Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

And why should she not assume he’d be interested in increasing his income? What responsible landowner would not wish to improve the productivity of his property?

“Besides, you gave her a hint, you know you did,” Darius muttered. “Trying to be so witty. Vipera-bankrupt-me-remodeling-my-house-icus. Perhaps she was quick enough to realize it wasn’t entirely a joke.”

Not that her motives mattered.

She was right, more than right.

He dragged his hands through his hair.

Now what?

Tomorrow I shall tell the servants to restore the dirt.

Had any other woman uttered the threat, he would have laughed.

But she…

After what had happened here?

She’d do it.

He thought and thought.

He got up and paced the dairy.

He stared at one stained-glass window, then another.

He tapped his fingers on the marble shelf.

He set Logic to work on the problem. He looked at it this way and that way, inside out and upside down.

And in the end, being a servant of Logic, he knew he was doomed. He must go to her and endure the unendurable, a fate worse than torture, maiming, plague, pestilence, famine, or death.

He must APOLOGIZE.

Darius hurried back to his house, only to learn that the ladies were long gone. He’d left it too late.

He debated whether to go to Lithby Hall.

But what were the chances there of speaking to her privately? Even if he weren’t in her bad books, how could he contrive to be alone with her? The only time parents would leave a gentleman alone with an unwed daughter was when they believed a marriage proposal was imminent.

He must wait until tomorrow, and it must be at Beechwood. While privacy was difficult here, too, this at least was his property. He wasn’t at the mercy of someone else’s servants. It only wanted ingenuity to devise a way to get her alone for the thirty seconds he needed to say what must be said.

Since he could do nothing productive today, and as long as he was mortifying himself, he returned to the dairy, found the separate door opening into the dairy scullery, and inspected that.

It was exactly as she’d said.

Thunk.

The next morning, after shocking Goodbody by changing his clothes four times, Darius was in place, guarding the dairy door, well before the ladies were due to arrive.

He waited for half an hour, and no one appeared.

He waited another half hour, and no one appeared.

Another half hour passed while he tugged at his neckcloth and took off his hat and put it on again, flicked dust from his boots with his handkerchief, frowned at the dust on his handkerchief, frowned at wrinkles in his trousers, and drove away several confused spiders who didn’t understand that their eviction from the dairy was permanent.

Finally, he gave up and went to the house, watching all the way for any servants Lady Charlotte might have sent to put the dirt back in the dairy.

He found Lady Lithby first. She was talking to the plasterer—a man named Tyler, Darius recalled. Having received his orders, the workman was leaving as Darius joined her.

After the usual civilities, Darius said, casually, “I wonder if Lady Charlotte is about. I wanted to consult her about the dairy scullery gutter.”

Lady Lithby’s dark eyebrows went up. “The gutter? You’ve found out her secret, then.”

“Do you mean the secret about her being far more intelligent than she lets on?” he said. “Or the one about her knowing as much about estate management as a man? Or is there another secret I’d better find out in a hurry if I know what’s good for me?”

Lady Lithby laughed. “I should have realized you’d find her out,” she said. “The average gentleman would not. If she did let on how much she knew, he’d humor and patronize her.”

As I did, Darius thought.

“Poor Charlotte must let them talk about agriculture and never venture a remark, though she is as knowledgeable as any of them.”

“She ventured a number of remarks to me,” Darius said. “I was…surprised.” Not to mention obnoxious, childish, close-minded, and generally despicable.

“It is not so surprising when one considers her father’s character and the circumstances of her childhood,” said Lady Lithby. “Charlotte was the son, you know, for rather a long while.”

“The son,” he said, and the pieces instantly fell into place. Thanks to the talkative Mrs. Steepleton, he knew Lady Charlotte was the only child until she was nearly twenty, for the first Lady Lithby had become an invalid soon after giving birth. Apparently, then, seeing no prospect of having a son and heir, Lord Lithby had made his daughter a substitute of sorts.

She’d viewed Darius’s dairy as a man would have done, assessing its potential, weighing costs versus profit.

No wonder she’d looked so pleased. She’d seen through the filth and accumulated rubbish to its potential, and gone to work. When he’d found her, she’d been proud and pleased with herself, as she’d every right to be, because she’d judged correctly.

Darius’s conscience stabbed hard, and Logic did nothing to ameliorate the pain. He, who prided himself on his intelligence, on his objectivity, had behaved like the stupidest, most immature of men.

Was this what his father saw in him? Intellectual conceit? Immaturity? Close-mindedness?

At that moment a fair-haired boy—one of the workmen’s apprentices, apparently—ran up to them, cap in hand. He stopped short, his face reddening. He bowed to them separately. Then, tightly clutching his cap, he looked about him. Clearly he was lost. Clearly, too, he was not bold enough to address his superiors without leave.

“Yes?” Lady Lithby said with a kindly smile.

Thus invited, he spoke, the words spilling out in a rush: “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I’m Mr. Tyler’s apprentice, Pip. They told me he was looking for me, and he was here with you.”

“He went upstairs a moment ago,” she said. “To the master bedroom.” She explained how to get there. The boy bowed again and ran off in the direction she’d indicated.

“The master bedroom?” Darius said. He’d given orders that no one was to enter that room. “I thought—”

“I know, I know,” Lady Lithby said. “We were to leave it alone. But you had not realized the plaster was so bad.”

Darius recalled—and he shouldn’t have needed a reminder—how a piece of ornamental plasterwork had nearly killed Goodbody. “Of course. It had slipped my mind. Naturally it must be repaired.”

“Your manservant has removed your belongings to the south bedroom,” she said. “Charlotte is upstairs as well, in the corner guest chamber. She’s sorting the contents of that curious trunk.”

Darius searched his mind. Nothing about a trunk there. “What trunk?” he said.

“Oh, did no one tell you? They found it when they were clearing out the dairy, under a lot of broken chairs and tables.”

Within the top layers of the trunk’s contents, Charlotte found an assortment of elaborate masks, half a dozen exquisite fans, a hooded cloak of a deep blue silk, a linen stomacher embroidered with birds of paradise, and an old-fashioned corset. There were a few letters and books, too, including a copy of Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Lock, its pages filled with pressed flowers: ancient roses, violets, daisies, pansies, and forget-me-nots.

Last, she found a small black silk bag that tied with ribbons.

Charlotte was kneeling on a cushion in front of the open trunk, the various contents she’d unearthed neatly sorted and arranged

about her. She frowned over the mysterious bag in her hand. It did not seem sturdy enough to serve as a purse of any kind. What did it hold? Handkerchiefs? Was it an old style of pocket to wear under one’s skirts? But why would it need such large ribbons?

From somewhere to her right a deep voice said, “A wig bag. I haven’t seen one of those since Cousin Hector died.”

Her heart instantly sped to triple time. She made herself turn calmly in the direction of the voice. Mr. Carsington stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded over his big chest.

How long had he stood there, watching her?

And wasn’t “stood” a completely inadequate word for what he did? He not only seemed to take over the room even before he entered it but made the space seem too small to contain him. This was probably because he occupied her, completely.

She was aware with all her being of the arrogant Apollo on the threshold, his hair and eyes glinting gold. She was aware, too aware, of the broad shoulders and chest, the taut waist and long legs. She could almost feel those powerful arms wrapping about her as they’d done yesterday. She could almost feel the warmth of his hard body…the touch of his mouth on her cheek…those teasing kisses that had made her giggle, made her feel like a girl again…

Don’t forget how near you came to doing exactly what you did when you were a girl, she told herself.

“A wig bag,” she repeated calmly, while she rose calmly, too, while every pulse point of her body seemed to be jumping against her skin.

“A gentleman would wear it to tie up the queue of his wig,” said Mr. Carsington. “Cousin Hector was one of my mother’s relations. An old-fashioned fellow.” He paused, frowning. “As I seem to be. Lady Charlotte, I must speak to you.”

“Are you not doing so?” she said.

He entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“You must open the door,” she said.

He closed his eyes, made a growling sound, opened his eyes, then opened the door a crack. “Very well, if you insist on having witnesses.”

Her heart sped up to quadruple time. “Witnesses?”

“I have come to speak to you about what happened yesterday,” he said.