Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

He had restrained himself with her, he said, because he wanted to behave honorably.

How would he feel, then, if she told him what the women had said today? How would he feel upon learning that simple, hardworking people were too mindful of his heroism and sacrifice and his family’s long list of good deeds, to express their true feelings?

If she could make him understand how very great and unfair his advantage was, perhaps he’d return to London and let someone else take his place here. Even with Lord Gordmor, the ordinary people would stand a better chance. Respect for his title would not stop them from speaking out on behalf of their families and their livelihoods.

Surely Mr. Carsington’s honor would oblige him to leave the field to a less godlike individual.

And when he was gone?

She mustn’t think about that.

Luckily, she had only a short way to go, and her resolve hadn’t time to melt away under the memory of boyish grins and pathetic puns and feverish kisses.

She still had her priorities in order a short while later, when she drove up to Captain Hughes’s door.

But before she could climb down from the gig, his butler came out and told her, with effusive apologies, that they weren’t receiving visitors. The master had gone out and left strict orders: Mr. Carsington was not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

“Nancarrow, this is absurd,” Mirabel said. “You know that Mr. Carsington was staying at Oldridge Hall recently. I’m sure Dr. Woodfrey never forbade my visiting.”

The butler’s face turned bright red. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “Orders is orders. I’m obliged particular not to make exceptions, as it sets a bad example, and bound to lead to mutiny.”

Nancarrow was the captain’s former boatswain, and fanatically devoted.

“Very well,” Mirabel said, though it wasn’t well at all. “Perhaps you would be so good as to provide me with pen, ink, and paper, that I might write Mr. Carsington a note.”

“No letters, miss,” said Nancarrow. “Too taxing for the gentleman’s brain.”

“It is only a few lines,” Mirabel began, then thought better of it. Unlike her own butler, Nancarrow was unaccustomed to thinking for himself, and could not, as Benton did, distinguish the proper circumstances for making exceptions to general rules. If she pressed the matter, she would only vex herself and make him miserable.

She drove away.

But not, as Nancarrow assumed, home.

ALISTAIR returned from his daily perambulation of the captain’s neatly manicured park about the time the gig made a detour, invisible to Nancarrow, onto a back lane.

Unaware of the recent dispute at the front of the house, Alistair was startled when a shower of pebbles struck his bedroom window, which was on the first floor at the back of the house.

Advancing to the window, he beheld Miss Oldridge standing in a flower bed below. His spirits instantly broke free of the gloomy mire into which they’d been steadily sinking since breakfast.

He opened the window. “Miss—”

“Shhhh!” She pointed to one side. Alistair looked. A tall, ancient-looking ladder stood against the building. While he watched in blank disbelief, she shifted the decrepit ladder until it rested next to his bedroom window.

“Miss Oldridge,” he began.

She gave him an admonishing look and put her finger to her lips. Then she began climbing up.

Alistair wondered if he was dreaming. Since this was far pleasanter than his usual dreams, he was content to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

In very short order, the top of her ugly grey bonnet was level with the window ledge. An instant later, she was looking up at him, as though it were an everyday sort of thing for her to be perched on a rickety ladder a full story above ground level.

Dizzy, Alistair gazed into her twilight blue eyes and debated whether it was safe to sweep her off the ladder and into his arms.

“Mr. Carsington,” she said.

“Miss Oldridge.”

She beamed up at him. “I have come to beg a boon.”

The smile reduced his brain to jelly. “Anything,” he said.

“I thought you would wish to be apprised…” Her brow creased. She leant back, her smile fading.

Alistair grabbed the ladder. “Don’t do that! Are you insane?”

“You’re very ill,” she said. “No wonder Nancarrow was so obstinate. I should have realized.” She started to climb down.

“I am not ill,” he said.

She paused. “You look dreadful. I am sure you should not be standing at an open window.”

“Miss Oldridge, if you do not tell me what this is about, I shall climb down after you,” he said. “Without my overcoat or my hat.”

She came back up. “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said. “I only came about business. I had not considered how much it would tax your mind.”

“What business? You said you wanted a boon.”

“In a manner of speaking.” She stared at the rung she was holding. “But I did not think it through. I had not taken into account your great debt to Lord Gordmor. To have to choose between fair play and loyalty—” She shook her head.

“It is too much to burden you with when you are ill.”

“I am not ill,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Something is wrong.”

“Yes, something is wrong,” he said. “Something is terribly wrong. You. Me. This.” A sweep of his hand took in the space between them. “What is between us.”

She looked down toward the ground—a dreadfully long way down, it seemed to him. Her gloved hands curved more tightly about the rung she held onto. “I wish you had not said that,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to. But you—” He broke off, because she was ascending, quickly, and then she was shifting onto the ledge.

“Good God!” Heart pounding, he grabbed her and hauled her inside.

He wanted to shake her, but she broke free and stepped back out of reach.

“You could have been killed,” he growled.

“Only if you dropped me.” Her voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have grabbed me. I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?”

“I’m a countrywoman.” She straightened her bonnet. “Not like your London ladies.”

“No, not at all,” he said. “You are not like anybody. You are—you are—”

Her blue gaze lifted to his, and memories flooded him: every look, every touch…the whispery sound of her voice, the infinite variety of her smiles…the sweet yielding of her body. He, with his renowned tact and powers of address—he, who’d always used words so effortlessly, couldn’t string a thought together, let alone find words to express what he felt.

He made a helpless gesture and said stupidly, inadequately, “You are turning everything upside down and inside out.”

She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his waist and smashing her ugly bonnet against his chest simultaneously.

He caught his breath, closed his arms tightly about her, and crushed her to him.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he growled into the top of her bonnet. “But I’m so glad you did.”

“I should have stayed away, but I couldn’t,” she said, her voice muffled against his coat. “I jumped at the first excuse.”