"Well,
if you must split hairs so fine," she said unsteadily.
"I
certainly must," he said. "Furthermore, I am not
cultivating your father. He has been kind and amiable to me, and
altogether impossible to dislike, even for your sake. If anyone is
being won over, it is I. This is why—"
He
broke off with a gasp as she grabbed his lapels. "Miss
Oldridge."
She
looked up at him.
He
looked down at her hands. "You're wrinkling my coat," he
said in horrified tones.
Mirabel
smiled, though her heart banged as loudly as a cannon volley.
His
gaze went from her hands to her mouth, and the horrified look faded.
His eyes darkened.
Her
breath came and went too fast, and her knees wanted to buckle. She
tipped her head back.
He
bent toward her—then drew back. "No. There is too much at
stake. I cannot be—"
Mirabel
tugged on the lapels, pulling him to her, and kissed him, full on the
lips.
It
was like kissing a block of wood.
Her
spirits, a moment ago so agitated, plunged into a black abyss.
She
started to draw away.
"Oh,
don't look like that," he said. "I am only—It isn't
that I don't want… Oh, what's the use?"
He
let go of the cane, and it toppled to the floor.
He
caught her face in his hands and gazed at her for a long moment. She
brought her hands up to cover his. They were warm, and his touch was
gentle, as though she were fragile. She wasn't, and for a moment,
nothing at all made sense, and butterflies fluttered in the pit of
her stomach.
Then
he lowered his mouth to hers, and with the first gentle pressure of
his lips, the world changed.
Mirabel
had been kissed before, and passionately, too, and she'd responded
passionately because she'd been in love.
But
this was different, as different as another universe, and she didn't
care about passion or love, only that it was sweet and made her limbs
weak.
He
wrapped his arms about her, and drew her closer, and deepened the
kiss. The intimacy of it, the first taste of him, made her shiver. It
shut down her mind as well, and left her in a haze of feeling. She
was aware of the tickle of his neckcloth and the faint mingled
fragrances of starch and soap and something else, something far
headier: the scent of his skin. She wanted to bury her face in his
neck. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, everywhere.
She
pressed herself closer, tucking into the hard length of his body. His
arms tightened about her, so strong, and she, who'd spent years
relying only on her own strength, ached with the sweetness of it. To
be held so, to want and be wanted—it hurt, and the hurt showed
her how carefully, safely numb she'd been all these long years.
She
didn't want to be safe now. Their kiss grew fiercer, much more
wicked, and hazy pleasure thickened into intoxication. She dragged
her hands through his hair and broke the kiss to press her mouth to
the corner of his, the place where he hid his smiles. She drank in
the scent of him, male and clean yet dark, too, and faintly
dangerous, like the hint of danger in his bedchamber, the languor
that seemed to hang in the air, the sultry atmosphere, hinting at
sin.
He
turned his head and teased as she did, his mouth caressing her cheek,
her jaw, her neck. Some sound escaped her, foreign. A sigh, a moan.
She felt his hands slide downward to cup her bottom. She gasped at
the intimacy, those long hands, touching her there—and then he
was lifting her up, as smoothly and easily as if she were made of
air. A moment later he'd deposited her, breathless, on the desk.
He
leaned in and kissed her, and she forgot she was shocked, forgot
everything but him. Instinctively, she opened her legs so that he
could get closer, and when he did, she wrapped her arms about his
neck. He made a sound, something between a groan and a growl, and
broke the kiss. For a moment he rested his forehead against hers.
He
drew a long, shaky breath, then lifted his head. He tangled his
fingers in her hair and drew her head back and looked at her. He was
breathing hard, and his eyes were very dark.
"Now
would be a good time to tell me to stop," he growled.
"Oh,"
Mirabel said. It was hard to get out the one syllable, and it sounded
thick and muffled, not her voice at all. "Yes. Thank you. I
didn't know. When." Didn't know. Didn't care.
"I
thought not." He dragged his fingers through her hair and smiled
rather sadly, then let go and took a step back. "It is fortunate
for you that I am mending my ways. And may I say that it is uphill
work."
She
wished he'd picked another time to mend his ways.
He
cleared his throat. "You took a great chance, leaving it to me
to call a halt to the proceedings. Another few minutes, and I should
have had all your buttons and strings undone—at which point I
should be beyond caring about the consequences."
"Oh,"
Mirabel said, and then, as his words sank in. "Oh." Another
few minutes. What would it have been like?
"I
should like to know what use it is to have a chaperon when she is
never about when she is needed," he said irritably. "If the
lady were doing her job, this sort of thing would not happen."
"It
isn't as though I do this sort of thing all the time," Mirabel
said.
"That
is obvious," he said.
She
slid down from the desk. "I'm sorry if my lack of skill annoys
you. I should be much better at this if I had practice, but as you
can imagine, the opportunities are rare." She sighed.
"Nonexistent, actually."
"That
isn't the issue! The issue is your ignorance about protecting your
virtue. Someone should have taught you ages ago—"
"I
was taught," she said. "But it was ages ago, and I barely
remember, and anyway, I am not sure what the point is of protecting
it anymore."
"The
point?" he said. "The point?"
"It
does not seem very important," she said. It seemed completely
wrong at the moment, in fact. Perverse.
"It
doesn't need a point." He raked his fingers through his hair,
adding to the wonderful disorder she'd made. "It is a moral
principle. Part of the higher order of things. A matter of honor."
"Honor
is so important to men," she said. "Can you not look after
it yourself, if it is so important? You should have fought me off the
way you fought the French. You should not leave it all to me. I do
not have seven or eight love affairs' worth of experience in these
things. It is most unjust to expect a woman of little experience to
resist an attractive man of extensive experience."
"It
is unjust," he said between his teeth, "but that is the way
it is. I cannot believe I am trying to explain the facts of life to a
woman of one and thirty. Men are animals, Miss Oldridge. It is most
unwise to leave such things to us. This is a perfect example. I had
resolved, most firmly, to remain deaf, dumb, and blind to your
attractions."
"My
attract—"
"I
am here on crucial business," he went on. "The most
important of my life. You can have no inkling how much depends upon
it. Yet every encounter with you serves only to drive it farther and
farther from my mind. This must not continue. I cannot become
entangled with you, no matter how much I want to."
"No
matter how much you—"
"When
you are about, I forget why I am here and how much depends upon me,"
he said. "The longer I am under this roof, the more addled I
become. I cannot believe I went to the length of hunting you down
this day. But yes, I can, as I can believe what followed. If I remain
any longer, I shall turn into a dithering imbecile—and your
reputation will be in shreds."
If
he remained? Mirabel's lust-drugged mind abruptly cleared. "You
cannot be thinking of leaving," she said. "I am sure Dr.
Woodfrey did not give permission for that."
It
was then she noticed the discarded cane lying on the floor. "Oh,
I had forgotten your ankle," she said. "You are not
supposed to put any weight on it." She was sure he wasn't
supposed to be picking up a woman who weighed rather more than air.
If his ankle did not heal properly, it would be her fault. "I
should have considered—"
He
picked up the cane. "Pray do not add me to your
responsibilities," he said. "You have more than enough. I
have far too few. I reckon I can meet the challenge of being
responsible for myself, if nothing else." He limped to the desk
and collected a handful of hairpins. "Here, let me do something
useful. It will reduce the whispering in the servants' hall if you do
not emerge from this room looking as though your houseguest had
ravished you."
AWARE
he must leave before his limited willpower gave way, Alistair made
quick work of Miss Oldridge's hair. Then, ignoring her protests, he
hastened to his chamber and ordered Crewe to start packing.
Crewe
didn't argue. He only gave a sad little cough and donned a stoic
expression. This was his way of saying, "You are wrong,
tragically wrong."
Alistair
ignored it.
He
could not ignore Captain Hughes, however, who marched in a short time
later without so much as a by-your-leave, and briskly announced that
Mr. Carsington would stay at his house.
Alistair
thanked him and politely declined.
"I
must urge you to reconsider," said the captain. "If you
return to Wilkerson's, Miss Oldridge will worry herself sick."
"There
is nothing to worry about," Alistair said. "I only need to
rest, which I can do as well in my hotel as here." He doubted he
would rest at all until he was far away from Mirabel Oldridge. If not
for the canal, he would head straight back to London this instant.
"She's
worried about Crewe," Hughes said. "He sits up with you
most of the night, she says, then attends you all day. At the hotel,
he'll have no help. There aren't enough servants, and they are always
busy. He'll have to supervise Wilkerson's cook closely as well,
because she can't be relied upon to prepare correctly the light
dishes Dr. Wood-frey has prescribed. In short, Miss Oldridge asks you
to consider your valet if you won't consider yourself."
Alistair
looked at Crewe, who went on with the packing, pretending to be deaf.
"Miss
Oldridge blames herself for upsetting you," the captain went on.
"She
did not upset me," Alistair said. "I am entirely to blame."
Hughes
rolled his eyes. "I cannot believe these dramatics—about a
canal, no less! I couldn't believe my ears when Miss Oldridge
declared she'd go with Mrs. Entwhis-tle to Cromford, so that you'd
remain here."
"That's
ridiculous," Alistair said. "I have no wish to drive the
lady from her own home."
"I
should hope not. She'll spend the whole time fretting about
everything here, and what is or isn't being done in her absence, and
what might go wrong, and a hundred other anxieties. Not to mention
that Mrs. Entwhistle will be obliged to pack again and travel, when
she's scarcely arrived."
"Miss
Oldridge oughtn't have so much to worry about!" Alistair
snapped. "I like Mr. Oldridge, but it is wrong for him to leave
everything to her. If he must indulge his botanical passions, he
should hire a proper steward to look after estate business. It is
unreasonable to expect her to be both mistress of the house and lord
of the manor. Have you seen her desk? Great heaps of letters in that
beastly law hand—and judging by the expression on her face when
I entered, it was about as plain to her as Chinese is to me."
Alistair
wished he could forget what he'd seen during the moment he'd stood
unnoticed in the study doorway, watching her. She was dragging one
hand through her hair, covering the legal correspondence with
hairpins. In the other she had a pen whose ink she'd spattered on her
sleeve.
But
it was her face that troubled him most. She looked so weary and
despairing. He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her
away—on his white charger, no doubt.
"She's
clever and capable," he said tightly, "but it is too much
for one person. Even my father, who reads every confounded
tradesman's bill and can tell me to the farthing how much I have
outspent each quarter's allowance—even he leaves the better
part of managing his properties to his agents. He has a secretary as
well. Miss Oldridge does it all herself and receives no thanks or
even acknowledgment. It is a wonder she hasn't had every feminine
feeling ground out of her by now. That only her wardrobe and hair
suffer is a testament to what I consider a miraculous resilience."