Miss Wonderful (31 page)

"No
letters, miss," said Nancarrow. "Too taxing for the
gentleman's brain."

"It
is only a few lines," Mirabel began, then thought better of it.
Unlike her own butler, Nancarrow was unaccustomed to thinking for
himself, and could not, as Benton did, distinguish the proper
circumstances for making exceptions to general rules. If she pressed
the matter, she would only vex herself and make him miserable.

She
drove away.

But
not, as Nancarrow assumed, home.

ALISTAIR
returned from his daily perambulation of the captain's neatly
manicured park about the time the gig made a detour, invisible to
Nancarrow, onto a back lane.

Unaware
of the recent dispute at the front of the house, Alistair was
startled when a shower of pebbles struck his bedroom window, which
was on the first floor at the back of the house.

Advancing
to the window, he beheld Miss Oldridge standing in a flower bed
below. His spirits instantly broke free of the gloomy mire into which
they'd been steadily sinking since breakfast.

He
opened the window. "Miss—"

"Shhhh!"
She pointed to one side. Alistair looked. A tall, ancient-looking
ladder stood against the building. While he watched in blank
disbelief, she shifted the decrepit ladder until it rested next to
his bedroom window.

"Miss
Oldridge," he began.

She
gave him an admonishing look and put her finger to her lips. Then she
began climbing up.

Alistair
wondered if he was dreaming. Since this was far pleasanter than his
usual dreams, he was content to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

In
very short order, the top of her ugly grey bonnet was level with the
window ledge. An instant later, she was looking up at him, as though
it were an everyday sort of thing for her to be perched on a rickety
ladder a full story above ground level.

Dizzy,
Alistair gazed into her twilight blue eyes and debated whether it was
safe to sweep her off the ladder and into his arms.

"Mr.
Carsington," she said.

"Miss
Oldridge."

She
beamed up at him. "I have come to beg a boon."

The
smile reduced his brain to jelly. "Anything," he said.

"I
thought you would wish to be apprised…" Her brow creased.
She leant back, her smile fading.

Alistair
grabbed the ladder. "Don't do that! Are you insane?"

"You're
very ill," she said. "No wonder Nancarrow was so obstinate.
I should have realized." She started to climb down.

"I
am not ill," he said.

She
paused. "You look dreadful. I am sure you should not be standing
at an open window."

"Miss
Oldridge, if you do not tell me what this is about, I shall climb
down after you," he said. "Without my overcoat or my hat."

She
came back up. "You'll do nothing of the kind," she said. "I
only came about business. I had not considered how much it would tax
your mind."

"What
business? You said you wanted a boon."

"In
a manner of speaking." She stared at the rung she was holding.
"But I did not think it through. I had not taken into account
your great debt to Lord Gordmor. To have to choose between fair play
and loyalty—" She shook her head. "It is too much to
burden you with when you are ill."

"I
am not ill," he said.

She
looked up at him. "Something is wrong."

"Yes,
something is wrong," he said. "Something is terribly wrong.
You. Me. This." A sweep of his hand took in the space between
them. "What is between us."

She
looked down toward the ground—a dreadfully long way down, it
seemed to him. Her gloved hands curved more tightly about the rung
she held onto. "I wish you had not said that," she said.

"I
didn't mean to. But you—" He broke off, because she was
ascending, quickly, and then she was shifting onto the ledge.

"Good
God!" Heart pounding, he grabbed her and hauled her inside.

He
wanted to shake her, but she broke free and stepped back out of
reach.

"You
could have been killed," he growled.

"Only
if you dropped me." Her voice was shaky. "You shouldn't
have grabbed me. I knew what I was doing."

"Did
you?"

"I'm
a countrywoman." She straightened her bonnet. "Not like
your London ladies."

"No,
not at all," he said. "You are not like anybody. You
are—you are—"

Her
blue gaze lifted to his, and memories flooded him: every look, every
touch… the whispery sound of her voice, the infinite variety
of her smiles… the sweet yielding of her body. He, with his
renowned tact and powers of address—he, who'd always used words
so effortlessly, couldn't string a thought together, let alone find
words to express what he felt.

He
made a helpless gesture and said stupidly, inadequately, "You
are turning everything upside down and inside out."

She
flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his waist and smashing
her ugly bonnet against his chest simultaneously.

He
caught his breath, closed his arms tightly about her, and crushed her
to him.

"You
shouldn't have come," he growled into the top of her bonnet.
"But I'm so glad you did."

"I
should have stayed away, but I couldn't," she said, her voice
muffled against his coat. "I jumped at the first excuse."

"I've
missed you so much," he said.

"Good.
I've been perfectly wretched about you." She drew back enough to
look up into his face. "Ever since you left, I've been wishing
we'd finished what we started. I've wished you hadn't stopped. I've
wished you had undone all my buttons and strings and didn't care
about the consequences."

"You
don't know what you're saying," he said. He did, and wished he
didn't. He was not made of iron.

"I'm
telling you the truth," she said. "Why should I pretend?
I'm always making excuses, telling myself as well as you tales to
protect…" Her voice wavered. "I don't know what I'm
protecting. My vanity. My pride."

"Your
honor," he said.

"Must
I protect it?" she said. "Shall I leave now? Why didn't you
chase me away before I spoke?" She pulled away, her lower lip
trembling. "Wretched man."

"My
dear…" Oh, he was lost. He wished she'd simply stick a
dagger in his heart and be done with it.

"Your
dear," she said. "Your dear." She gave a short laugh
and wiped her eyes. "Oh, don't look so—so—Don't look
that way. I shan't weep, I despise women who use tears to get what
they want. I was merely overcome for a moment. With exasperation."

"I
should give anything," he said, "to have it otherwise."

There
was a long, taut pause. Then she said, "You wish I were not a
gently bred maiden, is that it? If I were not an unwed lady, what
then?" She pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the floor.
Then she began to untie her bonnet ribbons. "What then?"
she repeated. "What if I were not quite a lady, after all?"

Alistair
stared at the gloves and at her naked hands, swiftly undoing the
ribbons. "You cannot be…" He trailed off while his
mind struggled with an incredible possibility.

She
pulled off the bonnet and tossed it onto a chair.

"No,"
he said.

She
began unbuttoning her pelisse. "I am one and thirty years old,"
she said. "I should like to gather my rosebuds before the petals
shrivel up and fall off."

Chapter
12

THE
expression on his magnificently patrician countenance was priceless.
If she hadn't been so nervous, Mirabel would have laughed. But she
was quaking in her boots, and if she paused, even to laugh, she would
lose her courage.

"This
joke is not amusing," he said.

"I've
never been more serious in my life," she said.

He'd
said he missed her. He'd said he had feelings for her. Perhaps those
feelings simply added up to lust, but that was all right. What she
felt was lust, too.

It
had been so long since she'd felt desire, so very long since a man
had returned her feelings. She had held back with William and
preserved her virtue for honor's sake. She'd let the man she loved
go, for duty's sake. She would not let honor and duty rule this time,
not completely.

She
and Mr. Carsington were alone, and this time they were not under her
father's roof or at the hotel. No one had seen her enter his bedroom,
and no one need see her leave it. Such an opportunity would never
come again.