Miss Wonderful

by Loretta Chase

  “You are ravishing,” he told her after they’d entered the park, and he no longer needed to give his full attention to negotiating the congested London streets.

  “I think you are blinded by affection,” she said. “But I don’t mind. It is such a relief to have you choose my clothes. I am rarely indecisive, except when it comes to dress. The choices and all the vexing details overwhelm me. And recollect that until now, my situation required me to dress plainly and simply. I had so often to deal with men in the way of business, and they are so easily distracted. But it is most agreeable to have pretty things again.”

  She had not refused a single pretty item presented to her. When given three gowns to choose from, she chose all three. The same held for bonnets and shoes. As to her underthings, Alistair had been kept out of those transactions, but he’d seen the heaps of boxes when she returned with her aunt from a shopping trip.

  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” he said. “I had not guessed that you could be as extravagant in that way as I. But I am changing my ways. If I forgo my old spending habits, we should have no difficulty living within our income.”

  She tipped her head to one side, studying his profile.

  “What is it?” he said. “What have I said that is so puzzling?”

  “My dear,” she said, “did you not read the marriage settlements before you signed them?”

  “Certainly I read them,” he said. They would be wed on Wednesday, by special license, which would allow them to dispense with banns and marry when and where they chose. Lord Hargate had wasted not a moment in procuring the document or in getting the settlements drawn up and signed.

  “Whether I understood them is another matter,” Alistair added. “In the first place, there is the villainous law hand, which is indecipherable. In the second, there is the villainous law language, which is incomprehensible. I do recall a great many noughts in some of the figures, and an error in computation, to which I called my father’s attention. He laughed heartily about it, and I donned an expression of heroic resignation and wrote my name where I was told.”

  “My dowry is two hundred thousand pounds,” Mirabel said. “In addition, there is—”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Something is awry with my hearing. I thought you said two hundred thousand.”

  “That is what I said.”

  The club had struck again.

  “My dear, are you unwell?” she asked anxiously. She reached up and laid her gloved hand against his cheek.

  Alistair stopped the horses and turned his head to press his mouth against the palm of her…glove. It was not very satisfying. He pressed his lips to the narrow bit of skin showing at her wrist, then drew away.

  “It doesn’t signify,” he murmured. “A momentary faintness, that was all. Two. Hundred. Thousand. No wonder my father laughed.”

  “You did not know?”

  “I thought someone had misread, and counted too many noughts,” he said. “I assumed twenty thousand or thereabouts.” The daughter of the Duke of Sutherland, one of England’s richest men, had brought twenty thousand to her marriage. “I did not dwell on the matter, because it is vulgar to speak of money.”

  “Mama inherited her family’s banking fortune,” Mirabel said. “Papa’s inheritance was substantial as well.”

  “I see,” Alistair said faintly. He looked about him, dimly aware of trees putting out their new green leaves, and birds twittering, and a few figures on horseback. In a short time the park would be packed with Good Society, riding expensive horses or driving elegant vehicles, dressed in the latest modes and exchanging the latest gossip.

  “You are upset,” she said.

  “No wonder my father was so excessively affectionate,” Alistair said. “After I had signed the papers, he actually patted me on the shoulder.”

  “Well, you are very expensive,” she said. “He would have worried about your finding a girl who could afford you.”

  “I am not that expensive,” he said. “Only the Prince Regent is that expensive. And may I remind you, dressing him requires a much greater quantity of material than does dressing me.”

  The Prince Regent’s figure had grown elephantine with the passing years.

  “I recall what you said about refusing to be a parasite upon your wife,” she said. “I hope you will not brood about it and make yourself unhappy. There is nothing out of the way about a younger son’s marrying money.”

  Alistair studied the woman who’d soon be his wife. Hair: sunrise. Eyes: dusk. Voice: night. He’d seen all this at the first glance. That was before he’d learnt the dizzying changes of her countenance, the quickness of her mind, the openness of her nature, and the kindness of her heart. It was before he’d held her in his arms and discovered how completely, trustingly, and uninhibitedly she could give herself to him.

  He smiled.

  “I have said something amusing?” she said.

  He leaned toward her. “I was thinking of you naked,” he whispered.

  “A thousand pardons for interrupting, Car,” came a familiar voice nearby. “I do regret it, but there is only so much suspense a fellow’s nerves can stand.”

  MIRABEL, who’d become oblivious to her surroundings, started. Alistair did not. Instead, he went rigid and slowly, stiffly, drew away from her.

  “Gordmor,” he said coldly.

  A dull reddish color suffused the viscount’s previously pale countenance. “Miss Oldridge,” he said, doffing his hat.

  She nodded politely.

  “I beg you will forgive the intrusion,” Lord Gordmor said.

  The atmosphere, already thickening, grew thunderous. Mirabel looked about her. The park was all but deserted. Moments ago, she’d been thrilled to have a moment alone with Alistair at last. Now she regretted the isolation.

  There was no one about to intervene or to interrupt the confrontation now threatening.

  “Your effrontery passes all bounds,” Alistair said to his friend, his voice dangerously low. “Even if you are without any sense of shame, you might consider the distress your presence must cause Miss Oldridge.”

  “I do consider it, Car,” said his lordship, “and that is why I have come. I could have blown out my brains, or cut my throat, but I’ve never been dramatic. Also, I doubt I could do it with the proper elegance, and would only make a hash of it—”

  “Blow out your brains?” Alistair cut in. “What are you talking about?”

  “I am not at all sure,” Gordmor said. “But I could not bear to do this through outside parties. If we are to fight, Car, let us do it without—”

  “Fight?” Mirabel turned to Alistair. “Tell me you have not challenged him to a duel.”

  “Certainly not,” Alistair said. “He’s a terrible shot, and liable to kill an innocent bystander.”

  “Terrible shot?” Gordmor said. “I am an excellent—”

  “His swordsmanship is even worse,” Alistair said.

  “You think so because I let you get the better of me now and again,” Gordmor said. “Out of pity.”

  Alistair’s eyes narrowed to golden slits. “Pity,” he growled. “For my infirmity, you mean.”

  “You were infirm long before you let those foreigners scratch you up at Waterloo. I have spent most of my life looking out for you.”

  “You were looking out for me to rescue you,” said Alistair, “from the first day of school.”

  Gordmor turned to Mirabel. “I cannot count the number of times I have had to rescue this dolt from one scrape or another. That little blonde girl—what was her name? When we were at Eton. The caretaker’s girl.”

  “Clara,” said Mirabel, recalling her aunt’s letter.

  “Clara.” Gordmor pointed to his nose. “This used to be straight—until one of Clara’s brutish lovers broke it. Then there was Verena.”

  “You did not rescue me from Verena,” Alistair said.

  “I warned you. How many times have I warned you?” Gordmor turned back to Mirabel. “He
has never had a particle of sense about women. He never sees what is obvious to everyone else who is not deaf, dumb, and blind.”

  “Gordy, may I remind you that you are addressing my future wife,” Alistair said.

  “I was not referring to Miss Oldridge,” Lord Gordmor said. “But you have discomposed me so, I cannot think straight. I came, intending, as I recollect, to apologize.”

  “Then get on with it,” said his friend.

  “Miss Oldridge, I behaved very stupidly, and I sincerely regret it,” his lordship said. “I made so many errors of judgment, it would take a week to enumerate them. I shall never forgive myself for placing your father in danger, though I assure you it was not intentional. I meant only to create a diversion that would keep you out of London while our canal act was considered. I was about to offer—before Car cast aspersions on my marksmanship—the most abject of apologies. I was also about to admit—before he started quibbling about Verena—that my recent Episode of Stupidity far surpasses all of his combined.”

  “Thank you,” Mirabel said.

  Gordmor looked at Alistair.

  “If Miss Oldridge is satisfied, I suppose I must be,” Alistair said stonily. “I collect I must invite you to the wedding now.”

  “It would be the nobly forgiving thing to do,” Gordmor said.

  “I am not that noble,” Alistair said. “The trouble is, if you don’t come, one of my brothers will stand up for me. You are a fraction less tedious than the older ones and a degree less annoying than the younger ones.”

  THE following morning found Alistair in Lord Gordmor’s dressing room as the latter was preparing to go out.

  His lordship, who was working on his neckcloth, did not look away from the mirror when his friend entered. “I am trying to invent a new style,” he said. “Primarily because I have such an infernally difficult time arranging the ones that have already been invented. I am not sure I shall be able to concentrate properly, however. I am all agog to learn what tore you from your bed at this early hour. The noon bells have hardly ceased tolling.”

  “I want to talk to you about a railway,” Alistair said.

  Gordy gave up on his neckcloth, turned away from the mirror, and looked at him. “A railway,” he said.

  Alistair explained the plan he’d discussed with Mr. Oldridge when he’d sought his blessing for the marriage. Mr. Oldridge had approved of both tramroad and wedding plans.

  Instead of building a canal, they’d lay down rails directly from the mines to the lime burners and others to the north. They could install stationary steam engines to draw the carts up steep inclines. They wouldn’t need to follow level ground. They wouldn’t need locks or aqueducts. They would need only enough water to run the steam engines. It would cost less than building a canal, and take less time. It would carry the coal, cheaply and speedily, from their stony piece of Longledge Hill to the nearest customers. They wouldn’t need to go through the Oldridge property, or any of their neighbors’ lands.

  “A tramroad,” Gordy said when Alistair had finished.

  “Why didn’t we think of that in the first place?”

  “Because Finch, your trusty overseer, suggested a canal, and we got the idea fixed in our heads,” Alistair said. “And because I failed to exercise my imagination sufficiently.”

  Gordy considered. “I take it Miss Oldridge approves of this plan?”

  “It’s to be a surprise. A wedding gift. I did not want to tell her about it until I was certain you would cooperate.” He’d promised Mirabel he’d solve the problem, and he had.

  “Of course I’ll cooperate. I’m grateful that she didn’t hold my idiotish behavior against you.” Gordmor tore off his neckcloth, tossed it aside, and picked up another from the stack of neatly folded linen placed on a table near the mirror. Then he put it down again and turned to Alistair.

  “Car, I must beg your pardon,” he said.

  “You already did. Yesterday, in Hyde Park.”

  “No, I begged Miss Oldridge’s pardon. But all the trouble began because I did not believe in you. My sister harped ceaselessly on how much you’d changed since Waterloo, and had me half-convinced you were non compos mentis. She was prating about pernicious melancholia, and I didn’t know how to argue with her. You seemed to have lost all your passion and energy since Waterloo. You hardly noticed women, though they were throwing themselves at you, left and right.”

  “Perhaps she was not far wrong,” Alistair said. “It was a melancholia of some kind, apparently, though I have never heard it called ‘pernicious.’ And it did come upon me after Waterloo. I am told that such things are not unheard of among former soldiers and sailors. Some don’t recover. But my case could not have been so very pernicious.”

  Gordy studied him for a moment. “No, today you are like the Car I always knew, not the stranger who came home from the Continent.”

  “I don’t understand how I came to be that way, or why, exactly,” Alistair said.

  “I should think that time in the surgeons’ tent would be enough to disorder any man’s mind,” Gordy said.

  “I was terrified,” Alistair said. It was the first time he’d admitted it, aloud, to anybody. He had not even told Mirabel yet. He would, though.

  Gordy did not even blink. “You covered it well,” he said. “I had no idea. But then, I was too terrified myself to pay close attention to you. I knew I must stand by you, Car, and I should have done it, too, but I should have disgraced us both, and been sick—and probably swooned dead away. I know it will sound mad and inexcusably selfish, but I was vastly relieved when you declined the surgeon’s kind offer to amputate.”

  “You were sick? Really?”

  “It was worse, infinitely worse, than the actual fighting. Then, at least, one is caught up in the heat of battle. Gad, I couldn’t wait to get us both away from that ghastly place.”

  “That saw,” Alistair said, “caked with blood.”

  “The surgeons,” Gordy said, “covered with blood and God knows what else. And the stink of the place.”

  “If I could have run, I’d have run away screaming, like a girl,” Alistair said, his heart lightening.

  “I would have been right behind you,” Gordy said,

  “screaming louder and at much higher pitch. I have not your manly basso, you know.”

  And in another moment they were laughing at their so very non-nonchalant reaction to that glorious, horrendous day, and Alistair had no trouble remembering why Gordy had always been his dearest friend.

  Twenty-one

  THE day of the wedding dawned bright, and the groom was wide awake, dressed, and pacing his bedchamber at Hargate House well before the appointed hour.

  Crewe had had a Premonition.

  “Why did you not have one the day Mr. Oldridge went missing?” Alistair said. “Why must you have one now?”

  “I apologize, sir,” his valet said. “Perhaps it does not signify. Perhaps it is merely prenuptial nerves.”

  “You are not getting married, Crewe. I am.”

  “Indeed, sir, but we are changing our circumstances. Ours is no longer a bachelor household.” The manservant gave a small, anxious cough. “My mind is most uneasy about the linen. Mr. Oldridge and you have different views regarding the starch. He prefers his linen a degree less stiff. And the chief laundress at Oldridge Hall is a singularly forbidding female.”

  Alistair ceased pacing to stare at his valet. “You are afraid of the laundress?”

  Crewe coughed an affirmative.

  “We shan’t be at Oldridge Hall all the time,” Alistair said. “We shall have our own townhouse here, as soon as we find a suitable place. Then I give you leave to choose our London laundress and demand all the starch you wish. I am sure it will not matter to Miss Oldridge one way or another. Perhaps, in Derbyshire, on the other hand, we might be a degree less—er—starched, than in London.”

  “Are you sure, sir? It will be—” A very small, deprecating cough intervened. “—an adjustment.�
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  “I am told that married life requires a great number of adjustments, Crewe. And bear in mind that Miss Oldridge must also make certain changes to accommodate a husband. She has been accustomed, these ten years and more, to arrange all matters as she sees fit. Now she will have both a parent and a spouse putting their oars in.”

  Not, Alistair thought, that her father had not already put an oar in. He had a growing suspicion that some sort of communication had passed between Oldridge Hall and Hargate House prior to his arrival in Derbyshire last month. Lord Hargate had not seemed the least surprised at the news of the impending marriage. He had looked, in fact, smug—and most especially so when the marriage settlements were being signed.

  Alistair was marrying an heiress, just as his father had recommended in November.

  “But it was impossible for them to conspire,” he said, half to himself as he studied his reflection in the mirror for the seventeenth time. “Mirabel opened all her father’s letters. It was the merest accident that she did not see mine.”

  Crewe coughed.

  “Yes, what is it?” Alistair said.

  “I only wished to observe, sir, that certain letters have been known to make their way directly into Mr. Oldridge’s hands. They would be enclosed in one addressed to the head gardener. Lady Sherfield used this method from time to time.”

  Lady Sherfield, his mother’s bosom bow.

  Alistair had left his letter to Oldridge in the tray with the others, for his father to frank.

  His father must have enclosed it in one addressed to the gardener.

  That was how Mr. Oldridge had received it.

  He’d sent a positive, encouraging answer to Alistair, though the botanist had not wanted a canal through his property any more than his daughter did.

  Why?

  “Matchmaking,” Alistair told his reflection.

  “Sir?”

  “I was lured there,” Alistair said. “On purpose. They set a trap, the two of them. My father saw the opportunity, and he took advantage. It was Machiavellian.” He turned away from the mirror and smiled. “And exceedingly good of him. I might not have discovered her otherwise.”