Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

There wasn’t. She had searched and searched. Her only hope of defeating the canal scheme was to get rid of Mr. Carsington.

It would be better for everyone if he were gone. Better for her heart, certainly.

She had not expected to see him this day. She’d come early on purpose to forestall that possibility—or so she’d persuaded herself.

Liar, liar. She was still pretending, making excuses. Had she not come herself instead of sending servants with the boxes? Obviously she’d been hoping to hear his voice or catch one last glimpse of him.

And she’d made everything worse. A word, a glimpse, wouldn’t suffice. She wondered what would. Nothing within the realm of possibility, certainly. The longer she remained near him, the harder she made it for herself.

She must turn away, go on about her business, her pretend business.

She looked up into the strongly chiseled countenance, into the burning gold of his eyes.

“I have not been to the petrifying wells in a long time,” she said. “I wonder if my glove is still being incrustated.”

Fourteen

LONG before he came, Alistair had been aware of the resort’s various natural phenomena. The famous waters from Matlock Bath’s mineral springs, for instance, offered other excitement besides baths.

The water was known for depositing a calcareous encrustation upon objects over which it flowed. At the petrifying wells, the results were displayed for the edification of visitors.

Miss Oldridge’s glove had either long since been removed or had, over time, resolved into an anonymous lump of calcified matter. Still, other marvels remained. The keeper of the place was delighted to show Lord Hargate’s famous son a petrified broom, a wig, and a bird’s nest. Miss Oldridge persuaded Alistair to sacrifice his gloves, which, she whispered, would be of immense interest to tourists in the months and years to come.

“Duke Nicholas of Russia paid Matlock Bath a visit two years ago, in February, no less,” she told Alistair after they left the place and started back toward Wilkerson’s. “Being Russian, he probably thought the weather balmy. The year before, we had Archdukes John and Louis of Austria. They are mere foreigners, however. Your visit the well keeper will boast of till his dying day, and your gloves will be pointed out to visitors with hushed reverence. When word gets out that a petrifying well in Matlock Bath is in possession of your gloves—not merely one, but the pair—tourists will flock to the place to view these holy relics.”

Alistair looked down at her. She was smiling, and mischief twinkled in her far-too-blue eyes, and he longed to draw her into his arms and kiss her witless.

“Those were exquisitely made gloves,” he said with feigned sorrow. “I shall never be able to replace them, and Crewe will never forgive me. But if the sacrifice improves trade, I must not repine.”

“You may be sure that any business you patronize will make the most of it,” she said. “Foreign noblemen are as common as flies these days, but such a heroic personage as Lord Hargate’s son—”

“I’m not heroic,” he said, careful to keep his voice light. “It’s utter nonsense.”

She stopped and turned to him. “It isn’t nonsense. How can you think it is?”

They stood upon the South Parade, close by Wilkerson’s and in full view and hearing of a number of interested passersby. Alistair knew he should return to the hotel and let her go on her way, but he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet. She of all people needed to understand.

He remembered what she’d said about his wounded leg: that the odds had been against him either way. She’d shown him that he’d had as good a reason to say no to the surgeons as he had to say yes. He only wished he’d said no because he’d weighed the odds, not because he was terrified. He’d never forgive himself for that fear.

That, at least, was his own secret.

His alleged heroism was public, a difficulty he encountered almost daily. It was a thorn in his side, digging deeper and deeper as time passed. Perhaps if one person in the world—the one who meant the most to him—knew the truth, he could bear it better. He wished he could tell her all, but he couldn’t. Still, he could tell her a part.

He looked about, but there was no place in the picturesque resort where they might be private without stirring gossip.

He was not entirely surprised when she, evidently guessing what he wanted, came to his rescue.

“Have you seen the view of Matlock Bath from farther up the hill?” she said. She nodded toward the road next to Wilkerson’s, which led to the Heights of Abraham. “There is an excellent outlook but a short way up.”

She started that way, and he went with her.

When they were out of the spa’s earshot, she said, “I don’t know why you must fight the battle of Waterloo night after night. I wish I knew of a posset or syrup to help you sleep peacefully. My father thinks the remedy is laudanum. Perhaps you might consult an apothecary about a small dose. Perhaps if the battle didn’t haunt your dreams, you would not be so tetchy about the subject.”

The battle wasn’t all that haunted him, but he mustn’t speak of the rest: how he longed for her, how he missed the sound of her voice, her scent, her touch.

“I am tetchy about being made out to be hero,” he said. “I’ve borne it for a long time because I couldn’t remember what happened that day. I had to take others’ word for it. Now that I do remember, I can’t bear your having the wrong idea of me. I value your good opinion—oh, and your affection, though I should not speak of that—I value these too much to have them under false pretenses.”

She stared at him, blue eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you saying? False pretenses? There were eyewitnesses to your many acts of bravery.”

“Others did as much and more,” he said. “My actions were nothing extraordinary. There were men who’d been with Wellington for years, who acted with surpassing courage and gallantry. If you knew their stories, you would understand how demented it seems to me to be singled out as the hero.”

She walked on, saying nothing. Alistair ached to tell her all. The full truth. What had happened at the surgeon’s tent. Perhaps in time he would. Perhaps in time, if she would give him time, he would find the courage.

One step at a time down from the hero’s pedestal.

He limped on with her in silence, glancing from time to time at her profile, wondering if she was reassessing him, and if her affection would survive the process. She was frowning. Oh, why had he not held his tongue?

“Last week, I had a letter from my Aunt Clothilde,” she said. “It described in detail your tumultuous love affairs. Aunt never expurgates on my account, you see. She wrote about the riot at Kensington Gate, the pamphlets, the sponging house, the lawsuits, and the rest. Then I better understood why the Earl of Hargate said you were expensive and troublesome to keep.”

Alistair felt the old weight descending upon him, the sense of pointlessness and weariness he hadn’t felt in weeks. His past was like an albatross round his neck. It would cost him her affection, canal or no canal.

“I suppose this is the price one pays for having a forceful and exciting character,” she went on. “You attract the press. The newspapers made you famous, not solely because of your deeds—though you are entitled to be proud of them—but because you made a grand story.”

He heard the lilt in her voice and dared another glance at her face. A hint of a smile played at the corners of her soft lips, and humor danced in her blue eyes.

He remembered her bursting through the doors of the drawing room that first day, eyes sparkling, face lit…and the sunny smile wrapping about him and warming him…and all the shades and variations of that smile he’d seen since.

He remembered how the sight of her had lightened his heart, as the smallest change in her expression did now.

“A grand story?” he repeated.

“There was the scandal in London, the broken engagement, and the courtesan,” she said. “Then the outraged father, sending you abr

oad. As a diplomatic aide. Lord Hargate never meant for you to be fighting, did he?”

“Certainly not. My sire deems me undisciplined and rebellious and altogether unfit for military service.”

“But you were not the sort of man to sit tamely in Brussels while the others went to war,” she went on. “Few know how you managed it. Those who do know won’t say. Most of us know only that you somehow wangled a place for yourself and ended up in the thick of the fighting.”

“At such times, the commanders are glad to have every man they can get,” Alistair said. “I had friends from school who put in a good word for me, and I was persistent—attached myself like a barnacle. It was easier to let me in than to get rid of me.”

“However it was done, you proved your mettle in battle,” she said. “At risk of your own life, time and again, you rescued injured men of every rank. You fought bravely. You endured, even after you’d fallen. Then there was the dramatic tale of Lord Gordmor hunting through the darkness for you among the dead and dying, and the miracle of your recovery from grievous injuries. You see? It is a grand story, Mr. Carsington.”

Alistair did see the full picture at last. He stopped and, leaning on his walking stick, stared at the ground while his mind played out the scenes in his head, like the scenes of a play. At the finale, he saw his family descend en masse and bear away the prodigal son to England.

And he laughed—from embarrassment or relief or perhaps simply because of the ridiculousness of his life.

Then he raised his head—a moment too late to discern the worried glance she cast him—and gazed at her, and said, “It is as you said that time when you came to Wilkerson’s. You are the only one who would say such things to my face. Even my best friend…” He trailed off, grinning. “Poor Gordy. But why should he enlighten me as to the true nature of my fame when even my brothers—who are never in the least shy about setting me down—held their tongues?”

“They should have told you,” she said. “But perhaps they didn’t realize how deeply the matter distressed you.”

Alistair shrugged. “My family never talks about it, at least not in my presence.” After a moment, he added, “And I’ve done everything possible to discourage them and everyone else from discussing it.”

He straightened, and it was then, for the first time since they’d set out, he noticed his surroundings.