Miss Wonderful (7 page)

What
he could perceive was her sad excuse for a coiffure coming apart. A
cluster of coppery curls had fallen out of the roll and dangled at
her neck. Atop her head, curls sprang out singly and in clumps. He
watched her push one long tendril out of her face and behind her ear.

It
was a gesture a woman might make after she'd undressed and taken down
her hair… or upon rising from her pillows in the morning…
or after lovenaking.

She
wasn't supposed to do it at the dinner table. She was supposed to
arrive there properly coifed and dressed and in perfect order. She
wasn't supposed to be tumbling all to pieces, as though she'd been
recently ravished.

Alistair
told himself to ignore it and brace for trouble. He tried to attend
to his meal, but his appetite was gone. He was too aware of her—the
fetching gesture, the disorderly curls—and a tension in the
air. Even when he looked or turned his mind elsewhere, he couldn't
shed his consciousness of her.

Clearly,
his host discerned nothing amiss but went on steadily eating, a
contented if distant look on his face. It was fortunate he did so
much walking and climbing, for the botanist ate enough for any two
large men.

Mr.
Oldridge talked about experiments with tulips during the remainder of
the meal. Finally, Miss Oldridge departed, leaving the men to their
port and allowing Alistair to put what was out of sight out of mind.

He
fixed his mind on business and commenced making his case for the
canal.

While
he talked, his host contemplated the chandelier. Still, he must have
heard something, because at the end of Alistair's presentation, the
botanist said, "Yes, well, I do see your point, but it's
complicated, you see."

"Canals
are rarely simple matters," Alistair said. "When one is
obliged to use other people's land, one must be prepared to
accommodate and compensate them, and each party's requirements are
bound to be different."

"Yes,
yes, but it is very like the tulip experiment," said his host.
"Without you apply the Farina Fecundens, they will not bear
seed. It is explained in Bradley's account, but Miller made similar
experiments. You will not find the account in every edition of the
Gardener's Dictionary. I will lend you one of my copies, and you may
read it for yourself."

Following
this incomprehensible response, Mr. Oldridge proposed they rejoin
Mirabel, who would be awaiting them in the library.

Alistair
begged to be excused. It was growing late and he must return to his
hotel.

"But
you must stay the night," Mr. Oldridge said. "You cannot
travel all that way in the dark. The road, I am sorry to say, can be
difficult, even in broad day."

Yes,
and that is why you need a canal! Alistair wanted to shout.

Since
he wanted to, a retreat, clearly, was in order.

At
any rate, he needed to think rationally, which meant he must get
away. Rational thinking was next to impossible in Miss Oldridge's
vicinity.

Matters
here were not at all as he and Gordy had supposed. What, precisely,
the trouble was, Alistair couldn't say. At present he knew only that
both Mr. and Miss Oldridge had an uncanny ability to rattle him,
which, as Gordy had remarked, was exceedingly difficult.

Alistair
was not high-strung. He might become emotional about women, but his
nerves were steady, perhaps to a fault. A jumpier man, he was sure,
could not possibly have landed in so many scrapes, because such a man
would have hesitated and thought, at least once if not twice.

At
present, Alistair's nerves showed alarming signs of fraying.

Even
if they'd been their usual rocklike selves, he couldn't stay. He'd
worn the same clothes all day—through dinner, no less—which
made him a little ill, and no doubt contributed to his prickly mood.
To don these same articles of clothing on the morrow was out of the
question.

Alistair
had borne such privations on the battlefield because he had no
choice. Oldridge Hall was not a battlefield—not yet, at any
rate.

A
short while later, therefore, having also declined his host's offer
of a carriage, Alistair set out on horseback, under steadily falling
sleet, for Matlock Bath.

MR.
Carsington was already on his way before Mirabel learned of his
departure.

Her
father relayed the news in a state of bewilderment. "He was in a
great hurry to go, and it was quite impossible to dissuade him."

Mirabel
hurried to the window and looked out. She could see only as far as
the light of the library reached, but that was enough to show her the
state of things.

"It's
sleeting," she said. "I cannot believe you let Lord
Hargate's son depart, on horseback, to travel in an ice storm all the
way to Matlock."

"Perhaps
you are right," he said. "Perhaps I should have summoned
some of the largest footmen to subdue him and tie him to…
something." He looked about as though in search of a suitable
something. "But I cannot think how otherwise he was to be
prevented."

"Why
did you not send for me?"

Her
parent frowned. "I cannot say why, but it did not occur to me. I
am sorry it did not. The trouble was, he put me in mind of a cactus,
and I found myself contemplating the spiny tufts, which might serve a
reproductive purpose, though it is generally explained—Why,
child, where are you going?"

Mirabel
was hurrying out to the hall. "I am going after him, of course.
Otherwise, he will break his neck or his horse's leg—or most
likely, both—and we shall never hear the end of it. Good God!
An earl's son. The Earl of Hargate's son! The famous Waterloo hero,
no less—and wounded in the line of duty. Oh, it does not bear
thinking of. Really, Papa, you will drive me to distraction one of
these days. The man hurls himself to certain death while you are
contemplating cactus spines."

"But
my dear, it is quite important—"

Mirabel
didn't hear him. She was running down the hall.

MOMENTS
later, mounted on an unhandsome but surefooted and imperturbable
gelding, Mirabel rode out into the night. She caught up with her
quarry a short distance past the park gates. The thick sleet had
thinned to icy rain, but it could easily thicken and thin again a
score of times in the course of the night.

"Mr.
Carsington!" she shouted into the downpour. He was only a dark,
man-shaped form on a dark, horse-shaped form, but the form was tall
enough and sat straight enough, despite the rain pouring from his hat
brim down his neck—and anyway who else could it be?

He
halted. "Miss Oldridge?" He turned his head her way. It was
too dark to see his face. "What are you doing here? Are you
mad?"

"You
must return to the house at once," she said.

"You
must be insane," he said.

"You
are no longer in London," she said. "The next house is a
mile away. In this weather, it will take you two hours at the very
least to reach Matlock Bath—and that is only barring accident."

"It
is of vital importance that I return to my hotel," he said. "I
beg you to return to your house. They ought not have let you leave.
You will catch your death."

"I
am but a few minutes from a good blaze," she said. "You are
the one who'll catch his death. Then what are we to tell your
father?"

"Miss
Oldridge, no one tells my father anything," he said.

"Or
you, either, I collect."

"Miss
Oldridge, while we remain here disputing, the animals grow chilled. I
am sure they will be better off moving, yours in the opposite
direction of mine. I thank you for your hospitality, and I appreciate
your concern for my well-being, but it is quite impossible for me to
remain."

"Mr.
Carsington, whatever engagements you have for tomorrow—"

"Miss
Oldridge, you do not understand: I have nothing to wear."

"You're
funning me," she said.

"I
never joke about such things," he said.

"Nothing
to wear."

"Exactly."

"I
see," she said.

She
had seen long before now but had failed to come to the logical
conclusion. Logic had taken second place to reactions lower on the
intellectual plane.

She
had observed him closely enough, had been unable to keep from
observing.

She
had an all too vivid recollection of the way the expensively tailored
coat hugged broad shoulders and the powerful torso that tapered to a
narrow waist. She had a clear image in her mind's eye of the
exquisite embroidery of his silk waistcoat with its one upper button
undone… and of the snugly fitting breeches outlining muscular
thighs… and such long legs. Merely recalling sent heat washing
through her, though she sat in darkness upon a horse in a cold,
driving rain.

She
could not help the heat. It was natural enough, she told herself. He
was a hero and looked the part: tall, strong, and handsome. Few women
could gaze on him unmoved.

All
the same, she retained intellect enough to comprehend his irrational
determination to travel at night in this filthy weather.

She
had not spent two seasons in London without learning something about
dandies, and this was a dandy if ever she had met one… though
she'd never met one quite so imposingly built.

"Well,
that's different, then," she said. "Good night, Mr.
Carsington."

She
turned and rode back to the house.

To
her surprise, Mirabel found her father pacing the vestibule when she
returned. Usually, he drank his tea in the library while pausing
botanical tomes, then proceeded to the conservatory to say good night
to the divers vegetable matter therein.

"Oh,
dear. You could not persuade him," Papa said as she gave her
dripping bonnet and cloak to the footman.

"He
has nothing to wear," she said.

Her
father blinked at her.

"He
is a dandy, Papa," she said. "Deprived of what he deems
proper dress, he is like a plant deprived of vital nutrients. He
wilts and dies, and one can scarcely imagine the agonies he suffers
in the process." She started toward the stairs.

Her
father followed her. "I knew something was wrong. It is like the
cactus spines."

"Papa,
I am wet and somewhat out of sorts, and I should like—"

"But
he limps," her father persisted.

"I
observed that," Mirabel said. How she wished for a less
heartbreakingly gallant manner of limping! It made her feel things
she didn't want to and couldn't afford to. And anyway, it was
ridiculous at her age, after her experience…

She
proceeded up the stairs. "I understand he was quite seriously
injured at Waterloo."

Her
father trailed after her. "Yes, Benton told me about it. Yet I
strongly suspect Mr. Carsington also suffered a head injury without
realizing. I have heard of such cases. That would explain, you see."

"Explain
what?"

"The
cactus spines."

"Papa,
I haven't the least idea what you mean."

"No,
no, I daresay." She heard his footsteps pause behind her.
"Perhaps he will not understand about the tulips, after all.
Yes, perhaps you are right. Well, good night, dear."

"Good
night, Papa." Mirabel climbed the stairs and went to her room.
Though she was tired, she blamed it on overstrained nerves. She had
not been prepared. Had she been forewarned of Mr. Carsington's
arrival… but she hadn't been, had not even imagined this turn
of events.

She
had made an incorrect assumption about Lord Gordmor that could prove
to be disastrous. She'd never dreamt he would be so persistent.

She'd
erred, and it was too late to undo the error. All she could do was
take a lesson from it. She'd based her calculations on insufficient
information. She would not make that mistake twice.

And
so, after she had shed her damp clothes and dried off and donned a
warm nightgown and robe, she went to her sitting room. There,
comfortably ensconced in a soft chair before the fire, she wrote a
letter to Lady Sherfield in London. If there was anything about Mr.
Carsington Aunt Clothilde didn't know, it wasn't worth knowing.