Miss Wonderful (4 page)

Alistair
had thought Gordmor exaggerated in describing the condition of the
roads. In fact, his lordship had understated the case. Alistair could
imagine no area in England more desperately in need of a canal.

Having
examined the drawing room's collection of pictures—which
included several superlative paintings of Egyptian scenes—and
studied the carpet pattern, Alistair walked to the French doors and
looked out. The glass doors gave out onto a terrace, which gave way
to a profuse arrangement of gardens. Beyond these lay rolling
parkland and, farther on, the picturesque hills and dales.

He
did not notice any of these landscape features. All he saw was the
girl.

She
was racing up the terrace stairs, skirts bunched up to her knees,
bonnet askew, and a wild mass of hair the color of sunrise dancing
about her face.

Even
while he was taking in the hair—a whirling fireball when a gust
of wind caught it—she darted across the terrace. Alistair had
an unobstructed view of trim ankles and well-shaped calves before she
let the hem drop to cover them.

He
opened the door, and she irrupted into the drawing room in a whirl of
rain and mud, taking no more heed of her bedraggled state than a dog
would.

She
smiled.

Her
mouth was wide, and so the smile seemed to go on forever, and round
and round, encircling him. Her eyes were blue, twilight blue, and for
a moment she seemed to be the beginning and end of everything, from
the sunrise halo of hair to the dusky blue of her eyes.

For
that moment, Alistair didn't know anything else, even his name, until
she spoke it.

"Mr.
Carsington," she said, and her voice was clear and cool with a
trace of a whisper in it.

Hair:
sunrise. Eyes: dusk. Voice: night.

"I
am Mirabel Oldridge," the night-voice went on.

Mirabel.
It meant wonderful. And she was truly—

Alistair
caught himself in the nick of time, before his brain disintegrated.
No poetry, he told himself. No castles in the air.

He
was here on business and must not forget it.

He
could not allow his thoughts to linger, even for an instant, upon any
woman… no matter how lovely her skin or how warm her smile,
like the first warmth of spring after a long, dark winter…

No
poetry. He must view her as—as a piece of furniture. He must.

If
he stumbled into another disaster this time—and disaster was
inevitable if a member of the opposite sex was concerned—he
would not merely suffer the usual disillusionment, heartbreak, and
humiliation.

This
time his folly would injure others. His brothers would lose their
property, and Gordmor would be, if not utterly ruined, then left in
greatly embarrassed circumstances. That was no way to repay the man
who'd saved his life, not to mention his leg. Alistair must prove
himself worthy of the trust his friend had placed in him.

He
must prove as well to Lord Hargate that his third son was not an
idle, useless fop of a parasite.

Praying
his face told no tales, Alistair casually drew back, bowed, and
murmured the usual polite response.

"You
wanted my father, I know," the girl said. "He appointed to
meet with you today."

"I
collect he has been detained elsewhere."

"Exactly,"
she said. "I have considered engraving that as his epitaph:
'Sylvester Oldridge, Beloved Father, Detained Elsewhere.' Of course,
that would truly be the case, would it not, were he in need of an
epitaph."

The
faint color rising in her cheeks belied the coolness of her voice. It
was instinctive to incline toward that hint of a blush, to see if it
would grow rosier still.

Rather
hastily she moved away and began untying the ribbons of her bonnet.

Alistair
came to his senses, straightened, and said composedly, "Since
you imply he is not yet in need of it, one may safely assume he is
detained only in the usual sense, not the permanent one."

"All
too usual," she said. "If you were a moss or a lichen or
possessed stamens and pistils or any other uniquely vegetative
quality, he would remember the smallest detail about you. But if you
were the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the eternal disposition of my
father's soul depended upon his meeting you at such and such a time,
it would be exactly the same as this."

Alistair
was too much occupied with stifling inconvenient feelings to absorb
her words. Luckily, her attire finally caught his attention, and this
promptly purged his brain of poetic drivel.

The
riding dress was of costly fabric and well made, but in a dowdy style
and a shade of green unflattering to her coloring. The bonnet
likewise was of superior quality, but frumpy. Alistair was baffled.
How could a woman who obviously understood quality have no
acquaintance whatsoever with taste or fashion?

The
contradiction annoyed him, and this, combined with stifled feelings,
perhaps explained why he grew so unreasonably irritated when, instead
of untying the bonnet ribbons, she proceeded to tangle them.

"And
so I ask you to overlook my father's absence as a quirk or ailment of
character," she was saying as she tried to undo the tangle, "and
not take offense. Drat." She tugged the ribbons, which only
tightened the Gordian knot she'd created.

"May
I assist you, Miss Oldridge?" Alistair said.

She
retreated a pace. "Thank you, but I do not see why we should
both be aggravated by a stubborn bit of ribbon."

He
advanced upon her. "I must insist," he said. "You are
only making it worse."

She
clutched the knotted ribbon with one hand.

"You
can't see what you're doing," he said. He nudged her hand.

She
brought her hands to her sides and went stiff as a board. Her blue
gaze fastened on the knot of his neckcloth.

"I
must ask you to tilt your head back," Alistair said.

She
did so, and her eyes focused above and somewhere to his right. Her
eyelashes were darker than her hair, and long. A wash of pink came
and went in her cheeks.

Alistair
forced his own gaze lower—past her overwide mouth—to the
knot, which was very hard and very small. He had to bend close to
look for a likely opening in it.

Instantly
he became aware of a scent that wasn't wet wool, but Woman. His heart
gave a series of hard thumps.

Resolutely
ignoring these disturbances, he managed to get one well-manicured
nail into a sliver of an opening. But the ribbon was damp, and the
knot gave way not one iota, and he could feel her breath on his face.
His pulse picked up speed.

He
straightened. "The situation appears hopeless," he said. "I
recommend surgery."

Later
he would realize he should have recommended she send for her maid,
but at the time he was distracted by her lower lip, the corner of
which was caught between her teeth.

"Very
well, then," she said, still looking at the spot above his head.
"Rip it or cut it—whatever is quickest. The thing gives
more trouble than it's worth."

Alistair
took out his penknife and neatly sliced the ribbon. He longed to tear
the bonnet from her head, hack it to shreds, throw it down, and stomp
on it, then hurl it into the fire—and by the way, have the
milliner pilloried for making it in the first place.

Instead,
he withdrew to a safe distance, put away his penknife, and told
himself to calm down.

Miss
Oldridge snatched the bonnet from her head, stared at it for a
moment, then carelessly tossed it onto a nearby chair.

"That's
better," she said, and beamed up at him once more. "I was
beginning to wonder if I must wear the thing for the rest of my
life."

The
billowing cloud of fiery hair and the smile knocked Alistair's
thoughts about as though they were a lot of ninepins in his skull. He
firmly put them back to rights.

"I
sincerely hope not," he said.

"I
do apologize for bothering you with it," she said. "You
endured trials enough, I daresay, coming all this way for nothing.
Not that I know where you came from."

"Matlock
Bath," he said. "Not a great ways by any means. A few
miles." At least twenty it had seemed, on filthy roads, under
skies spitting icy rain. "There is no harm done. I shall come
another day, when it is more convenient." When, he fervently
hoped, she would be detained elsewhere.

"Unless
it is convenient for you to come as a pawpaw tree, it will be another
wasted journey," she said. "Even if  you should happen
to find my father at home, you shan't find him at home, if you take
my meaning."

Alistair
didn't quite take it, but before he could ask her to explain, a pair
of servants entered, bearing trays laden with enough sustenance for a
company of Light Dragoons. "I beg you to partake of some
refreshment," she said, "while I withdraw for a moment to
make myself presentable. Since you've come all this way, you might as
well acquaint me with your errand. Perhaps I can help you."

Alistair
was certain it would be fatal to spend any more time alone with her.
The smile muddled him horribly.

"Really,
Miss Oldridge, it is no great matter," he said. "I can come
another day. I plan to stay in the area for some time." As long
as was necessary. He'd promised to take care of the problem, and he
would not return to London until he'd done so.

"It
will be the same no matter what day you come." She started
toward the door. "Even if you do run Papa to ground, he won't
attend to anything you say." She paused to direct a questioning
look at him. "Unless you are vegetative?"

"I
beg your pardon?"

"Botanical,"
she said. "I was aware you had been in the army, but that
doesn't mean you haven't another occupation in civilian life. Are you
botanical?" "Not in the least," Alistair said. "Then
he won't attend." She continued to the door. Alistair was
beginning to wish he'd let her choke on the bonnet ribbons. He said,
"Miss Oldridge, I have a letter from your father, in which he
expresses not only a strong interest in my project, but a clear grasp
of its implications. I find it difficult to believe that the man who
wrote this letter will heed nothing I say."

That
stopped her in her tracks. She turned fully toward him, blue eyes
wide. "My father has written to you?" "He replied to
my letter immediately." There was a longish pause before she
said, "It is about a project, you said. But not connected to
botany."

"A
dull matter of business," he said. "A canal."

She
paled a little, then her animated face hardened into a polite mask.
"Lord Gordmor's canal."

"You
have heard about it, then."

"Who
has not?"

"Yes,
well, there seems to be some misunderstanding about his lordship's
plans."

She
folded her hands at her waist. "A misunderstanding," she
said.

The
temperature in the room was rapidly dropping.

"I've
come to clear it up," Alistair said. "Lord Gordmor is ill
at present—the influenza—but I am a partner in the
enterprise and acquainted with every detail. I am sure I can ease
your father's apprehensions."

"If
you think we are merely apprehensive," she said, "you are
laboring under a grievous misapprehension. We—and I believe I
speak for the majority of landowners on Longledge Hill—are
inalterably opposed to the canal."

"With
respect, Miss Oldridge, I believe the proposal has been
misrepresented, and I am sure the gentlemen of the Longledge area
will, in the interests of fairness, grant me an opportunity to
correct and clarify matters. Since your father is by far the largest
landowner hereabouts, I wished to speak to him first. His good
opinion, I know, will carry great weight with his neighbors."

The
corners of her wide mouth turned up a very little, creating a shadow
of a smile disagreeably reminiscent of his father's.

"Very
well," she said. "We shall search for him. But perhaps you
will allow me a few minutes to don something cleaner and drier."
She gestured at her riding dress.