Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

He wrapped his arms about her, and drew her closer, and deepened the kiss. The intimacy of it, the first taste of him, made her shiver. It shut down her mind as well, and left her in a haze of feeling. She was aware of the tickle of his neckcloth and the faint mingled fragrances of starch and soap and something else, something far headier: the scent of his skin. She wanted to bury her face in his neck. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, everywhere.

She pressed herself closer, tucking into the hard length of his body. His arms tightened about her, so strong, and she, who’d spent years relying only on her own strength, ached with the sweetness of it. To be held so, to want and be wanted—it hurt, and the hurt showed her how carefully, safely numb she’d been all these long years.

She didn’t want to be safe now. Their kiss grew fiercer, much more wicked, and hazy pleasure thickened into intoxication. She dragged her hands through his hair and broke the kiss to press her mouth to the corner of his, the place where he hid his smiles. She drank in the scent of him, male and clean yet dark, too, and faintly dangerous, like the hint of danger in his bedchamber, the languor that seemed to hang in the air, the sultry atmosphere, hinting at sin.

He turned his head and teased as she did, his mouth caressing her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Some sound escaped her, foreign. A sigh, a moan. She felt his hands slide downward to cup her bottom. She gasped at the intimacy, those long hands, touching her there—and then he was lifting her up, as smoothly and easily as if she were made of air. A moment later he’d deposited her, breathless, on the desk.

He leaned in and kissed her, and she forgot she was shocked, forgot everything but him. Instinctively, she opened her legs so that he could get closer, and when he did, she wrapped her arms about his neck. He made a sound, something between a groan and a growl, and broke the kiss. For a moment he rested his forehead against hers.

He drew a long, shaky breath, then lifted his head. He tangled his fingers in her hair and drew her head back and looked at her. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were very dark.

“Now would be a good time to tell me to stop,” he growled.

“Oh,” Mirabel said. It was hard to get out the one syllable, and it sounded thick and muffled, not her voice at all. “Yes. Thank you. I didn’t know. When.” Didn’t know. Didn’t care.

“I thought not.” He dragged his fingers through her hair and smiled rather sadly, then let go and took a step back. “It is fortunate for you that I am mending my ways. And may I say that it is uphill work.”

She wished he’d picked another time to mend his ways.

He cleared his throat. “You took a great chance, leaving it to me to call a halt to the proceedings. Another few minutes, and I should have had all your buttons and strings undone—at which point I should be beyond caring about the consequences.”

“Oh,” Mirabel said, and then, as his words sank in. “Oh.” Another few minutes. What would it have been like?

“I should like to know what use it is to have a chaperon when she is never about when she is needed,” he said irritably. “If the lady were doing her job, this sort of thing would not happen.”

“It isn’t as though I do this sort of thing all the time,” Mirabel said.

“That is obvious,” he said.

She slid down from the desk. “I’m sorry if my lack of skill annoys you. I should be much better at this if I had practice, but as you can imagine, the opportunities are rare.” She sighed. “Nonexistent, actually.”

“That isn’t the issue! The issue is your ignorance about protecting your virtue. Someone should have taught you ages ago—”

“I was taught,” she said. “But it was ages ago, and I barely remember, and anyway, I am not sure what the point is of protecting it anymore.”

“The point?” he said. “The point?”

“It does not seem very important,” she said. It seemed completely wrong at the moment, in fact. Perverse.

“It doesn’t need a point.” He raked his fingers through his hair, adding to the wonderful disorder she’d made. “It is a moral principle. Part of the higher order of things. A matter of honor.”

“Honor is so important to men,” she said. “Can you not look after it yourself, if it is so important? You should have fought me off the way you fought the French. You should not leave it all to me. I do not have seven or eight love affairs’ worth of experience in these things. It is most unjust to expect a woman of little experience to resist an attractive man of extensive experience.”

“It is unjust,” he said between his teeth, “but that is the way it is. I cannot believe I am trying to explain the facts of life to a woman of one and thirty. Men are animals, Miss Oldridge. It is most unwise to leave such things to us. This is a perfect example. I had resolved, most firmly, to remain deaf, dumb, and blind to your attractions.”

“My attract—”

“I am here on crucial business,” he went on. “The most important of my life. You can have no inkling how much depends upon it. Yet every encounter with you serves only to drive it farther and farther from my mind. This must not continue. I cannot become entangled with you, no matter how much I want to.”

“No matter how much you—”

“When you are about, I forget why I am here and how much depends upon me,” he said. “The longer I am under this roof, the more addled I become. I cannot believe I went to the length of hunting you down this day. But yes, I can, as I can believe what followed. If I remain any longer, I shall turn into a dithering imbecile—and your reputation will be in shreds.”

If he remained? Mirabel’s lust-drugged mind abruptly cleared. “You cannot be thinking of leaving,” she said. “I am sure Dr. Woodfrey did not give permission for that.”

It was then she noticed the discarded cane lying on the floor. “Oh, I had forgotten your ankle,” she said. “You are not supposed to put any weight on it.” She was sure he wasn’t supposed to be picking up a woman who weighed rather more than air. If his ankle did not heal properly, it would be her fault. “I should have considered—”

He picked up the cane. “Pray do not add me to your responsibilities,” he said. “You have more than enough. I have far too few. I reckon I can meet the challenge of being responsible for myself, if nothing else.” He limped to the desk and collected a handful of hairpins. “Here, let me do something useful. It will reduce the whispering in the servants’ hall if you do not emerge from this room looking as though your houseguest had ravished you.”

AWARE he must leave before his limited willpower gave way, Alistair made quick work of Miss Oldridge’s hair. Then, ignoring her protests, he hastened to his chamber and ordered Crewe to start packing.

Crewe didn’t argue. He only gave a sad little cough and donned a stoic expression. This was his way of saying, “You are wrong, tragically wrong.”

Alistair ignored it.

He could not ignore Captain Hughes, however, who marched in a short time later without so much as a by-your-leave, and briskly announced that Mr. Carsington would stay at his house.

Alistair thanked him and politely declined.

“I must urge you to reconsider,” said the captain. “If you return to Wilkerson’s, Miss Oldridge will worry herself sick.”

“There is nothing to worry about,” Alistair said. “I only need to rest, which I can do as well in my hotel as here.” He doubted he would rest at all until he was far away from Mirabel Oldridge. If not for the canal, he would head straight back to London this instant.

“She’s worried about Crewe,” Hughes said. “He sits up with you most of the night, she says, then attends you all day. At the hotel, he’ll have no help. There aren’t enough servants, and they are always busy. He’ll have to supervise Wilkerson’s cook closely as well, because she can’t be relied upon to prepare correctly the light dishes Dr. Woodfrey has prescribed. In short, Miss Oldridge asks you to consider your valet if you won’t consider yourself.”

Alistair looked at Crewe, who we

nt on with the packing, pretending to be deaf.

“Miss Oldridge blames herself for upsetting you,” the captain went on.

“She did not upset me,” Alistair said. “I am entirely to blame.”

Hughes rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe these dramatics—about a canal, no less! I couldn’t believe my ears when Miss Oldridge declared she’d go with Mrs. Entwhistle to Cromford, so that you’d remain here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Alistair said. “I have no wish to drive the lady from her own home.”

“I should hope not. She’ll spend the whole time fretting about everything here, and what is or isn’t being done in her absence, and what might go wrong, and a hundred other anxieties. Not to mention that Mrs. Entwhistle will be obliged to pack again and travel, when she’s scarcely arrived.”