Miss Wonderful

by Loretta Chase

  The neatly appointed parlor felt very small to the captain. True, he was accustomed to the crowded quarters of a ship. He was also accustomed, however, to being master of the vessel, having the windward side of the quarterdeck entirely to himself, should he choose to walk about and cogitate, and the freedom to climb aloft to the crow’s nest if he wished, should he feel the need to clear his head.

  Feeling overlarge and clumsy in Mrs. Entwhistle’s neat parlor, he stood stiffly by the chimneypiece, whence he dared not move lest he knock something over. Since the look in her intelligent brown eyes did nothing to put him at ease, he was not his usual coolly commanding self.

  “Dash it, Flo—I mean, Mrs. Entwhistle, you know it won’t occur to her to invite you,” he said. “She sent for Carsington’s manservant last night because it was the practical thing to do. But she isn’t accustomed to consider proprieties. The neighbors’ll consider ’em, though. You know that as well as I do. All the Peak knows her father isn’t a proper chaperon.”

  “You said Mr. Carsington is incapacitated.”

  “He has a sprained ankle and a bump on the head,” said Captain Hughes. “If you think this would incapacitate an otherwise healthy young aristocrat, you’re naive beyond permission. I trust I needn’t explain to you what such fellows’ morals are like.”

  “His morals don’t signify,” said Mrs. Entwhistle. “But perhaps you are implying that Mirabel is so weak-willed—or perhaps love-starved—as to forget her own? Pray sit down. You ought not make a lady crane her neck to look at you.”

  He sought the chair farthest from hers and perched uneasily on its edge. “You think I’m officious,” he said. “A meddler.”

  “I am not certain what to think,” she said. “Perhaps you are jealous.”

  For a moment he stared at her in plain disbelief. Then he let out a roar of laughter.

  She did not so much as crack a smile.

  “D’ye think so, truly?” he said. “Well, whether it’s so or not, that don’t change the facts, madam. The fact is, people gossip, and they like nothing better than cutting up others’ reputations. Fond as most of the neighborhood is of Miss Oldridge, and understanding of her situation, they’re too human to resist scandal. You know we’ve precious little scandal in Longledge, which means the smallest particle goes a long way.”

  “It is absurd to imagine Mirabel would commit an indiscretion,” the lady said coldly.

  The captain’s patience deserted him. “I hope you won’t be so fatuous as to tell me she’s past it,” he said. “A spinster Miss Oldridge may be, but she’s far from a dried-up one. Besides which—not to mince matters—she’s still young enough to breed. Which means she’s by no means too old to be seduced—or suspected of it. That’s good enough for the tongue waggers.”

  The lady glared at him.

  Over the course of a not exactly smooth-sailing naval career, Captain Hughes had been glared at by admirals and boards of inquiry. While Mrs. Entwhistle’s cross look got under his skin more than those of thick-headed naval authorities and politicians had ever done, he was a crusty old salt who could bear it for as long as she chose to inflict it.

  “I shall write a letter, tactfully hinting at proprieties,” the lady said at last. “If Mirabel chooses to invite me, I shall go. I cannot possibly invite myself.”

  “What nonsense!” said the captain. “I’m inviting you.”

  “Oldridge Hall isn’t your house, though you seem to run tame in it,” she said.

  “What a stickler you’ve come to be!” he said. “Was that Entwhistle’s influence? You used to be so jolly. So was Miss Oldridge, when you were there. You were exactly what the girl needed. I always said so. It was clear enough to me, being away so much. I could see the difference when I came home, the first time, after Mrs. Oldridge died.”

  Mrs. Entwhistle leapt up from her chair, ruffles fluttering. “I wish I saw a difference in you!” she cried. “You are as great a booby as ever. Mirabel is one and thirty years old. A handsome young man has practically fallen into her lap—and you fret about protecting her virtue. What about her happiness?”

  For a moment the captain was so astonished, he forgot his manners. Belatedly, he rose, too. “I say, Flora—I mean, Mrs. Entwhistle—are you matchmaking?”

  She lifted her dimpled chin. “I prefer to think of it as letting Nature take her course.”

  “In my experience, Nature ain’t at all reliable,” the captain said. “If she was, ships wouldn’t need sails or rudders, would they?”

  THE captain was right to fret about gossip, for Miss Oldridge had enemies.

  Some twenty miles away, in the valley at the other end of Longledge Hill, Caleb Finch was busy this Sunday encouraging the villagers to imagine the worst about her.

  He had come from Northumberland a few days earlier ostensibly because he suspected mismanagement of his master Lord Gordmor’s coal mines. Caleb certainly was well qualified to judge, being a master of chicanery, connivery, double-dealing, and double-crossing. However, his real reason for returning was to make trouble for Miss Oldridge.

  He had attended church partly to impress the locals with his piety and partly because it offered an opportunity to make mischief among the greatest number of people with the smallest amount of effort. His sober black suit hanging from his tall, lanky frame, his sparse, greying hair slicked back, he was clean and proper on the outside and convinced he was equally so on the inside.

  By some mental sleight of hand, his lies, frauds, and subterfuges always had a moral rationale. Since Caleb was no intellectual giant, the rationale usually boiled down to a simple proposition. For instance: This fellow has something I don’t have, which can’t be right, and so if I get it from him—it don’t matter how—I’ve righted matters.

  Eleven years ago, Miss Oldridge had committed the hateful crime of making him stop righting matters for himself with her father’s wealth. She had dismissed him without a reference, saying he was incompetent. After that, no one for miles around Longledge would employ him. He’d had to seek work elsewhere.

  A wiser man would have counted his blessings. She might have had him charged with a long list of property crimes. She might have let him figure out how to account to a magistrate for improperly kept books and the mysterious disappearance of large quantities of livestock, produce, timber, and numerous other articles. Instead, she had given him the benefit of the doubt.

  But Caleb wasn’t grateful. He didn’t take the opportunity to turn over a new leaf. It was easier to nurse the grudge for ten years and more and jump at any opportunity to make unpleasantness for her.

  For instance, he was delighted with his master’s plans for a canal, because it would go through the Oldridge property and be a constant misery to Miss Oldridge.

  And so, after church, when he heard of Mr. Carsington’s accident, Caleb was not slow to cast Miss Oldridge in the worst possible light. He donned a pious look and said he hoped it was an accident. When asked what he meant, Caleb was only too happy to explain. He meant, he said, that some people might ask what was they doing up that high on the hill on a day like that? The London gentleman probably didn’t know no better. But what was the lady thinking, taking him all the way up there? And where was her groom all this time? Why weren’t he with ’em?

  Within minutes, these and similar remarks had traveled through the congregation, where they met with incredulity and dismissals for the most part, e.g., “Where does that man get his ideas?” Or, “I do believe every word of parson’s sermon went in one a them big ears of his and straight out the other.”

  But here and there were like-minded individuals who loved nothing better than tearing others down, especially others prettier or wealthier or better-natured than they. These persons were happy to imagine the worst.

  They took up Caleb’s version of What Really Happened, and embroidered on it, and passed it on to every other small-minded individual they knew.

  By Sunday afternoon, it had traveled the full length o
f Longledge Hill to the parish in which Miss Oldridge resided.

  CAPTAIN Hughes delivered Mrs. Entwhistle early in the afternoon.

  By this time, Crewe, who’d arrived at daybreak, had put away the belongings deemed necessary for a few days’ stay.

  According to Captain Hughes, who paid the patient a brief visit, these essentials were “sufficient to equip a seventy-four and every man-jack upon it.”

  Yet he admitted to the ladies that the valet had everything stowed neatly enough, and Mr. Carsington appeared more at ease than before.

  Certainly when Mirabel entered the room sometime later, her houseguest appeared more elegant. Nothing the captain had said prepared her, though, for the full effect of Mr. Carsington’s appearance.

  Her houseguest lounged in a cushioned armchair before the fire. He wore a fine silk dressing gown over a shirt of feather-light lawn, complete with elaborately arranged neckcloth. A pair of wide trousers hung loosely over the long legs. Upon his feet—his naked feet—were Turkish slippers.

  She told herself it was wise not to attempt stockings. While his ankle was not badly swollen, it must be tender. She told herself to note how the injured foot was wrapped and propped up exactly as the doctor had ordered.

  But she couldn’t focus. Though her guest was more fully dressed than when she’d last seen him—last night, when she should not have been here—he was a great deal more exposed.

  Under the bedclothes, those long legs had been mere shapes. Now they stretched out shamelessly before her. The soft cloth of his trousers clung to their contours, reminding her of the rock-hard muscle she’d felt when she’d examined him for injuries. Then she’d been too anxious, too busy suppressing panic to feel anything else. Now…

  She looked away, scanning the room as though making sure all was in order.

  It wasn’t, not in any order she recognized. The very atmosphere had changed.

  Starched white linen and dark wool and leather…masculine toiletries crowding the dressing table…a shaving box…the scents of palm soap and boot polish…and him.

  The room was male, and he dominated it.

  She felt his gaze upon her and gathered her composure. “You seem more comfortable, Mr. Carsington,” she said. “I am glad of it.”

  “I told you I was an expert at lounging about,” he said.

  He was far beyond expert. He made his very surroundings seem languid, sultry, and…sinful.

  Which was absurd. Her imagination was running away with her. Mirabel told herself to be sensible and directed her attention to the tray her servant carried. Dr. Woodfrey had ordered light meals, several times a day, and she had accompanied the latest one.

  She watched Crewe relieve her servant of the tray and set the dishes out upon the small table.

  When all was arranged to his satisfaction, the valet drew up a chair for her. She sat, wishing she felt as much in command of herself as her guest seemed to be.

  Crewe discreetly withdrew to a far corner of the large room.

  “You look like an Eastern potentate,” she told Mr. Carsington.

  “I am not partial to these trousers,” he said. “They are rather faddish, and I can’t recollect what possessed me to buy them. But Crewe would not let me wear breeches or pantaloons because they are made to fit snugly. He feared my ankle would be jostled when I put them on.”

  She remembered, too vividly, the long, muscled legs thrust out from under bedclothes. Her mouth went dry. She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Crewe is most sensible,” she said.

  “Regrettably, I am not allowed stockings, either, for the same reason, and I am sure it isn’t proper for you to see my bare ankles, Miss Oldridge.”

  She’d seen a great deal too much for her peace of mind: the way his shirt had fallen open during his momentary delirium, and the hard, muscled chest glinting gold.

  She said lightly, “What a fuss everyone makes about proprieties. But put your mind at rest. My former governess has arrived to protect my reputation, and so you needn’t fear that the sight of a bit of your bare skin will corrupt my morals.”

  “I envy your mastery of your feelings,” he said softly. “I doubt I could gaze unmoved at your naked ankles.”

  Heat spilled outward from somewhere in the center of herself and washed over every inch of her skin.

  A cough came from the other end of the room. Mr. Carsington looked impatiently at his valet. “What is it now, Crewe?”

  “I merely wished to observe, sir, that the cook went to great trouble to tempt your appetite, and certain delicacies do not improve with the passage of time.”

  By the time her guest’s attention reverted to her, Mirabel had her mind back in working order. He was teasing, she told herself. For Society beaux, such gallantries were a habit. Flirtation and innuendo were merely a part of conversation. They even whispered naughty remarks in the ears of elderly ladies.

  It was absurd to imagine that a pair of thirty-one-yearold ankles, bare or otherwise, could stir any strong emotion in him.

  “Will you not join me?” he said. “Your cook seems to have provided enough for a regiment.”

  “She’s accustomed to Papa’s appetite, which is prodigious,” Mirabel said. “Still, this is not an excessive meal for a man of your size, and I am not at all hungry. But perhaps you would prefer to dine in private.”

  She had better leave. She had come only to look in on him. She would gain nothing by lingering. She had softened toward him too much already. If she did not have a care, she would become infatuated—absurd at her age, and dangerous to more than her virtue.

  She rose.

  “I vastly prefer your company,” he said.

  Mirabel sat down again.

  TO Alistair’s annoyance, as soon as he’d finished eating, Miss Oldridge once more rose to depart.

  “Mrs. Entwhistle will wonder what’s become of me,” she said. “I told her I would look in on you briefly.”

  “To admire my quiet fortitude?” he said.

  “Yes, and to make sure you didn’t feel abandoned,” she said. “I hope you don’t think that is the case. You would be overrun with visitors had Dr. Woodfrey not forbidden it. But he says you are not to tax yourself in any way.”

  “All I have done is sit here and eat and talk,” Alistair said.

  “That isn’t all,” she said. “You have exerted yourself to be witty and charming. It is pleasant for me but not good for you.”

  “I was not exerting myself,” he said. “Wit and charm come naturally to me.”

  “Then perhaps it isn’t good for me,” she said, and quickly added, “While I sit here being charmed and amused, a dozen important tasks are left undone.”

  He slumped in his chair. “I am crushed. There is something in your life more important than I. Well, then, I must bear it and find some trivial tasks I shall pretend are more important than you. Crewe, bring me pen and paper. I shall write some letters.”

  “Certainly not,” she said. “You are not to tax your brain.”

  “I must let Lord Gordmor know I am temporarily laid up. He will be expecting to hear from me, anyway.”

  “I sent an express letter to him this morning,” she said. “And another to your parents.”

  “To my parents?” Alistair started up from the chair, and his leg and ankle brutally reminded him to stay put. He sank back down, gripping the chair arms. “Who told you to write to my parents?”

  “My conscience,” she said. “Your friends and family are bound to hear of your accident before long. I did not want them to be troubled with the usual garbled and exaggerated version of events. You will not believe the rumors flying already.”

  Alistair had enough experience with rumors to know that they generally defied all laws of reason and oftentimes far outstripped his wildest imaginings.

  Now, too late, he saw the fatal errors he’d made. He’d paid too much attention to her. He’d singled her out at the Tolberts’ party. He’d gone riding with her, accompanied only
by a groom. He’d spent the better part of the night with her, unchaperoned, in his bedroom. It wasn’t hard to guess what people would think.

  “It is believed in some quarters that I deliberately lured you to a dangerous spot and attempted to cause a fatal accident,” she said.

  Once again Alistair experienced the sensation of being struck from behind with a large club. “You what?”

  “Pushed you into the brook,” she said.

  “But that’s absurd. Why would you try to kill me?”

  “The canal.”

  For a moment, Alistair didn’t know what she was talking about. In the next, he was cursing himself.

  He’d forgotten that to her he was an invader, a despoiler, the minion of a villainous viscount.

  He’d forgotten, in fact, to think—except with his reproductive organs.

  He’d been celibate too long, that was the trouble. He’d avoided women until his leg was healed and working, more or less. Since then…

  Well, he wasn’t sure what had held him back. He’d been numb or not fully awake in some way. But wasn’t it typical that after nearly three years of apathy toward the fair sex, he should choose now, of all times, to wake up from the coma or whatever it had been?

  Wasn’t it typical that he should choose her—an unmarried lady—when the world abounded in merry widows and straying matrons and out-and-out harlots?

  Instead of concentrating on business, he’d wallowed in fantasies that every gentlemanly principle forbade his acting upon.

  Perhaps his brain really was damaged.

  All this went rapidly through the remnants of what used to be his mind while he mustered a faint smile and said, “Murder. Over a canal. The folk hereabouts must be desperate indeed for excitement.”

  He looked toward his valet. “Crewe, have you heard anything of this?”

  The manservant’s gaze darted from one to the other.

  “Don’t mind me,” Miss Oldridge said. “You’ve heard about it below stairs, naturally.”