They rode in silence for a few minutes. “Lady Garret—”
She gave him a look of such vile disgust he thought better of trying to make amends for now.
At last they reached Fairborough and he reined the horse to a stop. “Lady Garret—”
She smiled in an overly pleasant manner that didn’t fool him for a moment. Nor, he suspected, did she wish to. “Lord Stillwell, it is difficult enough for a female to be accepted on a building site without workers seeing her in a dispute with the owner of the property. To that end, I suggest we appear as cordial as possible.”
He nodded. “My point exactly.”
She shook her head in confusion. “Your point?”
“About the place of women,” he said firmly, even as he knew it was not the best thing to say. Still, it was the truth.
She choked and he was fairly certain, had they not been in public, she would have had to have been forcibly restrained from wrapping her hands around his throat.
“Nothing to say?”
“Nothing you would not consider unbecoming.”
“Well then, nothing is perhaps best.” He hopped out of the carriage and circled it to assist her. She allowed him to do so in a perfunctory manner, that annoying pleasant smile still on her face.
“It was a pleasure, Lady Garret,” he said with a pleasant smile of his own and the absolute conviction that he had won this particular skirmish. Even if that hadn’t been his intention. Even if it gave him no particular satisfaction and, indeed, he felt rather bad about the whole thing. Not, he amended, about making his point about the role of women but about offending her by referring to her as a governess, although he still wasn’t entirely sure why that had so angered her. “Perhaps we can do it again another time?”
“I would not wager on that if I were you. However . . .” She flashed him a brilliant smile, but her green—green—eyes sparked with anger. “I should love to join you for dinner.”
His mouth dropped open. “Dinner?”
She leaned close and lowered her voice in a seductive manner. “And breakfast as well.”
He swallowed hard. “Breakfast?”
“I do enjoy a good breakfast, especially after a long, long sleepless night. Why, I find I am usually famished.”
His breath caught. “Lady Garret!”
“Shocked, my lord?” A cool note sounded in her voice. “Not expecting comments about long, sleepless nights from a governess?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled his most wicked smile. “No, but I find it delightful. Why it’s every little boy’s dream come true.”
If anything her smile brightened. “I should like nothing better than to crack my hand across your face.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Most delightful.”
“Or perhaps strangle you with my bare hands.”
“I should like nothing better than to feel your bare hands around my neck.” He paused. “Or elsewhere.”
Her smile didn’t so much as flicker. “One should be careful what one wishes for, my lord.”
“Oh, I am always careful about wishes, Lady Garret.”
Her gaze locked with his. Challenge simmered in her emerald eyes. And he realized she was much more than he had expected. More, perhaps, than he was prepared for. Still, he always had liked a challenge.
“Breakfast it is then, my lord. At a suitable interval after dinner, of course.”
“And how shall we fill those hours between dinner and breakfast?” Had this been any other woman—oh, say, a woman who actually liked him—the answer would have been obvious. But he was beginning to realize, in spite of anything she might say, he could take absolutely nothing for granted with Lady Garret.
“Why, I expect we shall fill them in the same manner most men and women do. Until then, Lord Stillwell.” She nodded, turned and strode off toward her makeshift command post.
And what manner is that? It was on the tip of his tongue, but for the first time today, he didn’t say the wrong thing. Besides, he would have had to call out after her and she was right: that would have been most unseemly. He had no more desire to let the workmen know what they had been discussing than she did. Instead, he plastered a pleasant expression on his face, nodded to a few of the workers, climbed back into the carriage and started for Millworth Manor.
All had not gone exactly according to plan today. In some ways it had gone better. He had learned she longed to visit Greece and there was a decidedly whimsical touch to her nature. She did not discount his assertion that he had seen Thomas and Anne and did not think him an idiot. Well, not for that.
He still wasn’t entirely sure why calling her a governess had annoyed her so, but it obviously did. He had thought his comments were rather complimentary. Besides, he had always liked his governesses. And Lady Garret did strike him as the kind of woman . . .
Realization smacked into him as hard as if she actually had slapped him across the face. What woman wanted to be complimented for her efficiency, competence and assertiveness? Even if the woman in question did indeed embody all those qualities. No, in his experience women wanted to be told their skin was like alabaster and their voices rivaled that of the angels and the glories of even the finest spring day paled in comparison to their loveliness. That was certainly an opportunity he had missed.
It had started out well enough today. He had indeed thought they were becoming friends. There had been an ease between them at the folly he couldn’t recall having with a woman before. Still, that was no excuse for idiocy.
What was wrong with him? He had always handled women extremely well. Why, charming a woman was almost a natural skill for him. A gift. Or at least it had once been. Had three failed engagements crippled him? No, that was absurd. He certainly hadn’t been celibate in the three years since the end of his last engagement. But he’d had no relationship with a woman that had endured longer than a few weeks, which was, in truth, exactly how he wanted it. When the right woman at last came along, surely this time he would know.
Not that Lady Garret was the right woman. Indeed, she was the farthest thing he could imagine from the right woman. That the thought occurred to him at all was absurd.
No, he was interested in Lady Garret only insofar as she was involved in the rebuilding of his house. That and that alone was the only reason why he wanted to uncover her secrets. And she certainly had no interest whatsoever in him. That was clear enough.
Still, he couldn’t quite put out of his mind her comments about breakfast and dinner.
And the long hours in between.
Chapter 9
“I’m not sure why you’re so upset.” Caution sounded in Clara’s voice. “There are worse things to be called than a governess.”
“Really?” Miranda glared at her friend. She had come straight to the office after arriving back in London and was still furious with the annoying Lord Stillwell. Governess, indeed! “Name two.”
“Tart, strumpet, termagant, shrew, harlot, trollop—”
“I said two.”
“And I said there are worse things to be called.” Clara shrugged. “I believe I have made my point.”
“Yes, well, no one ever called a tart boring and dull.”
Clara gasped. “He called you dull and boring?”
“And ordinary!”
“How rude. Did you slap him?”
“I considered it.” Miranda had regretted not smacking Lord Stillwell the moment she had decided against it. It would have served him right. She heaved a frustrated sigh. “He didn’t actually say that I was dull and boring and ordinary. Indeed, he made a point of saying he hadn’t said that. But it was implied,” she added quickly. “He did say I was sensible and efficient and assertive.”
“The beast.”
“As well as unyielding, which is no more than another word for stubborn. And the man thought he was complimenting me.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Can you imagine?”
“Miranda.” Clara hesitated, then cont
inued. “Have you considered at all that, well, you are sensible and efficient and unyielding?”
“That’s not the point,” she said in a lofty manner.
“What is the point?”
“I’m not sure.” She grimaced. “All I know is that when he called me efficient and competent and assertive, it was most annoying.”
“Odd, isn’t it, as that assessment is not merely accurate but precisely how you wish to appear to others as well.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Miranda paced as best she could in the small confines of the office. “It’s just not what one wishes to hear from . . .”
Clara’s brow rose. “From?”
“From a man of his reputation.” Miranda shrugged in an offhand manner as if it was of no significance.
“I see.” Clara studied her for a moment. “Then it wasn’t so much what he said, which we have agreed was accurate, but rather who said it that you found so annoying?”
“Well, I suppose . . . one could say . . .”
“If the same assessment had come from someone else . . .” Clara studied her closely. “Someone who was not well known for his charming manner and flirtatious nature, for his conquests and his wicked reputation, one does have to wonder if you would be as upset.”
“I daresay I . . .” Realization widened in Miranda’s eyes. “No, I don’t suppose I would. I didn’t realize I was quite that shallow.” She thought for a moment. “It’s humiliating, really, for a man with a reputation like Lord Stillwell’s, a reputation in which he certainly does not appear to be the least bit discriminatory, to see you as . . .”
“As a governess?”
“As someone not worthy of flirtation.”
Clara’s brow rose. “And you wanted him to flirt with you?”
“Don’t be silly.” Miranda scoffed. “I simply expected it, that’s all.”
Clara nodded. “Given his reputation.”
“Well, yes.”
“It would only be natural, for a man like that.”
“One would think so. That he did not deem me worthy of flirtation was insulting.”
“And you were disappointed.”
“I did think . . .” She nodded. “Yes, I believe I was.”
“Especially as you had planned to allow him to think his flirtation might possibly be successful.”
“There was that.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, we were having quite a lovely day together. Almost as if we were friends and had known each other for a very long time. It might even have been most romantic under other circumstances. Not that I am interested in romance,” she added quickly.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” She stared at her friend. “I don’t know. I simply haven’t thought about it, I suppose.”
“But you do want to remarry someday?”
“I haven’t thought about that either, really.”
“Then perhaps you should,” Clara said firmly.
“Perhaps.” She’d been entirely too busy to give remarrying anything other than a passing thought. Of course, it had been three years since John’s death and while she did miss him—and always would, no doubt—she had gone on with her life.
It never failed to amaze her how the very act of living eased one’s loss. When John died, she had wondered if she would survive the pain of losing him. And day by day she had. Until now the thought of him brought no more than a touch of sadness at what was lost and what would never be. The plans and hopes and dreams they’d shared that would now never happen.
Certainly she had reached a point where her mother would soon begin nudging prospective husbands in her general direction. Mother had a list of which of her children should be married next and Miranda’s unmarried siblings lived in fear of moving to the top of that list. But three years was, in her mother’s mind, long enough for a young woman to grieve. She hadn’t done anything overt yet, but Miranda knew it was only a matter of time.
“But that’s really neither here nor there at the moment.”
“Lord Stillwell is eminently eligible.”
“Good Lord, Clara, Lord Stillwell is not at all the type of man I would want to marry.”
“Why not?”
Miranda stared at the other woman. “Any number of reasons.” She counted them off on her fingers. “First—he is entirely too traditional in his thinking. He firmly believes women have no place outside the home.”
“Most men believe that,” Clara said mildly.
“Yes, but in most men, it’s not that annoying. Secondly, I don’t know that I would want a man who has quite as much experience with women as he has.”
“According to gossip, that is.”
“While one cannot believe everything one hears, gossip usually has some basis in truth. The man has been engaged three times, remember.” Miranda paused. “Although, it might not be fair to judge him on that. At least according to his mother’s comments.”
“One never really knows what goes on between two people in the privacy of a marriage or an engagement,” Clara said. Was she speaking now of Lord Stillwell or herself?
Clara had never given Miranda more than the barest details of her own broken engagement. Other than the fact that the man had apparently had a wife as well as two other fiancées, each of whom were as financially well off as Clara. Clara’s father had been a successful merchant and had left each of his children a sizeable inheritance. As her brother had had no heirs, upon his death, Clara had ended up with his portion as well. She had no real need for the small salary she earned at Garret and Tempest; she had made that clear to Miranda when she had applied for the position. And she had no intention of sitting around waiting for the next man who wanted her for her money to come along. As Clara was quite pretty Miranda was fairly certain money was not the only attraction. But Clara had said she wanted to do something with her life—something different and interesting—and she was very good with numbers.
“And third I don’t like him. Why, it’s all I can do to keep from slapping him, verbally or otherwise, after more than a few minutes in his company.” Although admittedly Miranda had enjoyed his company today. Much more so than she had expected.
“That’s right, I had nearly forgotten.” Clara nodded. “The man is a twit.”
“Indeed he is.” Miranda brushed aside a twinge of guilt that perhaps Lord Stillwell was not quite as much of a twit as she had originally thought. “And fourth, the man doesn’t especially like me.”
“Because he doesn’t flirt with you?”
“I should think that’s a rather good indication, as a man like that flirts with every woman who passes by. But beyond that . . .” She waved off the question. “He doesn’t like anything about me. He doesn’t like that I’m not sitting at home like a proper little widow, he doesn’t like my ideas and he doesn’t like the way I dress.”
“Those shoes are dreadful.”
“It’s not just the shoes, I agree with him about the shoes. But he said I was a woman who values function over fashion which, to me, doesn’t seem like a bad quality. But believe me, it was not a compliment.” She glanced down at the dress she had worn to Fairborough. Light gray in color, it was a simple walking dress with a jacket bodice and most suitable to today’s activities. “I quite like this dress.”
“It does look . . .” Clara winced. “Comfortable. Even practical.”
“Out of necessity,” Miranda said staunchly. “And it’s quite fashionable.”
“A few years ago perhaps.”
“Oh, but it’s still . . .”
Clara’s brow rose.
“Oh dear.” Miranda wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I did have it before John died. Good Lord, aside from the clothes I had made for mourning John, I haven’t had a new gown in over three years.”
“Perhaps it’s time for that as well.”
“I do not intend to purchase new clothes simply to impress Lord Stillwell.” Miranda sniffed.
“I would never suggest such a thing,” Clara protested
. “But, might I remind you, it was your idea to allow him to think you might possibly welcome his attentions. You wish to keep him confused, remember? Unless you have changed your mind on that score?”
“No, confusion still seems best.”
“And you are the one who is miffed because he has not directed his attentions toward you—”
“Which is of no importance whatsoever.”
“No, of course not.”
“Certainly it does make me wonder why a man, who will apparently pursue any female who walks upright, considers me not worth the effort. As if there was something wrong with me.” She met her friend’s gaze. “Is there?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Clara said a little too quickly.
Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Is there?”
“My dear Lady Garret.” Clara paused, obviously to choose her words carefully.
While the two women had become fast friends—indeed Clara was her closest friend outside of her family—and usually dispensed with formality and called one another by their given names, on occasion, when the subject was of a delicate nature, Clara would address Miranda as Lady Garret and Miranda would call Clara Miss West. Apparently, this was one of those times. Miranda braced herself. “Go on.”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Oh, I definitely want to hear this, Miss West.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Out with it.”
“Very well.” Clara squared her shoulders and met her employer’s gaze firmly. “Your hair is a rich and very pretty shade of brown and if not arranged in such a stiff and stern manner would be an asset and most flattering to your face. Your features are nicely regular—”
“Regular?” Miranda stared. “You mean ordinary?”
“No, and stop being so determined to take this in entirely the wrong way.” Clara huffed. “I mean when one looks at you they don’t say ‘My God, look at that enormous nose!’ or ‘Her lips are askew and her chin is off center and dear Lord, is that only one eyebrow?’”
Miranda bit back a laugh. “Well, I do have two eyebrows.”
“Some women don’t, you know,” Clara said firmly. “What I am trying to say is that there is absolutely no reason why, with a little effort, you can’t be quite lovely, even striking.”
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 10
