Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

She was sweating. Why had she not thought to have a servant open the windows?

“Nothing happened,” she said.

“Something did happen,” he said. “I may be a blockhead but I do understand my duty.”

He advanced and, to her horror, sank down on one knee.

She retreated a pace. “No! Get up! You must get up.”

“If I stand I won’t be abject enough,” he said. “By rights I ought to crawl on my belly.”

“Mr. Carsington, really,” she said. “How can you be so medieval?”

“Medieval?”

“Yes. It was—it was nothing. Good heavens, I am twenty-seven years old. Really. You must get up. If you do not, I will not listen to you.” She edged around him and started toward the door.

“You must,” he said. “I have been tormented like—like—well, I’m not sure what, but it’s deuced unpleasant and it’s either this or hit my head against the door, repeatedly, until I’m unconscious.”

She stopped and turned and stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m here to apologize,” he said. “For my stupidity and ingratitude and—and close-mindedness. Instead of fussing about curtains and wall coverings, you undertook a project of economic value to Beechwood. A great many men would not have seen the potential of that pit of filth on my property. You did. I most humbly beg your pardon for my childish, ungentlemanly behavior. I should have gone on my knees to thank you, instead of mocking and spurning your work and care in my dairy.”

A wave of relief and happiness flooded through her. It was even better than the happiness she’d felt yesterday when the servants left and she could stand back and simply enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. She had felt so proud of herself…and so disappointed in his reaction.

If only she’d had the good sense to walk out then, instead of trying to explain herself, trying to win an acknowledgment, a sign of approval.

She’d learned her lesson, though. She would keep her distance from now on. “The dairy,” she said. “Oh.”

He rose. “Yes, the dairy.” His golden eyes narrowed and focused, falconlike, on her. “What did you think I came to say?”

What else but “Marry me”? To answer yes was out of the question. He’d find out she wasn’t the innocent he thought she was, and he’d hate her for deceiving him. Naturally she must say no…but oh, it was a great relief not to have to deal with that wretched business at all.

“Nothing,” she said brightly. “Thank you. I accept your apology. I must be going.” She continued toward the door.

He swiftly overtook her and blocked her exit. “You thought I was offering matrimony,” he said. “That was why you looked so frightened.”

“I was not frightened,” she lied. “I was shocked. I could not believe that a man of your—of your progressive inclinations would believe it necessary to—to…propose marriage.” She swallowed. “Because of…a minor incident.”

His eyebrows went up. “A minor incident like a kiss,” he said, his voice very low. “And an orgasm. But do you know,” he added meditatively, “marriage did not strike me as an appropriate course of action.”

And why does this fail to surprise me? she thought. What rake would ever consider marriage appropriate?

“Good,” she said. “Because it would be silly.” She remembered the right thing she’d found to say yesterday, the way to make him hate her.

She lifted her chin and put her nose up and said, “I told you that the episode didn’t signify.”

“The episode,” he said. “You mean when I put my tongue down your throat and lifted your skirts and put my hand on your pudenda in that hardly-worth-mentioning way.”

“It would be good of you not to mention it,” she said.

“I’m not good,” he said.

“That much I have ascertained for myself,” she said. “And now if you would be so good—I mean to say, if you would refrain from blocking the door, I should like to take myself someplace where you are not.”

He pulled the door fully open. She marched through it, her chin so high that her neck ached.

“Just one thing,” he said.

“Yes?” she said without turning around.

“You won’t put the dirt back in the dairy?” he said.

“Certainly not,” she said. “That would be childish. Good day, Mr. Carsington.”

She sailed away in all her haughty state, back poker straight, nose aloft.

“Look out!” a young voice called.

Too late.

She felt the bucket before she saw it. Her foot struck it at the same time she heard the warning, and the bucket toppled over, spilling water. She stopped short, but her thin-soled shoes slid on the wet floor. She tottered first one way then the other, trying to get her balance, but she couldn’t. One foot went out from under her, and she saw the floor coming up to meet her…

Then strong arms lashed about her, pulling her up and back. She fell back against Mr. Carsington, her heart beating too fast, her breath coming too quick and shallow.

It all happened quickly and could have ended quickly. As soon as she became aware of the strength and warmth of the body bracing hers, as soon as she realized she was sinking there, her brain softening, she started to pull away.

Then she saw him.

A boy looking up at her, eyes wide.

He was saying something and Mr. Carsington was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words through the drumming in her ears. She saw the child, then she couldn’t see him because everything was blurry, suddenly.

She drew in a long, unsteady breath and let it out. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

He was still there and it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fancy.

Pale gold hair with a wayward curl and the world’s most obstinate cowlick.

Her hair.

But the eyes weren’t hers.

One was blue, one hazel.

Geordie’s eyes.

Don’t faint, she told herself. Whatever you do, don’t faint.

Chapter 8

Darius expected Lady Charlotte to break away from him, with an elbow to his ribs for emphasis. Instead she went still, very still. In that strange stillness he became too aware of his hands on her waist and the scent of her and the smooth skin of her neck, inches from his mouth.

His hands itched to move upward—and downward and sideways and everywhere. He could draw her back into the room and close the door and…

Oh, yes, there was a brilliant idea.

Let go. Now. And go away. Far away.

Before he could do so, he felt a tremor go through her. Had she twisted her ankle when she tripped? Sprained it?

“Are you all right?” he said.

The boy spoke at the same time: “I’m so sorry, your ladyship. I saw that bucket when I came by the first time. I knew it oughtn’t to be left there.” He looked ready to cry.

“Never mind, never mind—Pip, is it?” Darius said.

The boy nodded, his worried gaze on Lady Charlotte. “It’s actually Philip, your ladyship. Philip Ogden. But everyone calls me Pip. I knew that bucket oughtn’t to be left there, but Mr. Tyler was shouting for me. I meant to come right back but I didn’t get here quick enough.”

“No harm done,” Darius said. “Her ladyship isn’t hurt.” I hope. “Still, the floor is slippery, and someone else might take a tumble. Find a maid, as quick as you can, to mop it up.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy was off like a shot.

“Are you all right?” Darius asked her.

“Yes, yes.”

“You can stand on your own? You haven’t sprained an ankle?”

“No.”