Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

Someone tapped on the door.

Crewe went across and opened it.

He came back to Alistair bearing a small tray on which rested a note bearing Lord Sherfield’s seal.

Heart pounding, Alistair opened and read it.

Then he ran from the room.

THE wedding was to take place at Hargate House at eleven o’clock.

It was a quarter past ten, and the bride, at Sherfield House, had chased out her maid and locked herself in her room at a quarter to, saying the wedding must be called off.

“I have tried to speak to her,” Mr. Oldridge told Alistair when he arrived. “My sister assured her—through the door—that it is only a last-minute attack of nerves, which happens to everybody. But neither Clothilde nor I, nor even Mrs. Entwhistle could obtain any sort of response. Lord Sherfield fears she is ill and wishes to break the door down. I confess I am anxious on that head, though Mirabel never takes ill. But she is never so unreasonable, either.”

Oldridge frowned. “At least, I’d always supposed she was not given to irrational or temperamental behavior. But I had not paid close attention, as you know.”

“She is not unreasonable or temperamental,” Alistair said. “Very likely she has qualms. Perfectly reasonable, in the circumstances.”

He recalled what he’d told Crewe, about two men putting their oar in, when she was accustomed to being in command. Her life was about to change dramatically. She needed more time to get used to the idea. Alistair should not have rushed her. But he was worried that she was pregnant. And yes, he was in a fever to be wed and be rid of all the dratted chaperons. Selfish brute. He should have been reassuring her yesterday, instead of reassuring himself with Gordy.

All this was passing through his mind as Mr. Oldridge led him to the staircase. Lord Sherfield was pacing at the foot of it. Lady Sherfield was talking to Mrs. Entwhistle. She broke off as Alistair approached.

“I do not understand,” Lady Sherfield said. “She was so cheerful when I went up earlier. And Mirabel is not given to moodiness.”

“I think she has retreated to the dressing room,” said Mrs. Entwhistle. “You will have to shout at the top of your voice to make her hear.”

Alistair paused on the first step. “I am not going to shout at my bride on our wedding day,” he said.

He considered. Then the idea came.

THE dressing room door shut out the voices. It could not shut out everything, however.

Mirabel sat well away from the dressing table on a footstool at the far end of the room, out of the window’s light. She did not need the voices to make her aware she was behaving badly. Abominably. But she could not go through with it. And she could not explain. They would not understand. They would tell her she was being silly, that it was merely a case of last-minute anxiety, which everyone experienced. They would assure her that nothing was wrong and gently remind her that she would embarrass Alistair’s family and inconvenience the guests. Alistair would be humiliated. She shut her eyes. She could not do that to him. She must go through with it.

She rose, but her courage instantly failed, and she sank onto the footstool again, her head in her hands.

A loud clattering, as of hailstones against the window, shot her upright again.

Heart pumping, she went to the window and looked out. The sky was still blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds.

Then she looked down.

And blinked.

And opened the window.

From the bottom rung of a ladder, Alistair gazed up at her.

“What are you doing?” she said.

He put his index finger to his lip and swiftly ascended.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” he said. “I shall carry you away on my snowy white charger, to wherever you wish. Or rather, behind a pair of greys, as I was obliged to borrow Rupert’s curricle again. I thought the carriage would be more comfortable for a longish flight.” While he spoke, he was climbing onto the ledge, then over it, into the room.

“You’ve had second thoughts about marrying me,” he said.

“I don’t blame you. I was insufferably arrogant. I told you to marry me. I never asked you properly.”

“That is not the problem,” she said, backing away.

“I am not the hero you imagine me to be,” he said. “I should have told you the real reason I refused to be amputated. The truth is, I was far more frightened of the surgeons than of the enemy.”

“It was sensible to be alarmed,” she said. “You would not have survived an amputation. That is not the problem.”

“I haven’t told you the worst,” he said. “I was frightened witless when I went down into that hole after your father.”

“But you did it anyway,” she said. “That is true courage: to act in spite of fear. And it was a rational fear. I had never been so frightened in all my life as I was then. That is not the problem.”

“I’ve kept things from you.” He walked to the looking glass, made a small adjustment to his neckcloth, then came back to her. “Your father and I have been plotting behind your back. I have a new scheme. Instead of a canal, Gordy and I will build a railway from the mines to our customers. Your father approves the idea, and Gordy is delighted. I should have told you first, but I wanted it to be a wedding gift. I imagined you would swoon with admiration of my brilliance.”

A railway. She had searched and searched for a solution, but always she’d assumed they must have a canal. A railway had not even occurred to her.

She pressed her fist to her bosom. “It is brilliant, and I should swoon if I knew how. Perhaps I learnt the art but it was long ago, and I’ve forgotten. It is merely one of a number of feminine skills I lack.” Her eyes itched. “You told me you would find a solution, and you did. It is a wonderful surprise. It is a perfect gift. It is certainly not a problem.”

He came to her then and gently grasped her shoulders. He gazed at her in that way of his, making her look up, straight into his golden eyes, making it impossible to pretend anything.

“It does not matter that I was not the first,” he said gently. “I have had a twinge of jealousy now and again, I admit. It is absurd, of course. It is not as though I have lived like a monk. But my nature is somewhat possessive, and I did not wish to share you with anyone, even if the sharing happened in the distant past, practically before I was born. But that is all—pride and possessiveness. It does not alter my feelings for you a whit.”

“Not the first?” she said, bewildered. “Not the first what? To be jilted by me? But I am not jilting you. That is, not—”

“I know I am not your first lover,” he said. “It does not matter. You were not obliged to tell me. It is ancient history, no more relevant than my own episodes. Merely because men are customarily allowed more latitude in these matters does not make it right or just.”

Mirabel drew back, stunned. Had someone in London who knew her in the past whispered slander in his ear? William Poynton had been very popular. A great many ladies had been jealous of Mirabel. Some may have blamed her for his leaving England and never returning. Could they still be holding a grudge, after all this time?

“I don’t know who told you this,” she began.

“No one told me,” he said. “I saw the evidence. Or rather, the lack of evidence. After we made love, at the inn. The sheets. Not a spot.”

“Not a spot,” she repeated. Then, finally, she realized what he was saying, and in spite of her misery, she smiled.

“My love, I am one and thirty,” she said. “Did it not occur to you that my hymen might have shriveled up and died—of despair, most likely.”

“Of course it didn’t occur to me,” he said. “To me you are a girl.” He let her go and stepped back, his expression perplexed. “My dear, I am at a complete loss now as to what troubles you. But I don’t need to know. All that matters is that you are in difficulties of some kind and want to call off the wedding. I shall not attempt to force—”

“I can’t do it!

” she cried. “I cannot.” Her shoulders sagged. “Look at me.”

“You look beautiful,” he said. The gown was a warm, oyster-shell white, trimmed with fine lace, rather like the fetching nightgown she’d worn that night at the inn.

She stared at him. “What is wrong with you? Not my gown. That looks well enough. It is my hair. I cannot believe you didn’t notice. It is all wrong!”

He blinked. “Your hair,” he said. “You want to call off the wedding because your hair is not right?”

“Can’t you see? Aunt Clothilde’s maid did it, and it is too high on the forehead, and here are these untidy clusters dangling at my ears, and it took her forever, and I am stuck with a thousand pins, and there isn’t time to pull them all out and start over again, and I know you will not be able to concentrate on the service because you will be in agonies about it, and I will embarrass you in front of your family and friends.”