Miss Wonderful (34 page)

She
set her fist against his chest and pushed. This time he let her go.

She
started to get up. He sighed and said, "Wait."

He
got up, crossed the room to the washstand, and filled the basin.

For
a moment she watched his long, powerful body move, so graceful in
spite of the limp. Then she looked away.

He
brought her the basin and a towel.

She
hurriedly washed herself while he, still magnificently,
unself-consciously naked, slowly went about gathering her clothes.

He
came to the bed and sat down, his arms filled with her garments. He
did not give them to her but sat staring at them.

She
dug out her chemise and drawers and wriggled into them. She found her
stockings, sat down beside him and, with shaking fingers, drew them
on.

When
she was sure she could trust herself to speak again, she said, "I
understand you, too. I know you are loyal and high-minded—"

"It
was not very high-minded to debauch you," he growled. He set her
clothes down next to her, got up, grabbed his breeches, and pulled
them on.

"I
asked—no, demanded—to be debauched," she said.

"Don't
be absurd."

He
plucked her garters from the heap of clothes, started to give them to
her, then snatched them back. He knelt and tied them. When he was
done, he kissed the beauty mark near her knee.

The
kiss made a shambles of her resolve. It took all her willpower to
maintain a pretense of objectivity.

"It
isn't your fault," she said. "I did everything I could
think of to seduce you. It was wrong of me. I should not have taken
advantage of a sick man, but I am not an overscrupulous woman."
She stood. "I would be much obliged if you would help me with my
stays and frock."

He
stared at her for the longest time, his dark amber gaze so searching.
Then he did as she asked.

He
laced up her corset with disconcerting efficiency.

She
wondered how many women—in addition to the seven or eight she
knew of—he'd dressed and undressed. She felt a pang,
surprisingly painful, of some emotion she hoped was not jealousy.

In
another few moments, he'd helped her into her dress and fastened it.
Her hair took more time, because the pins were everywhere. Still, to
her it seemed to take no time at all.

But
she had no excuse now to delay her departure, and so she started
toward the window.

He
caught her arm and drew her back.

"Mirabel,
there are other matters to consider besides the canal," he said.
"If there is the least blemish on your reputation because of
me—"

"You
worry too much," she said, though worry niggled at her, too. Her
effectiveness in the community depended on her neighbors' respect for
her, which would vanish if any hint of today's adventure got out. Yet
she went on coolly, "This isn't London's beau monde, ruled by a
small court of capricious matrons. My neighbors are not such high
sticklers. I should have to commit a hanging offense before they
would cut me. Actually, being suspected of a dalliance with you may
increase my social credit and make me appear more interesting and
dashing."

His
countenance hardened. He did not release her arm, only stood looking
at her, his eyes dark.

"That
will happen only if they do suspect," she said. "Which is
most unlikely—unless you make me late getting home."

"But
if they do, I will hear of it," he said. "And I will do
what is right."

She
had no doubt he would try. He had probably been born wearing shining
armor. And it was typical of fate's perversity to send Sir Galahad
into her life only to lay waste, like any evil dragon, to everything
she held dear.

She
mustered a cheerful smile. "If my neighbors suspect I've been
naughty, they'll entertain themselves with watching to discover if I
am increasing," she said. "When it finally becomes clear
that Lord Hargate's war hero son did not get a bastard on me, they
will turn to a new sensation. Sorley's pig will eat Mrs. Ridler's
nasturtiums. One of the vicar's prize marrows will disappear
mysteriously the night before the fair. Mrs. Earnshaw's housekeeper
will see a ghost in the stillroom."

She
reached up with her free hand and stroked his jaw. "I must go
now."

He
released her and turned away.

Mirabel
hurried to the window and climbed out.

She
didn't let herself look back.

She'd
have the rest of her life for looking back.

Chapter
13

THOUGH
it was futile to attempt to keep secrets from one's manservant,
Alistair tried. He dressed quickly, found a brush, and whisked at the
footprints on the counterpane.

He
heard Crewe come in, sighed, and went on brushing.

The
valet approached, sponge in hand. "If you will permit me, sir,"
he said. "A damp sponge may better serve the purpose."

Alistair
moved away.

Crewe
rubbed at the spots. "You have inserted your waistcoat buttons
through the wrong buttonholes," he informed his master, "and
a hairpin is caught in the right sleeve of your coat."

"Damn
me to Hell," Alistair muttered. He rebuttoned the waistcoat and
removed the hairpin. There would be more among the bedclothes and
pillows, but he must trust Crewe to remove all such evidence before
the maids could spot it.

Maids.
Had anyone else come upstairs?

"Crewe,
the other servants…"

"No
one else has come near this part of the house for the last hour or
more," his faithful valet said. "Upon ascertaining that you
would prefer not to be disturbed, I decided to seek domestic advice
from Captain Hughes's staff. They were so good as to vouchsafe to me
their favorite receipts for preparing scouring balls, and their
opinions as to whether it was preferable to use soap or spirit of
wine to clean gold lace and embroidery."

Crewe
had kept the other servants away, in other words.

If
only the man had shown less tact and burst in upon his master before
the master could embark upon an act of stupidity far surpassing
anything he had done previously.

But
it was not Crewe's job to do Alistair's thinking for him. The master
proving bereft of morals, the servant had acted to shield the lady
from discovery and disgrace.

"You
are a paragon, Crewe, do you know that?" Alistair said. "You
are the wisest and most faithful of servants."

"It
is no hardship to serve a good master, and they are rarer than many
people think," said Crewe. Having removed the last vestiges of
Miss Oldridge's footprints, he commenced remaking the bed. "They
seem, however, not so rare a species in this corner of Derbyshire.
Captain Hughes's staff are devoted to him and cannot sing his praises
loud enough. As to the inhabitants of Oldridge Hall, I have personal
experience of their kindness and generosity."

The
bed now rid of all traces of recent events, Crewe turned his
attention to the carpet. He collected three hairpins, a broken
button, a minute piece of lace, and some odd bits of thread.

While
the servant scoured the room for other compromising evidence, his
master made a decision.

Two
hours later, while Captain Hughes was in a hothouse, trying to wrench
Mr. Oldridge's attention from a dingy green something-or-other, Mr.
Carsington and his manservant were riding back to Matlock Bath. •
• •

BY
the time she reached home, Mirabel had begun to understand why
maidens were strictly cautioned to protect their virtue and save
their virginity for the wedding night.

She'd
seen animals breed and thought she had an idea of what happened
between men and women. But she'd left something out of the equation.

Animals
didn't make love. It was purely physical.

Somehow,
in her addled, ignorant mind, she'd assumed it would be that way:
physical, pleasurable, and a relief of some kind—a release of
pent-up feeling.

She
hadn't guessed how sweet it could be or how the sweetness, as much as
the passion, would intensify all she'd felt before.

She
hadn't an inkling of how much it would hurt to say no when he spoke
of marriage, and to make him—and herself—face the hard
facts and the vast gulf dividing them.

She
hadn't realized how painful and difficult it would be to drive away.

Now
she realized she'd made a terrible mistake.

But
it was done and couldn't be undone.

She
would have what she'd wanted—or what she'd thought she'd
wanted: an experience, a memory.