Miss Wonderful (15 page)

"Have
you seen enough of Longledge Hill?" she said. "We can turn
back any time you like."

"I
doubt I've seen enough," he said.

"Very
well." Mirabel gave Sophy leave to walk on. The gelding and his
rider promptly followed suit, and her groom Jock trailed behind at a
discreet distance. • • •

ALISTAIR
meanwhile was regretting his recent impulse. He was beginning to wish
he hadn't challenged Miss Oldridge to take him on this tour. She was
muddling him horribly, and this time it wasn't completely the fault
of her clothes, though they were maddening enough.

Her
slate blue riding dress was five years out of date, her round cork
hat was losing its trimming—which didn't match the dress—and
her green boots clashed with everything.

The
ridiculous rig was all the more vexing because she was a skilled and
elegant horsewoman. Though he knew any number of women who rode well,
he greatly doubted any of them—except perhaps his mother—would
attempt this ancient packhorse trail, which was growing narrower,
steeper, more rutted and obstacle-fraught by the minute. Miss
Oldridge, on a high-strung mare named Sophy, rode with fluid ease.

Alistair's
own mount was a powerful gelding of far less volatile temperament.

Normally,
he would have preferred an animal not quite so tame. At present,
however, he had strong reason to doubt his judgment.

It
was true he was impulsive and reckless—but only with his own
life and limb. He was never so cavalier with others' lives, including
those of dumb animals.

The
other night, when he'd ridden back to the hotel in the icy rain, was
a glaring exception. He hadn't yet for-given himself for the chance
he'd taken with Mr. Wilker-son's horse. If she'd been a fraction less
sturdy and surefooted, she could have been seriously injured.
Alistair had rather not contemplate the suffering the animal might
have endured or the only way to end it.

With
this folly in mind, he'd taken Miss Oldridge's advice and borrowed
for the tour one of her horses, because they were more accustomed to
the local terrain.

"It
is not much farther now," she called back to him as they entered
a wooded part of the hill. "We come to an out-look a short way
ahead. We can pause there for a while, then begin the journey back."

"We're
not going to the top?"

She
halted, and he did likewise, careful to keep a distance from her
skittish mare.

"We're
nearing the end of the old packhorse trail," she said. "Farther
up, the way becomes too steep and rocky for the horses to manage
safely."

"You've
never been up there, then?"

"On
foot," she said.

"We
can dismount," Alistair said. "Your groom can look after
the horses."

She
glanced at his bad leg.

He
set his jaw and waited.

"The
ground will be slippery after so much rain," she said.

His
mind flashed an image: shadowy figures scrambling for footing on
ground slippery with blood.

He
wasn't sure whether it was real or his mind playing tricks. Either
way, he couldn't speak of it. One did not speak of such things,
especially to women.

"You've
made the climb wearing layers of skirts and petticoats," he
said. "My leg will not hinder me a fraction as much."

"That
does not mean you ought to punish it," she said. "Pray
recollect, you are unfamiliar with the terrain, you are not a
countryman—"

"No,
I'm a soft, decadent Londoner, is that it?"

"I'm
not blind," she said. "I can see you are not soft. Except
perhaps for your vanity. Yours is amazingly sensitive, I note."

"I've
been trampled by cavalry and survived," he said. "I believe
I can climb a hill and live."

"Mr.
Carsington, even Captain Hughes, who can still climb a mast and run
along those whatever they are—yards, I believe he calls
them—even he would think twice before undertaking the upper
slope at this time of year."

"If
I were as old as Captain Hughes, I should keep away altogether."

"It
is a pity you are not old enough to have some sense," she said.

"If
an elderly gentleman like the captain can manage the hill in summer,
I reckon I can manage it on a balmy spring day."

"Elderly?"
She stared at him for a moment, then said, as patiently as to a
child, "It is February. And while the day did begin mildly
enough, the wind has picked up." She looked up. "Also, it
looks like rain."

Alistair
looked up as well. The scattered clouds had grown and spread, but
they were pale and unthreatening, with large patches of blue between.
"Not for hours," he said. "I shall be snug in my hotel
long before the weather turns. Tell me the truth, Miss Oldridge. If
you were on your own this day, would you stop halfway, or continue?"

"I've
lived here my whole life," she said. "I played here as a
child. Obviously my case is altogether different from yours. Common
sense should tell you to heed those with greater experience."
She let out a huff of impatience. "I do not understand why a
gentleman of your intelligence would allow his pride and vanity to
dictate to his common sense—but I can see it is no use
arguing."

She
hardly raised her voice, but her tone was sharp, and her mare,
growing uneasy, started backing off the path.

Alistair
wished she had chosen a less temperamental mount for this journey.
Sophy had a look in her eye he didn't like. If she bolted—

"I
beg you to attend to your mare," he said, his calm voice belying
the alarm twisting his gut.

But
before he finished speaking, she had the horse quieted and guided her
on. She made it all seem as effortless as if she were promenading
along Hyde Park's Rotten Row, rather than a narrow trail through a
steeply angled landscape of rock and timber.

Still,
the terrain wanted his full attention. To avoid dis-tracting her
again, Alistair held his tongue until they reached the outlook.

There,
to his relief, she dismounted and let the groom take charge of her
horse. Alistair did likewise.

The
site was not the narrow ledge he'd pictured but a broad, rough
terrace in the hillside. A handful of boulders adorned a thin carpet
of brown, unidentifiable vegetation. One forlorn shrub grew out of a
crack near the outer edge.

From
this vantage point he looked out over the moors while his guide
explained the difference between black and white lands. The black
referred to the blackish-brown heath covering the ground, making it
look like a landscape in Hell. The white lands had more green
vegetation—some parts had even been limed and reclaimed—though
at this time of year it was hard to tell the difference.

"You
must know this isn't nature's work," he said. "The
moorlands were once forests. Then the great monasteries went into the
wool business. No new trees grew to replace those cut down, because
the sheep ate everything: the saplings, then the grasses that took
the place of the trees, and eventually, all the grass. The sweet soil
washed away and left your picturesque moorland, where only matgrass
and heath can grow."

"You
think it's ugly," she said, turning away from him toward the
bleak landscape beyond and below.

Surprised
by the despairing note in her voice, Alistair moved nearer.

Since
her round riding hat was small, with only the narrowest brim, he had
no trouble seeing her face. The profile view revealed red-gold curls
dancing wildly in the wind-and a creamy countenance the air and
exercise had tinged pink. No tear trickled from the too-blue eye and
along the straight nose, and the soft, pink lips didn't tremble.

Her
chin jutted out a bit, but that seemed to be her usual way, looking
defiant or stubborn or in general uninterested in trying to please
anybody.

All
the same, she struck him at this moment as young, far younger than
her years… and lost.

Alistair
told himself his romantic imagination was at work and overdoing it.
She was one and thirty years old and had for a decade managed a large
estate and handled all her father's affairs. Even Alistair could see
she'd done this successfully. The estate, clearly, was thriving.

Furthermore,
according to Crewe, her neighbors generally agreed that she had a
good head for business. Alistair understood how great a compliment
this was and how very clever, strong-willed, and confident she must
be to have earned it. Men usually resented women encroaching on their
turf and would go out of their way to create difficulties for them.

In
Longledge, however, most of the men—of both high and low
degree—respected Miss Oldridge's judgment and admired what she
had done with her father's property. She even had the power to sway
opinions, as he'd discovered last night when he'd eavesdropped on her
impassioned speech to Captain Hughes. The words had moved Alistair
then, and troubled him yet.

Still,
capable and strong-willed though she was, Alistair couldn't shake off
the feeling that she was lost, or vulnerable, or needful of
something. He didn't know what it was, but he sensed he'd somehow
hurt or disappointed her, and this at least he must try to remedy.

He
must do so, not because she was a damsel in distress, he told
himself, but because he needed her on his side. She had influence
with the landowners. His motives were purely businesslike and
practical.

"To
prepare for this mission," he said, "I perused, among other
volumes, Mr. John Farey's General View of the Agriculture and
Minerals of Derbyshire. Mr. Farey calls the moorlands 'disgusting'
and the plants growing here 'noxious and useless.' While I will admit
it is not the prettiest sight I have ever seen, I shouldn't call it
ugly or disgusting. Dramatic would be my word."

She
looked at him full on, the great blue eyes wary. "You are
humoring me."

"Miss
Oldridge, the labor of humoring you far exceeds the bounds of my
patience," he said. "When I am with you, I can barely
remember my manners."

She
smiled then, and his heart warmed as though it basked in summer
sunshine. His brain, unfortunately, warmed as well, and commenced
melting. He doubted he'd ever encountered a weapon more deadly than
that smile.

"Your
manners are otherwise very beautiful," she said. "Several
parties last night remarked that you belonged in the diplomatic
corps."

"How
much more agreeable it would be for you," he said, "were I
spending this day with the Tsar in St Petersburg."

"I
was thinking of someplace warmer," she said.

"Hades?"

She
laughed, and the light sound had the same whispery quality as her
speaking voice. "I was thinking of Calcutta or Bombay."

"Of
course. There I might die of any number of contagions, if the
heatstroke didn't kill me first."

"I
don't wish you dead," she said. "I wish you well and
thriving—elsewhere."

"You
could nudge me over the ledge," he said, "if your groom
happened to look away for a moment. It would confirm my valet's
Foreboding, and my father's prediction of my coming to no good end.
And everyone would be happy."

Her
smile faded. "Why would your father predict such a thing? You
cannot be so desperately flawed as all that."

"My
sire finds me expensive and troublesome to keep," he said. "I
am, actually."

She
studied him for a moment, her blue gaze traveling the full length
from the crown of his sleek hat to the toes of his top boots. "I
can believe you are expensive."

Alistair
told himself she could discern no fault with his attire. No one ever
could. All the same, he felt himself flushing under her scrutiny,
which vexed him.

He
became aware of dirt on his well-buffed boots, and thought the hem of
his overcoat wasn't quite straight. He was not sure his coats ever
hung precisely as they should, because of his leg. The curst leg
spoilt everything. He was sure it had become shorter than the right
one, no matter what his tailor claimed. He wished he'd worn a riding
coat, so the disparity would be less evident.