Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

For a moment she watched his long, powerful body move, so graceful in spite of the limp. Then she looked away.

He brought her the basin and a towel.

She hurriedly washed herself while he, still magnificently, unself-consciously naked, slowly went about gathering her clothes.

He came to the bed and sat down, his arms filled with her garments. He did not give them to her but sat staring at them.

She dug out her chemise and drawers and wriggled into them. She found her stockings, sat down beside him and, with shaking fingers, drew them on.

When she was sure she could trust herself to speak again, she said, “I understand you, too. I know you are loyal and high-minded—”

“It was not very high-minded to debauch you,” he growled. He set her clothes down next to her, got up, grabbed his breeches, and pulled them on.

“I asked—no, demanded—to be debauched,” she said.

“Don’t be absurd.”

He plucked her garters from the heap of clothes, started to give them to her, then snatched them back. He knelt and tied them. When he was done, he kissed the beauty mark near her knee.

The kiss made a shambles of her resolve. It took all her willpower to maintain a pretense of objectivity.

“It isn’t your fault,” she said. “I did everything I could think of to seduce you. It was wrong of me. I should not have taken advantage of a sick man, but I am not an overscrupulous woman.” She stood. “I would be much obliged if you would help me with my stays and frock.”

He stared at her for the longest time, his dark amber gaze so searching. Then he did as she asked.

He laced up her corset with disconcerting efficiency.

She wondered how many women—in addition to the seven or eight she knew of—he’d dressed and undressed. She felt a pang, surprisingly painful, of some emotion she hoped was not jealousy.

In another few moments, he’d helped her into her dress and fastened it. Her hair took more time, because the pins were everywhere. Still, to her it seemed to take no time at all.

But she had no excuse now to delay her departure, and so she started toward the window.

He caught her arm and drew her back.

“Mirabel, there are other matters to consider besides the canal,” he said. “If there is the least blemish on your reputation because of me—”

“You worry too much,” she said, though worry niggled at her, too. Her effectiveness in the community depended on her neighbors’ respect for her, which would vanish if any hint of today’s adventure got out. Yet she went on coolly, “This isn’t London’s beau monde, ruled by a small court of capricious matrons. My neighbors are not such high sticklers. I should have to commit a hanging offense before they would cut me. Actually, being suspected of a dalliance with you may increase my social credit and make me appear more interesting and dashing.”

His countenance hardened. He did not release her arm, only stood looking at her, his eyes dark.

“That will happen only if they do suspect,” she said. “Which is most unlikely—unless you make me late getting home.”

“But if they do, I will hear of it,” he said. “And I will do what is right.”

She had no doubt he would try. He had probably been born wearing shining armor. And it was typical of fate’s perversity to send Sir Galahad into her life only to lay waste, like any evil dragon, to everything she held dear.

She mustered a cheerful smile. “If my neighbors suspect I’ve been naughty, they’ll entertain themselves with watching to discover if I am increasing,” she said. “When it finally becomes clear that Lord Hargate’s war hero son did not get a bastard on me, they will turn to a new sensation. Sorley’s pig will eat Mrs. Ridler’s nasturtiums. One of the vicar’s prize marrows will disappear mysteriously the night before the fair. Mrs. Earnshaw’s housekeeper will see a ghost in the stillroom.”

She reached up with her free hand and stroked his jaw. “I must go now.”

He released her and turned away.

Mirabel hurried to the window and climbed out.

She didn’t let herself look back.

She’d have the rest of her life for looking back.

Thirteen

THOUGH it was futile to attempt to keep secrets from one’s manservant, Alistair tried. He dressed quickly, found a brush, and whisked at the footprints on the counterpane.

He heard Crewe come in, sighed, and went on brushing.

The valet approached, sponge in hand. “If you will permit me, sir,” he said. “A damp sponge may better serve the purpose.”

Alistair moved away.

Crewe rubbed at the spots. “You have inserted your waistcoat buttons through the wrong buttonholes,” he informed his master, “and a hairpin is caught in the right sleeve of your coat.”

“Damn me to Hell,” Alistair muttered. He rebuttoned the waistcoat and removed the hairpin. There would be more among the bedclothes and pillows, but he must trust Crewe to remove all such evidence before the maids could spot it.

Maids. Had anyone else come upstairs?

“Crewe, the other servants…”

“No one else has come near this part of the house for the last hour or more,” his faithful valet said. “Upon ascertaining that you would prefer not to be disturbed, I decided to seek domestic advice from Captain Hughes’s staff. They were so good as to vouchsafe to me their favorite receipts for preparing scouring balls, and their opinions as to whether it was preferable to use soap or spirit of wine to clean gold lace and embroidery.”

Crewe had kept the other servants away, in other words.

If only the man had shown less tact and burst in upon his master before the master could embark upon an act of stupidity far surpassing anything he had done previously.

But it was not Crewe’s job to do Alistair’s thinking for him. The master proving bereft of morals, the servant had acted to shield the lady from discovery and disgrace.

“You are a paragon, Crewe, do you know that?” Alistair said. “You are the wisest and most faithful of servants.”

“It is no hardship to serve a good master, and they are rarer than many people think,” said Crewe. Having removed the last vestiges of Miss Oldridge’s footprints, he commenced remaking the bed. “They seem, however, not so rare a species in this corner of Derbyshire. Captain Hughes’s staff are devoted to him and cannot sing his praises loud enough. As to the inhabitants of Oldridge Hall, I have personal experience of their kindness and generosity.”

The bed now rid of all traces of recent events, Crewe turned his attention to the carpet. He collected three hairpins, a broken button, a minute piece of lace, and some odd bits of thread.

While the servant scoured the room for other compromising evidence, his master made a decision.

Two hours later, while Captain Hughes was in a hothouse, trying to wrench Mr. Oldridge’s attention from a dingy green something-or-other, Mr. Carsington and his manservant were riding back to Matlock Bath.

BY the time she reached home, Mirabel had begun to understand why maidens were strictly cautioned to protect their virtue and save their virginity for the wedding night.

She’d seen animals breed and thought she had an idea of what happened between men and women. But she’d left something out of the equation.

Animals didn’t make love. It was purely physical.

Somehow, in her addled, ignorant mind, she’d assumed it would be that way:

physical, pleasurable, and a relief of some kind—a release of pent-up feeling.

She hadn’t guessed how sweet it could be or how the sweetness, as much as the passion, would intensify all she’d felt before.

She hadn’t an inkling of how much it would hurt to say no when he spoke of marriage, and to make him—and herself—face the hard facts and the vast gulf dividing them.

She hadn’t realized how painful and difficult it would be to drive away.

Now she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.

But it was done and couldn’t be undone.

She would have what she’d wanted—or what she’d thought she’d wanted: an experience, a memory.

In time, she’d learn to dwell on the memory with pleasure, she told herself. She would remember that a man—She smiled ruefully. No, not merely a man. A handsome knight had ridden into her life, and for a time, he’d made her feel like the fair damsel in a romantic tale. For part of an afternoon, she’d had a happy ending.

That’s more than you had yesterday, she told herself.

And so, resolved to be cheerful, she went home. Not feeling quite ready to face Mrs. Entwhistle, Mirabel went to her study.

This was a mistake, because she no sooner sat at the desk than she remembered the first, feverish embrace…the strong hands lifting her onto the desk—

She pushed away the recollection.

“Later,” she muttered. “Later you can mope.”

She forced her mind to the event that had precipitated today’s fatal error: the women of Longledge and their husbands—the tradesmen and farmers who wouldn’t speak up.

She got up from the desk and walked to the window and looked out on the fading afternoon. This window didn’t offer much of a view, but even this slice—a glimpse of the trees that had so narrowly escaped Caleb Finch’s saws—was balm to her wounded spirit.

As regrets softened and faded a degree, she turned over in her mind her original plan.

It had not been well thought out, true. While Mr. Carsington would not want to take unfair advantage, he also couldn’t shirk his responsibility to the man who’d saved his life. How could he face Lord Gordmor and say, “I’m sorry, but I had to come back because no one would fight with me. Except for one love-starved spinster, they will all do anything I say. You’d better go instead, because they’ll give you a proper fight.”