would be overrun with visitors had Dr. Woodfrey not forbidden it. But he says you are not to tax yourself in any way.”

“All I have done is sit here and eat and talk,” Alistair said.

“That isn’t all,” she said. “You have exerted yourself to be witty and charming. It is pleasant for me but not good for you.”

“I was not exerting myself,” he said. “Wit and charm come naturally to me.”

“Then perhaps it isn’t good for me,” she said, and quickly added, “While I sit here being charmed and amused, a dozen important tasks are left undone.”

He slumped in his chair. “I am crushed. There is something in your life more important than I. Well, then, I must bear it and find some trivial tasks I shall pretend are more important than you. Crewe, bring me pen and paper. I shall write some letters.”

“Certainly not,” she said. “You are not to tax your brain.”

“I must let Lord Gordmor know I am temporarily laid up. He will be expecting to hear from me, anyway.”

“I sent an express letter to him this morning,” she said. “And another to your parents.”

“To my parents?” Alistair started up from the chair, and his leg and ankle brutally reminded him to stay put. He sank back down, gripping the chair arms. “Who told you to write to my parents?”

“My conscience,” she said. “Your friends and family are bound to hear of your accident before long. I did not want them to be troubled with the usual garbled and exaggerated version of events. You will not believe the rumors flying already.”

Alistair had enough experience with rumors to know that they generally defied all laws of reason and oftentimes far outstripped his wildest imaginings.

Now, too late, he saw the fatal errors he’d made. He’d paid too much attention to her. He’d singled her out at the Tolberts’ party. He’d gone riding with her, accompanied only

by a groom. He’d spent the better part of the night with her, unchaperoned, in his bedroom. It wasn’t hard to guess what people would think.

“It is believed in some quarters that I deliberately lured you to a dangerous spot and attempted to cause a fatal accident,” she said.

Once again Alistair experienced the sensation of being struck from behind with a large club. “You what?”

“Pushed you into the brook,” she said.

“But that’s absurd. Why would you try to kill me?”

“The canal.”

For a moment, Alistair didn’t know what she was talking about. In the next, he was cursing himself.

He’d forgotten that to her he was an invader, a despoiler, the minion of a villainous viscount.

He’d forgotten, in fact, to think—except with his reproductive organs.

He’d been celibate too long, that was the trouble. He’d avoided women until his leg was healed and working, more or less. Since then…

Well, he wasn’t sure what had held him back. He’d been numb or not fully awake in some way. But wasn’t it typical that after nearly three years of apathy toward the fair sex, he should choose now, of all times, to wake up from the coma or whatever it had been?

Wasn’t it typical that he should choose her—an unmarried lady—when the world abounded in merry widows and straying matrons and out-and-out harlots?

Instead of concentrating on business, he’d wallowed in fantasies that every gentlemanly principle forbade his acting upon.

Perhaps his brain really was damaged.

All this went rapidly through the remnants of what used to be his mind while he mustered a faint smile and said, “Murder. Over a canal. The folk hereabouts must be desperate indeed for excitement.”

He looked toward his valet. “Crewe, have you heard anything of this?”

The manservant’s gaze darted from one to the other.

“Don’t mind me,” Miss Oldridge said. “You’ve heard about it below stairs, naturally.”